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Willow gasps loudly.
I pause, glad she can’t see my face as my mouth draws into a line and my eyes narrow. I drop the ring into the drawer. It clatters, a solid, heavy weight, and when I shove the drawer closed, I hear it roll to the back.
“What the hell are those?”
I turn to her, knowing what she’s referring to: the marks on my shoulder blades. Abacus had them too, identical scar-like birthmarks on our backs. Emmanuel’s are fainter. “Birthmark,” I say flatly.
I don’t want to talk about them. Any time I’m reminded of their existence, I remember what Abacus had done to try to get rid of them. They’d driven him mad.
No. I stop myself. It wasn’t those that had driven him mad. The presence of the birthmark was just a prop. Other things had driven him past the point of no return.
Willow studies me, and I think I have to get better at hiding what I’m thinking. The look on her face makes me suspect she can read my mind.
At that thought, the migraine which I was too preoccupied to focus on seems to return with a vengeance. She watches me cross the room to where I left my jacket and swallow two more pills dry.
“Come,” I say. “I will wash you.”
“I can wash myself just fine. We call it a shower these days, by the way.”
“You have a smart mouth.” I gesture to the archway that leads to the bathroom.
“You take a lot of pills,” she retorts as she passes me into the bathroom.
I step on the edge of the blanket she’s draped around her and when it catches, she spins to face me, arms holding the blanket up.
“Off.”
She raises her eyebrows defiantly.
“I’ve already seen it all,” I taunt.
We have a brief standoff, but she lets the blanket drop. My heart hammers against my chest. I can’t help but look her over, that echo like the rattle of a snake sounding from inside my chest again. When I meet her gaze, she cocks her head and gives me a one-sided grin.
“Men are so easy.” She turns her back to walk into the bathroom.
I watch her ass, proving her right. “You’re very cocky for a girl who’s wearing my handprint all over her ass,” I say, catching up with her in one stride. I squeeze her ass cheek before stepping toward the large, round tub that the housekeeper has filled on my earlier instruction.
The bathroom itself is large, the walls the same deep emerald as the bedroom. Three arched iron-clad windows span almost the length of one wall. They overlook the forest behind the house, the glass tinted slightly for privacy. The tub was custom made for this space, the room of The Penitent—Abacus’s before mine. And before him, all those other Delacroix men, The Penitents who took the marked Wildblood woman and made a Sacrifice of her to Shemhazai.
In a way, it’s a sort of baptismal pool. I’m certain the original Delacroix who had it installed had just that in mind. I want to say that our thinking is more modern now, but I catch our reflection in the large antique, ornately framed window over the stone sink.
Willow Wildblood stands naked before me, taking in the oversized tub, her expression strange and her eyes too wide. I loom like an overgrown beast behind her. If that isn’t evidence that we haven’t come far at all, I don’t know what is.
“Come, Willow.” I hold my hand out to her.
She looks at the water, then at me. “What is it, holy water?”
I chuckle. “Why? Would it burn you if it were?”
“I didn’t combust when I stepped into the church, but I don’t want to take any chances.”
“You’ll be fine. Come.” She hesitates, which is strange. “It’s just a bathtub. You won’t combust. Or drown.”
She tries for a casual snort but the look in her eyes is a little like it was in that photograph with her sister, Raven, and I don’t think she realizes she’s wrapped her arms around herself protectively.
“What are you afraid of? I’m going to wash you, then we’re going to bed.”
She nods, tries for a smile and walks into the tub, bypassing my offered hand and moving to the opposite side. She cautiously lowers herself to a seat. She’s uncomfortable, to say the least. I follow her in, curious, because this is not the same girl as just a few moments ago, as the cocky one who challenged Hildebrand, or the one who glared at every witness during the marking ceremony.
Instinct tells me to move slowly, and I take the soap and loofah and lather it up. She watches. I wonder if she is aware how stiffly she’s sitting, how she’s clutching her hands, her arms locked.
“Turn around. I’ll do your back.”
She blinks. “What?” She starts twisting the ring which is, I suppose, meant to be some sort of weapon with its twin spiked points like a cat’s ears. On closer inspection, they’re pretty sharp. I think she can do some harm with the thing.
