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And then we drink.
My insides feel like they’re all twisted up, and my head is even more of a mess. And all because of Isabella fucking Johnson.
Tilting my head back, I rest it against the cushioned backrest while my mind drifts back to what I did to Isabella in that shower room just now.
I didn’t mean to take it that far. Yes, I went in there with the intention of scaring her. Of making her panic and force her to reveal her skills. But I didn’t mean to do…that.
And I meant what I said to her. If she had told me to stop, I would have. Immediately and without question. So why didn’t she?
Why didn’t she tell me to stop?
Doing that wouldn’t have revealed any of the skills that I know she’s hiding. Quite the opposite. Asking me to stop would have added even more credibility to the idea that this weak persona she’s portraying is the real her. So why, in all hell, didn’t she tell me to stop?
Guilt snakes around my heart, squeezing it like a cold snake.
Isabella is a part of the group who murdered my parents. And what did I do? I drank in the sight of her coming all over my hand. Drank it in desperately. Like a man dying of thirst.
Lifting the glass to my lips, I drink deeply and shake my head at myself.
What kind of son am I?
Ienjoyedwatching her climax. Enjoyed watching her eyes flutter as pleasure ricocheted through her. And I fuckinglovedhearing those incoherent moans spill from her lips as I made her come. Especially knowing that I was responsible for it. It was the most glorious thing I have ever experienced.
So what does that make me?
I drink deeply from my whiskey again.
Raking a hand through my hair, I heave a deep sigh.
Fuck, I should just hand her over to my grandfather and be done with it. It’s the right thing to do. He would make her tell us where the others are, and then we would get revenge for my parents. Bloody vengeance at last.
The sight of Isabella’s naked body flashes before my eyes. The sight of those scars. And burn marks.
I squeeze my eyes shut as a wave of pain and anger crashes over me.
Abusive father, she had said. And she had both sounded and looked so sincere that it had to be the truth. But then again, she is an excellent liar, so it’s hard to tell. But still. I can’t help but wonder if it might be true. Did her father abuse her that badly? Is that why she became an assassin? To get revenge on him? But then why did she join those other people to murdermyparents? And why did she letmelive?
Opening my eyes, I heave another sigh and then down the rest of the alcohol.
Jace wordlessly reaches for the bottle and refills my glass before setting it down again. But he’s not looking at me. Instead, he just keeps staring at the black screen of the TV in front of us.
I trace the bottom of my glass with my finger while I try to sort through the twisted mass of tangled thoughts and emotions inside me.
Why is Isabella even here at Blackwater? Why is she not with those other assassins?
There are too many questions. And I want answers. Ineedanswers.
If I hand Isabella over to my grandfather, he will get those answers for me. But I don’t want him to know some of those answers. Some things I want her to tell me and only me. And that’s why I can’t give her up to Federico.
Or at least, that’s what I tell myself.
But deep down, I know why I haven’t ratted her out. Because if my grandfather got his hands on her, he would torture her until she told him where the others are. And the thought of that makes it feel like burning steel is being shoved down my throat.
She spared me, which means that I owe her my life. That’s why I can’t let them torture her.
Lie, my mind whispers.
I close my eyes again.
