Page 67 of His Eternal Claim

Chapter 22

Wound

THE REQUIEM | Present

The door clicks shut behind my Mother, and it sounds like a lock sliding into place.

I stay still, flat on my back, hands curled over the blanket.

The air conditioning hums through hidden vents. The curtains sway, and the birds chirp somewhere far below. A city breathes beyond the windows. Everything feels painfully expensive.

Perfect.

Like a painting.

My chest tightens as I sit up. Pain detonates behind my eyes. A gasp tears out of me. White flashes burst against my vision, and for a second, I don’t know where I am. My own hands look wrong.

My pulse stutters as I stare at my fingers curled against the cream blanket. There’s dirt beneath one nail. I rub at it frantically, but it doesn’t come off, and my breathing turns shallow.

No.

No, no, no…

Migraine. Mama said migraine. That makes sense.

Doesn’t it?

People collapse, hallucinate, see things, but they don’t wake up with dirt under their fingernails. Or more like… dried blood.

The thought lands hard enough to make bile climb my throat. I throw the blankets off. My bare feet touch marble, and the chill shoots up my legs. The room tilts. But I catch the edge of the bed and breathe through another wave of pain.

Then force myself forward. A cream-coloured sitting area, gold detailing, a fireplace. White roses arranged on every surface.

Beautiful.

And deeply wrong.

My skin prickles. Like if I turn fast enough, I’ll catch something standing behind me.

I move toward the windows as sunlight warms my face; far below, traffic crawls. And it’s not Italy.

I know that instantly.

How? I don’t know. I just do.

My reflection appears faintly in the glass. Dark hair tangled over my shoulders, eyes shadowed by unseen things, and lips pale. And for one awful second, I see another reflection standing behind me.

It is tall, with broad shoulders and grey eyes. A shadow dressed in black.

My pulse stops, and I spin to find nothing. The room is empty, but the curtains flutter. That’s all.

A broken laugh escapes my lips as I press trembling fingers to my mouth because I’m terrified I’ll start crying and never stop.

I feel nothing. My stomach twists so violently that I stumble back. Images reel behind my eyes, but I can’t quite process them. They’re blurry. There but not there. I know they happened, but when and what, I can’t tell. I am not even sure if it’s just in my head.

I shut my eyes and the only thing that flashes is a flower. It is small and white. Jasmine probably. Church bells. A hand grabbing mine. A man whispering something harsh and urgent against my mouth.

And then blood.