“What do we want?” The raven-haired one steps forward. “We just saved your life. Maybe instead of throwing accusations and assumptions around you could toss athank youin first.” He folds his arms across his chest, cocking his head to the side as he watches me behind hollow sockets.
“Aamon,” Sterling grumbles, pushing to his feet and turning to face the others.
“Sterling,” the one called Aamon mimics his tone. Aamon, Sterling—I check them off my mental list, tucking information away into the recesses of my mind.
“She’s hurt and terrified. The least we could do is show her a little hospitality.” He tilts his head, and it's as if a silent conversation passes between the two of them. Aamon finally sighs, shaking his head as he raises his hand to his face and removes his mask.
My gasp is audible when the mask falls away to reveal the fighter I’d seen a couple nights ago in the Market Ebon. The one whose tattoo-covered muscles claimed a bloody victory in the ring just as Dina and I were slipping away. A smirk settles across his lips as he stares me down, somehow satisfied that he’s surprised me. As if, perhaps, he recognizes me too? I tighten my hands into fists as his gaze pores over me.
The others follow his lead, shedding their masks. I assess the two remaining males. One looks at me curiously through twinkling deep blue eyes, a hint of a smile pulling at his lips. On his left, a broader, dark-haired male looks past me to Sterling, a worried look on his face as his brute muscles practically pop out from under his cut.
“Th–thank you,” I choke out, surprising them. Even if I am afraid, I need to keep my wits about me, play along with whatever it is they have planned for me and show I’m not a threat to them. He stills for an unnerving moment, as if debating to accept it, before turning to the blond-haired one behind him.
“Quinn, Go find Laurel. She should give her a once-over.” Aamon turns back to me, those dark eyes piercing. “Make sure nothing’s too terribly broken.”
I bite my lip, feeling exposed. The blond one, Quinn, disappears into the hall beyond the living room. The other male saunters over to the far side of the living room and leans against the wall, pulling out a blade and twirling it haphazardly between his fingers.
Sterling notices my eyes on the knife. “Don’t worry about Zeke,” he murmurs as he settles onto the couch beside me. “He’s all bark and no bite.” I nod relaxing into him as he strokes calming circles against my back. The motion is so intimate, like that of a companion, and I don’t have the energy to inch away from him. I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t helping.
But Aamon . . . Aamon doesn’t move. Doesn’t take his eyes off me. And even with Sterling’s touch against my back, I’m unnerved. My skin goes colder the longer I feel his eyes on me, goosebumps breaking over my arms. Sterling must notice because he shimmies out of his leather jacket and drapes it over me in an instant.
Aamon’s eyes narrow at that, but he doesn’t protest.
“What have you boys gotten into now?" A quiet but stern voice calls from down the hall. I lift my shoulders, sitting up straighter to get a better look at the female making her way towards us. She’s small, surprisingly so. Waves of jet-black hair surround her, falling over her shoulders and ticklingher waistline. A patchwork lace skirt flutters around her, an intricately carved wooden box in her hands. I’m instantly captivated by her presence, the unnaturally smooth way she moves simultaneously intriguing and off-putting.
She stops just short of Aamon, a hand on her hip as she evaluates the room. When her eyes finally land on me, she tenses. It’s the smallest movement, I barely catch it. But I can tell she’s just as upset with my presence here as Aamon. “Andras is not going to like this,” she chides, looking sidelong towards Aamon.
My body stiffens at the mention of the ungoverned district’s Alpha. I had heard them mention him earlier, but the female’s familiarity deepens my suspicions. They aren’t just minions at the bottom of the food chain. They’recloseto him, brushing shoulders near enough that a Watcher female in their midst could get them in a whole lot of trouble.
“Just tend to her." He lowers his voice, speaking directly to the female. “I’ll handle Andras.”
She lets out a long sigh, but nods, approaching me. “What’s your name, sweetheart?” She sets the box on the coffee table, opening it to reveal rows of small vials and herbs.
“Evangeline,” I half whisper.
Zeke, still brooding in the corner, huffs out something akin to a laugh and my gaze flicks over to him. “What?” The word is out of me before I can stop it. My eyes widen,my body tensing as I realize the error in my boldness. He meets my gaze, face hard and cold, but doesn’t say anything.
“Angel,” Aamon answers for him. “It’s a fitting name for you, given what you are.”
“I’m not an angel,” I bite out bitterly, half scoffing as my gaze swings back towards Aamon. “They are nothing but myth. Folk lore and fairytales for children of the High Quarter.”
“You’re a Watcher, aren’t you?” He frowns.
I nod, reluctantly. So far, no one seems to have pieced together exactly who I belong to in the High Quarter, and I can’t decide if that’s my saving grace or my ultimate downfall.
“So you’re as good as, in my book.” Aamon’s face contorts into a snarl, his words dripping with venom. “You are wholly opposite our kind, living a life of comfort up in the clouds. For all I care, you may as well be a myth. Because whatever you are—Watcher, Angel, High Quarter whore—you are a thorn in my side and a nuisance who understands little about the pain your kind has put my people through.” He sneers, watching my reaction carefully.
I hold his gaze, despite the emotions rolling through me and the deep desire to run from him.
I’d always held sympathy for the members of the ungoverned district, but I’ve always been on the winning side of things. Within the protection that being of the High Quarter affords. It’s all too clear to me how much hatredruns between our kinds. They may be healing me now, but Aamon’s face tells me enough: their sympathy won’t last long.
Laurel makes quick work of tending to my wounds, reassuring me that there isn’t much damage. She cleans the bite on my arm and the relief is near immediate. I sigh as she rubs a salve over the worst of my cuts and scrapes, relaxing the slightest bit into the sofa.
I marvel at how quickly her potions work, my skin going from a rough, angry red to a light, clean, baby pink in no time. She motions towards the older wounds, pointing out that whatever treatment I received previously was still lingering in my blood and helping me to heal faster. She doesn’t pry, and for that I’m thankful. I’m still trying to decide just how much information about myself I’m wanting to divulge to them. But something tells me the less they know, the better.
“There,” she says at last, handing me one last vial and encouraging me to drink. “That should take care of the last of it. You may be sore for a day or two still. So maybe take it easy. Rest up.”
I take the vial, downing its contents and grimacing at the acidic taste, but I don’t complain. “Thank you,” I offer once I suppress the urge to cough up the foul liquid.
