I don’t need to ask what she means. The Watchers are meant to be fierce warriors. While that kind of action is no longer taken within Requiesse, there was once a time when the Watchers ruled with an iron fist. One of the reasons the gods supposedly left us behind to tend to the mortals of this world, because we’re nearly indestructible. Or, we’re supposed to be.
I sit up when Laurel finishes massaging the balm into my hip, fixing my dress to cover the exposed skin. I can’t tell them I knowwhyI’m so fragile—that this isn’t the first time something like this has happened. But judging by theway Laurel’s eyes seem to bore through me, I’m starting to wonder if she already knows.
“Here,” she says at last, offering me the jar. “Take this with you. Keep applying until the bruises fade, if the pain persists. And if not, you can use it in the future.” She puts the jar in my hand, leaning in to whisper in my ear, “In case something like this happens again.” When she pulls away, she winks at me and I can’t help the amusement that spills into my features.
“I don’t have anything to pay you with.” My voice is quiet, ashamed at the continuous kindness she’s offered me, at no expense.
“No need." She waves away my words. “Club designated healer, remember?”
“Yeah, but . . .” I hesitate, cradling the jar in my hands. “I’m hardly part of the Blood Order.”
She hums, helping me to my feet and guiding me to the veiled doorway. Quinn goes through first, holding the curtain for me and Laurel. She stays in the doorway as we move forward, propping her hand on her hip as she leans against it to hold the curtain in place. “Maybe not yet,” she answers at last, before letting the curtain fall as she disappears into the back room a moment later.
But I can hear the whisperings of the words she’s left unsaid. They skitter through the air and tickle the back of my neck as Quinn slips his mask back into place and turnsme towards the busy rows of the Market Ebon—willing us to disappear into the mass of excited energy.
But you will be.
Quinn is quiet the whole walk through the market. And behind that featureless mask, I can’t tell what he’s thinking. Dread knots in my stomach, sure he’s caught on to the truth. And now he’s toying with me, playing some sort of cruel game where he's waiting to see how long till I crack.
“Quinn,” I start, when I can’t take the silent treatment any longer.
He stops short, gesturing off to the side. “I thought you wanted an official tour?” he asks.
My brows furrow, confused what he’s talking about, until my gaze follows his gesture to find us back in front of the bar. Bloodlust, as I now know it.
I swallow hard. That was not what I expected him to say.
“Yeah,” I say, blinking away the guilt and fear that I'm sure is ravaging my features. “Yes, I did say that.” I’m thankful for the change of subject, but gods did it have to bethischange? I take a deep breath through my nose and follow his lead inside.
The bar isn't crowded this early. In fact, the only people within the bar seem to be staff getting ready for the night, along with tonight’s entertainment setting up on the stage in the far corner. Quinn heads straight back to the door at the other end of the bar. The one I know leads to the red rooms. A bouncer is waiting by the door, the same one that tried to kick me out the previous night. Only this time, he doesn’t hesitate as he opens the door for me and Quinn, allowing us to slip into the shadows of the hallway beyond.
Unlike last night, the hallway is now empty. And when I hear the click of the door behind us shutting, nerves creep over my skin. It’s just me and Quinn here. No Sterling. No Aamon. And I’m suddenly feeling a lot less trusting than when we first entered the market tonight.
“So, Angel . . .” Quinn drawls from behind me. “Which one will it be?”
“What?” I ask, flustered by his question. My hands curl into my chest and I spin around to face him.
“For your tour,” he clarifies. But there’s wicked intent in his tone. He’s leaning, too casually for my liking, against the door leading back to the bar. A subtle threat that there will be no returning from the way we just came. His anklesare crossed, arms folded over his chest. He’s the picture of calm, cool, and collected and it makes me all too aware how sweaty and anxious I am.
“Oh.” I swallow, turning back to face the hallway. My eyes flit from door to door but land at last on the one beside us to the right. The one I saw the girl in the red dress disappear behind last night. “That one,” I say.
Quinn smiles, a predatory, slick grin that is haunting when paired with the mask he still wears. I retreat a step as he pushes off the wall. “Interesting choice." He's beaming. But he doesn’t clarify further as he steps forward and twists the knob of the door. It gives easily, creaking open with an eerie sound that echoes down the empty hall.
I lean forward, trying to get a better view of what’s on the other side, but the room is cast in pitch-black darkness. I look back at Quinn, but he just gestures for me to step inside. I release a breath, mustering my courage as I take a tentative step forward. The lights flick on, making me jump. Red, like they had been the other night.
Red like the blood they come here to drink.
Quinn snickers from behind me. His hand falls away from a light switch I hadn’t noticed. “You are sojumpytonight, Angel. Want to tell me why that is?” He walks into the room, spurring me to keep moving as my eyes try to process everything revealed in the low light. The space is larger than I expected, decorated in dark-toned silk fabrics.
An air of frustration snakes its way into my own tone. “Maybe because I'm trapped in a territory that is not my own, being thrown around by a bunch ofvampireswho seem to find humor in my misery.” I fold my arms over my chest, fixing him with a hard look.
His eyes dart just below my chin, and I realize the error in my stance the moment he licks his lips. I roll my eyes, throwing my hands in the air as I turn away. “Point proven,” I call out.
He laughs, perching on the edge of the four-poster bed sitting in the middle of the room. “Why do you keep insisting you’re trapped here? I don’t see anyone holding a gun to your head.
Nor do I see you chained up in our basement like some sort of prisoner.
“In fact,” he continues. I can feel his eyes on me as I circle the perimeter of the room. I let my fingers trace over the tools hanging in pristine order on the far wall—leather whips, harnesses, paddles, chains. Even more items I don’t recognize, and my stomach dips as my imagination runs wild with what they might be used for. “You seem to be well-tended to, I’d say.”
