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Do they not trust their own people? Knowing that the discussion we need to have is best left for when my body isn’t throbbing like a jackhammer, I nod.
“Let’s get you up,” Asher murmurs as he lifts me gently into his arms. Pain lances through my body, and my face scrunches up as I struggle not to cry out. My hands hang uselessly in my lap, their broken state twisting my stomach, churning up fear and revulsion. I lean my head against his chest and close my eyes, focusing on the sway of our bodies as he leaves the room.
I’m not paying attention to where we’re going, but I know it isn’t to my tower prison. Asher walks the quiet corridors to the west side of the house, a place I haven’t explored yet. Weylen and Drystan are a few steps ahead of us, and one of them opens an unfamiliar door. When we step inside, a familiar scent hits me.
Sandalwood and orange zest.
This must be Asher’s room.
Asher gently sets me down on the edge of the bed, and Weylen comes to sit next to me, holding me up so that I don’t fall over. I take a moment to lift my eyes and peer around the room. The walls are a forest green, with cathedral windows that travel to the ceiling on the outer wall, peering out toward what I believe is the gardens. A large antique Moroccan chandelier hangs from the rafters above. His walls are lined with bookshelves that are chaotically stacked with books and random papers and pens and notebooks. His bed has a soft mattress that is firm enough not to dip too easily. The sheets are a luxurious gray satin.
It feels homey and lived-in.
“Hold out your hands, chérie,” Asher murmurs as he kneels in front of me. “Let me see.” I do as he says, working hard to keep myself from spiraling out of control.
“Don’t look, baby,” Weylen whispers to me. His arm wraps around the back of my head, and he pulls my face into his chest. His burnt chest. I sniff, holding back another flood of tears threatening to break the waterway.
I’m not sure how long it takes for Asher to pick the glass out of my hands, but by the time he’s done, I’m even more exhausted than before. I still can’t move my fingers, and it worries me that I barely felt him removing the shards from my hands. He doesn’t seem worried, though, as he spreads a sticky, foul-smelling paste over my scarred skin and wraps my hands in a roll of white bandages.
“There you go,” he says, placing a kiss to the palm of each hand. “You will be as good as new in the morning.”
He smirks at my scoff. “You don’t believe me?” Looking down at my hands, which I can still barely feel, I shake my head.
“I saw the damage, Asher,” I tell him dryly. “There’s no way they’ll be healed by tomorrow. I can barely feel them.” There isn’t any concern in Asher’s hazel eyes, just a small slip of arrogance that makes me want to slap him.
I’d only be hurting myself if I tried.
“The poultice I put on your hands is made from vampire blood,” he informs me. “It will have everything working in no time. Trust me.”
I bring my hands up to my face, brow furrowing at this tidbit of information. It’s said that vampire blood is restorative. It’s why a human must drink vampire blood to be turned. It jump-starts a nearly dead person’s body, the vampire DNA spreading across the human DNA, overtaking and reshaping it.
“Don’t worry, babe.” Weylen smiles down at me. “You won’t end up with vampire hands or anything.”
I chuckle despite myself, leaning farther into Weylen’s embrace.
“I don’t understand what happened,” I whisper, confusion and dread bubbling in my chest. “One moment, we were arguing, and then…”
“Romani witches call it turnare cu flacara,” Drystan says from a chair in the corner. He’s leaned forward, elbows on his knees, agitation written all over his face. “Flame casting. It’s a very rare ability among witches. The last known witch to be able to cast a flame was over seven hundred years ago.”
“I don’t understand,” I stutter, my heart beating in my chest like a runaway train. It’s speeding across the track, gaining speed with no end in sight. “I don’t have abilities. I’ve never had abilities.”
“Yes, you have,” Asher says, pulling my gaze to his. The tips of his fingers are cool against my heated skin. It’s refreshing. I know they can hear the racing of my heart and the quickening of my breaths. It isn’t something I can hide. Not from them. “You just didn’t know it.”
Chapter 30
Thalia
“Ithink I would know if I could conjure magic,” I deadpan.
“Miriam told us that you can read auras,” Drystan pipes in, causing me to clench my jaw. Of course she would run and tell them. “That you’ve been doing that your whole life.”
“So?” I snap, moving away from Weylen’s embrace. Crossing my arm against my chest, I stare the three of them down the best I can. “That doesn’t mean shit to me, but it does to you, doesn’t it?”
“What are you talking about?” Weylen’s gaze travels between his brothers.
“You think I’m stupid?” I seethe. “I know you need my abilities to unlock my mother’s heirloom. The one that can destroy other vampires.”
A knowing look passes between them, and that’s all the confirmation I need. I scoff. “That’s what I thought. All this bullshit about choosing me because you wanted me when all you really want are my abilities.”
