Page 54

The stain lingers anyway.

My phone buzzes somewhere in the main room, the sound muffled through the door. Probably Alexei, wondering where I am and why I didn’t show up to the family meeting I was supposed to attend this afternoon.

Was it really only today? So much has happened that the memory already seems distant.

The bathroom is still too hot, sweat beading on my skin. I grab a towel and scrub myself dry with rough strokes that border on pain, checking my skin for missed evidence I somehow overlooked.

Every inch comes up clean.

By the time I finish, the mirror has cleared enough for my reflection to emerge. My eyes appear huge, pupils dilated, whites showing all the way around. My hair stands up in damp spikes, and a bruise purples my jaw where I landed on the kitchen tile. Darkening, finger-shaped marks ring my throat, impossible to misinterpret.

I drop the towel and reach for the clothes I set on the closed toilet seat. Soft gray sweatpants with a drawstring waist, an oversized T-shirt that falls past my hips, and thick socks for my cold feet. Nothing requiring decisions or effort. Nothing demanding thought.

My backup nape guard sits beside the clothes, and I clip it on first, the heavy metal plate settling at the back of my neck and offering a semblance of protection. At least this can’t be taken from me.

I dress with numb fingers, the clothes rough on my too-sensitive skin. My ears ring with a high, thin note that won’t go away, and my stomach turns over with each deep breath.

When I finally open the bathroom door, the cool air of the apartment hits my overheated skin, and I shiver. The small studio resembles a war zone. My drawer systems, which supported my desktop, look out of place without the glass piece connecting them. The bookshelf lists to the side, books scattered across the floor. A lamp lies broken, its shade crushed.

At least no visible blood remains. Only what could be found with a UV light.

My stomach turns over, and I have to grip the doorframe to stay upright. Three steps take me to the kitchen, where I grab the bottle of whiskey Saint bought, and three more take me to the bed on the far wall.

I unscrew the cap with shaking hands and take a long pull straight from the bottle. The alcohol burns my throat, settles warm and heavy in my stomach, and I take another drink before I remember to breathe.

The fox sits in the center of my rumpled comforter. I have no memory of moving it. The last I remember, it was on the floor by the door, where I’d dropped it when the Alpha came at me. I stare at it for a moment, at its stitched smile fixed in place. Then I crawl onto the bed and pull it to my chest, tuck my face into its synthetic fur, and curl around it with the bottle still clutched in one hand.

Bleach, copper, and fear permeate the air.

I close my eyes, but the Alpha flashes behind my eyelids. The moment his skull cracked on the counter plays on repeat, the sound of it echoing in my memory until I have to take another long pull from the bottle.

He was going to hurt me.

He was going to kill me.

The thought circles, a mantra I can’t escape. He was going to hurt me. He was going to kill me. He was going to⁠—

I raise the whiskey again, but pause when I see how much I’ve already drunk and drop the bottle to the floor instead, my head already spinning from too much alcohol.

The tears come without warning, streaking down my cheeks to soak into the fox’s fur. My chest heaves with each sob, the bruises along my ribs protesting with each indrawn breath, but I can’t force it to stop. Once it starts, it consumes everything, as though I might cry until there’s nothing left of me.

I bury my face in the fox’s stuffed body and let it happen.

Time passes, marked only by the slow fade of light through my windows. I drift in and out, exhaustion pulling me under, only for a small noise from out in the hall or through the walls I share with my neighbors to jerk me back to consciousness, heart racing, hands shaking.

My phone buzzes again, and again, but I don’t move to check it. The world outside my apartment might as well be on another planet.

A key rattles in the lock. The sound of it turning, the door opening, and footsteps crossing the threshold.

I lift my head from the fox’s damp fur, blinking through swollen lids as Orien steps into the apartment. He brings with him a to-go container in one hand, the aroma of food drifting from it, and a sheet of glass balanced beneath his other arm. He locates me right away, his attention sweeping over me for injuries.

Relief floods through me at the sight of him, so strong it leaves me dizzy. My throat tightens, and a fresh wave of tears threatens, but I bite them back, not wanting him to see me break down again.

“Hey,” he murmurs into the quiet room. “You’re still here.”

My arms tighten around the fox. “I’m still here.”

He sets the takeout on the small table beside my kitchenette and props the glass against the wall. “Good. Stay there. I’ve got this.”