“Scream all you want, but no one here is going to care.” Through double vision, I see his smile widen. I don’t know what kind of magic flows through his veins, but there’s a strength to him that I fear I cannot match. I try anyway, clawing at the forearm pushing against my throat.
“You shouldn’t have come here," the male taunts, shaking his head as he leans in and sniffs deeply. “But seven hells am I glad you did. Your fear? Your purity? I can’t even begin to explain to you how intoxicating it is.”
A whimper slips past my lips, and it's then that I realize I’m crying. I try to fight back, try to push him off me; but the longer he holds me, the weaker I get. I can feel it now, the darkness of my affliction coming to the surface, begging to be released. But I don’t know how. My heart is racing, my vision going spotty. And despite how desperately I want to be rid of his touch, my limbs are nearly unresponsive. I curse myself, mypower, for weakening me so.
What good is being touched by the Arcane when I cannot even use it to defend myself?
He lifts his free hand, stroking the side of my face. When I turn away, his fingers wrap around my jaw and hold me in place. “There is so much I wish to do with you.” He laughs again, a deep throaty sound that sends a shiver through my whole body.
“Imagine my surprise when I saw you walk into the bar tonight, when you all but begged me to drag you out here to have my way with you. Revenge, practically falling rightinto my lap.” His voice rises on the last word, echoing through the alleyway. He grins, letting the words ring out until the silence overtakes them once more.
“You’ll get what you want, sweetheart.” He clicks his tongue against his teeth. “I’ll take you home. I have just the place to hide you away, where no one will bother us until I’ve had my fill.” His grip against my jaw tightens as I feel the crude presence of his magic penetrating my skin. “And then I will discard you just as they discard all of us.”
Pain rushes through me, pulling the remaining strength from my body as I go limp in his grasp.
I cannot tell what level of hell I now exist within. The gods have surely forsaken me, have surely looked down on me and cast me out, turned their gaze away. I am nothing more than shadow and pain and regret.
In this afterlife, visions plague me. The male from the bar is here, an apparition before me. The feel of his touch on my skin, his magic tainting my soul, haunts me. My screams fill the air around me, stabbing through my mind and intensifying the pain they find there.
I’m begging it to stop, begging myself to give in—to let go. I don’t need to fight anymore, don’t want to. I’ve acceptedthis reality. But my body must not listen, because more visions come and suddenly I’m seeing my hands, stained black and adorned in claws. Covered in blood. Warmed by the presence of fresh gore. I feel my heartbeat escalating till I’m sure it will beat right out of my chest, a viscous hunger taking over me as I inhale the metallic scent.
My consciousness fades away, the visions abandoning me as I reach desperately towards them, wanting—no,needingthe clarity they offer. But too quickly they are gone and I’m left alone again—crying, screaming, raging into the void. Suddenly, I feel my legs revolting from overuse. I blink, and I’m running through unfamiliar streets—looking over my shoulder, tripping over my feet.
I don’t understand what has happened, and I suddenly find myself squeezing my eyes closed as I try to push away the visions, cursing them for infiltrating me in the seven hells. This must be my punishment, my eternal torment. Seeing what was lurking beneath my skin, what the treatments failed to cure. The monster I so easily became. The monster I have always been.
When my body finally keels over from sheer exhaustion, I open my eyes once more. To my surprise, it’s not the seven hells I find before me—but my own personal hell instead. My father’s townhouse. My body collapses against the stone steps that lead to the front door, incapable of moving another moment.It’s the only place I have to go, the only people who understand what may be happeningto me. And as much as I long to hide anywhere else in the whole of this realm or the next, it seems as if my default instinct is to come back to this prison, time and time again. I don’t know what else to do—how to survive this world without them, how to handle the monster within me that’s clawing and fighting to break out.
I hear the guard’s footsteps, their urgent words as they call for Tamiel, for my father.
They’llunderstand, I say to myself—letting the lie penetrate the deepest parts of me. As if all this time beneath my father’s hand and within Tamiel’s care has finally convinced me to stop fighting. Afterall, if there’s one soul in this world who I should be able to trust, it’s my own father.
They’ll understand. They have to.I repeat the lie, forcing myself to believe it. Because I have no other choice. I have nothing else.
I let the words echo through me as my consciousness drifts in between worlds.
Iswipe a hand lazily over my face as I’m rousted awake, smoothing down the scruff of my beard. The sound of soft, breathy noises registers in the fuzziness of my mind as I peek out through heavy eyelids. The supple curve of the female to my right is curled against me and I peel my body away, only to find another female on my other side. Slowly, the memories of our night together snake their way through my subconscious and I smile to myself at a night well spent.
I slip out from beneath them, pulling on a pair of worn blue jeans before I head towards the kitchen. The hallways of our little clubhouse are quiet today. And I hope I can use the kitchen uninterrupted to bring back a round of coffee for all parties involved in last night’s festivities before running into any other members of the Blood Order.
I run my hands through my hair, slicking back the stray blonde strands. I have to concentrate to make my feet move in a straight line—to no avail. When I haphazardly round the corner and look up, I’m surprised to find Aamon leaning against the kitchen island.
“Morning,” I say in a rough but satiated voice as I saunter past him, making sure he gets a full snapshot of the fun he missed out on last night. I’m not going to stop him from punishing himself after a grim night in the ring, but I’m sure as hell going to rub his nose in it a bit. He grumbles under his breath, not meeting my gaze as I grab the coffee pot and fill it with water from the tap.
“You could at least shower before you venture from your room, Quinn. You smell like a fucking brothel.”
I smirk, snapping the lid on the coffee maker shut and flipping the machine on. “Spoken as someone who’s resenting their decision to throw a pity party rather than join in the fun.” I lean back against the countertop as the coffee machine gurgles to life behind me.
Aamon’s eyes finally meet me, the open exhaustion in them accentuated by dark bags. The faintest hint of a bruise still lingers on his right eye, too.
Vampires don’t get tired, not in that sense. And they sure as fuck don’t take days to recover from simple bruising. My smugness falters for a moment, my concern for his well-being fighting to take priority. But I know Aamon, and my pushing him to take care of himself for once willonly work against my wishes. The bastard has a rebellious streak as deep as the seven hells. Always has.
Instead, I plaster an insincere smile across my face and pour four cups of fresh, steaming coffee. I set three on a tray and slide the fourth in front of Aamon. “Drink,” I urge quietly. It’s the most I can get away with at the moment. I let loose a breath when he begrudgingly lifts the mug to his lips.
“You know,” I hum, plucking my own mug off the tray and taking a long sip, “those sirens are still in my room.” I nod my head down the hallway, turning and nudging Aamon with my shoulder. “They saw you at the fight . . . were more than interested in you. Actually”—I laugh, the sound dry and scratchy in my throat—“they wouldn’t fucking stop asking about you last night. Thought I was going to have to drag you by the beltloops to my room just to satisfy them.”
He doesn’t answer, just stares straight ahead and continues sipping his coffee. I clear my throat, following his gaze to the spot on the floor he can’t seem to take his eyes off of.
“I’m sure," I try, keeping my tone casual, "they wouldn’t turn down a little morning merriment.”
