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And it’s wrong and awful, but I want her to ache. I want her to ache like I ache, but more than that, like Asha aches. I want her to feel exactly what she’s done to my wife, what she’s caused.
I want her to know…
But then, somewhere in the back of the room, I hear a voice, one that’s unfamiliar to me. The male who accompanied Blaise begs, “Please. Please, stop. You don’t know what you’re doing to her. Please.”
It’s then that I look down at Blaise, at the way she’s gone completely still under my touch. The way she isn’t fighting back.
The way she’s not in the room with us anymore.
And then something else flashes before my eyes.
The girl, broken in front of her stepmother’s corpse, the news of a lost baby dampening her soul.
I realize with horror that anything I might fear has happened to Asha has already happened to Blaise.
I don’t think it makes me hate her any less. Perhaps it makes me hate her more, for putting Asha in a vulnerable position when she should have wanted to protect her.
“Please, just let her go,” says her companion. “Do whatever you want to me instead. That’s what you want, isn’t it? Justice? You want to make her feel what she did to you? So torture me instead. Make her watch. Just please stop.”
Blaise’s eyes roll back in her head, and she begins to shake.
Too far. I’ve gone too far.
Again.
“Kiran,” says Fin, and I see it now through his eyes, what’s happening. Me pinning Blaise to the wall, consuming her with my anger, just like I did with Ophelia.
Fates, no.
Shame washes over me, and I let go. Blaise slumps, but I catch her before she hits the ground.
No, no, no.
I brush my fingers against her neck, trying to soothe what I’ve just unleashed upon her, the memories I’ve just made her relive without realizing it.
Had I realized it?
I feel as though I’m going to be sick.
But the more I try to calm her, the more I try to seep tranquility into her flesh, the more the emotion escapes me. Since I can’t grasp onto it, can’t remember what it feels like, it resists me, refusing to be transmitted.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, the apology gravelly in my mouth.
It takes a moment for the glaze in Blaise’s eyes to dissipate, and though her breathing is still heavy, she speaks with little shake in her voice.
“It’s all right. That’s good. That’s really good,” she says, to which I furrow my brow.
I have the sudden urge to look back at my siblings, to see if they’re as confused as I am, but something tells me I shouldn’t turn my back on the vampire whose mind I just tortured.
“I was worried that wouldn’t be strong enough,” she says, letting out a shiver. “But it’s definitely strong enough.”
I let go of her, stretching my fingers, which are sore from pinning her to the wall.
As the sounds in the room come back into focus, my ears focus in on her companion’s ragged breathing behind us. The scent of burnt flesh tinges my nostrils. I turn to discover that Lydia has been holding the other vampire off by searing his skin with her Flame.
Still, she’s sweating profusely from the effort of holding him back.
She finally lets go, and he runs to Blaise, scooping her in his arms, shoving himself between me and her.
