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I wince again when I notice she looks upset.
Flipping Delila off, I bring my attention back to her. I have to force myself to not whip out a smart-ass reply. Usually I would. But something deep inside of me doesn’t want to.
Fuck knows why.
I drop down on a chair in the front row for the direct purpose that it’s directly opposite Sass.
“So,” Delila says. “I’m not waiting on anyone else. The plan for this morning is that we will be taking the 747 and flying straight to Kiznitch. The cruise ship will be traveling back to the US to ensure that our equipment is there by the time, or around the time, that we fly back.”
“Wait!” Lain, one of the Seven Angels raises her fingers. “Are we not doing the international tour?”
Delila shakes her head. “No. I will be honest with you all and say that my planning this was to get you all out of the United States while The Four Fathers and rest of Kiznitch put plans into action, but now something has changed and we are needed back at Kiznitch.”
“As in Romania? As in our motherland?” Lain further asks. My brain tunes out shit that I already know. Without even realizing it, I find Saskia. My stomach clenches when I find her already staring, her snowstorm eyes disarming me. Her skin is flawless, her cheeks pinched red. Her lips are soft and swollen, but not in a way that makes you think she’s filled them with synthetic bullshit, but more in a way that makes you realize she’s just some crazy perfected witch created from the wicked. If Saskia was the spawn of Satan, she was obviously his favorite.
I stay focused on her, kicking my leg out and slowly raising my cigarette to my mouth. She quickly turns away from me, whispering something to Kenan. Kenan leans forward slightly, glaring at me, before leaning back in his chair. Sass stands at that moment, ambling out of the tent. Delila doesn’t flinch as she continues to yap on about whatever the fuck it is we’re doing, but I’ve long since drowned her out.
Kenan’s eyes come to mine.
I mouth, “What?”
He flips me off before going back to Delila. Smart ass motherfucker. I should beat his ass. But I won’t. Instead, I stand from my chair. This time Delila does stop talking.
“Killian, I swear to all things that are holy, if you don’t sit the fuck down.”
“Well good thing nothing near us is holy, Delila. King will fill me in.”
I jog out of the tent in search of Sass. Workers are shuffling around outside, packing up loose items and folding them away. Their RV comes into view and before I can stop myself, I’m heading straight for it.
Water from the faucet pours into the tub, layering the room with thick condensation. Emptying almost an entire bag of bath salts, I toss the packet onto the counter and grab the lavender oil, drizzling in a few drops. Swiping my eyes, I snuffle, attempting to calm myself down. When I was a kid, my mom would make me a bath with lavender and rose oil in an attempt to relax me. She said that I carried a lot of rage, but that I carried it well.
“If you’re carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders, then you better use that weight as the material in which you build your life with.”
My mother was wise, but I’ve come to think of death like this. When people are too precious for earth, God takes them early. The world can be so broken that those who are too precious to walk it, are taken.
I screw the lid back onto the oil, clutching my towel in my hand.
“You really should lock your door.” My heartbeat quickens at Killian’s voice, but I refuse to turn around. Leaning forward, I place the little bottle onto the edge of the bath.
“You really should have a shower, Killian, I can smell your last meal from here.” I clamp my mouth shut as the final word flies out. Annoyed with myself for showing my hand.
He must make his way farther into the bathroom, because his hand flexes around the front of my throat. My skin prickles at his proximity. At his touch. It soothes that pain that I have rooted deep inside of me. But what if the same hands that soothe me are the very ones that harm me?
His thumb massages the line of my throat as he tilts my head backward so I’m looking up at him upside down. “What’s wrong?” He’s not wearing a shirt, as per usual. K I Z N I T C H is tattooed over his chest in small Old English script.
I turn away from him. “Nothing.” Standing in the tub, I turn to face him, the level of the bath giving me more height, even though Kill is a couple inches above six-foot and I’m barely five-foot-three. I grip onto the towel and unwrap myself, but I keep my eyes on his.
