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She pours a small measure of a cloudy liquor and then brings it over to me. It smells of mild liquorice.
“It’s not going to hurt either of you.” She brushes my hair from my face. Sitting in the chair beside me, she adds, “But it will make you feel a little better, and it helps with sleep too.”
She’s being so kind and everything that I imagine Mum would’ve been. It feels like I’m taking advantage of her. Deceiving her.
I take a sip of the drink, shuddering at the strong and fragrant warmth that pools in my stomach. “Wow, that’s strong.”
Beatriz holds my stare once I finish the tipple. Oddly, it works. The nausea from the fish dinner is settling, and I feel a tad numb to the discomfort that hasn’t waned since this afternoon.
“Would you…I…I need to speak to Arabella,” I tell her, knowing that Ryan is probably going to snap my neck for it himself. “I need to talk to her about what happened with my father.”
“Fleur!” Ryan stands from the table abruptly. “He’s fucking right, you know that? You have no sense of self-preservation.”
Beatriz looks between me and him, and then she turns to Lucian, saying something in a language that’s not Spanish. I have no idea what she’s saying, but it sounds harsh and brusque.
When they’re done, she turns back to me. Her face is still soft, in fact, she appears as though she wants to engulf me with affection. Instead, she grasps my hand, her thumb caressing her grandson’s ring on my finger.
“Sangre llama a sangre,” she whispers, her eyes on my belly. “She’s coming.”
“They’re all coming,” Lucian adds.
“For me?”
“No.” Filipe takes his drink and heads for the door. “For blood.”
What?
Before I can ask what he means, Beatriz is helping me up from the table and passing me to Lucian.
“You need to rest.” Her hand
hovers over my belly as she muses, “Not too long now.”
Chapter 22
FLEUR
For the next few days I try to ignore the fact that I’m almost at the end. My body can’t possibly stretch any more than it already has. Sleep is an impossible feat, and the Braxton Hicks are becoming so intense that I’m not exactly sure if they’re the real deal or not.
All the doctor Beatriz had sent to me could say was that, “Everything is progressing as it should. The cervix is softening, and the baby feels in the right position.”
And for some reason, all I wanted to hear was that I have more time. I don’t know what for, but something inside me keeps echoing that I need a bit more time. It’s stupid because I know it’s the part of me that’s terrified of doing this on my own. The part of me that still refuses to accept that Casper is gone.
He is though, and I can’t deny it. Especially not after walking past the chapel by the path down to the river to find Beatriz in tears by the altar, praying as though it would bring him back.
What good are prayers anyway? No one is listening. And if they are, they don’t give a flying fuck. What God could possibly allow any of this to happen?
“What benevolent God would take you away from us?” I ask my smudging sketch of Casper as I trace the line of his nose and then his jaw. I can pretend he’s lying beside me like he used to. Staring at the ceiling while I memorised every line, curve, and shadow of his handsome face.
The taste of liquorice still lingers in my mouth from the tipple Filipe poured us both as we sat by the fire this evening.
“What did you mean, ‘they’re coming for blood’?” I ask him when we’re both settled in our armchairs, facing one another across the room.
Filipe assesses me with a faint grin. “Sangue implora por sangue,” he says, eyes narrowed and an expression that tells me he’s interested to see how this plays out.
I just don’t know what this is, yet.
“What does that mean?”
