Page 39 of War and his Queen

“I don’t need help!” I glance sideways.

“Mmmm, whatever this game is, I’m playing!” Evie piles her long hair onto the top of her head.

I choke. “No. You and River can go—”

Priest interrupts this time. “Agreed. They’re going.”

The heat of War’s rage warms me from my side when his long fingers close around my hand, and he places a plastic cup in my palm.

My eyes narrow as I refocus on War’s face. His mouth is in a flat line, cold as stone. Will my feelings toward War always be as clouded as they are now? Maybe.

I take a small sip of whatever he gave me anyway and hiss when the poison touches the tip of my tongue.

River and Evie shift together, forming one, as someone blurs toward them. Evie laughs, music plays, and my head turns fuzzy. I don’t know how long I sit here. Minutes. Hours.

I push myself up from the sofa but stumble back down. Shit.

What the fuck was in that drink?

Fuck love.

And fuck him too.

My eyes watered as I stared up at the small oval carved into the plank above my bed. I traced the lines so many times that it was almost engraved in my head.

Not that it wasn’t already.

Not because I did it myself.

A halo. Symbolic for something pure, protected, cared for.

Pulling the blankets up near my chin, I hide beneath them, ignoring the pungency of mold and sawdust. I began to count to five then six in Latin. I’d felt the wane of my anger burn behind my eyes the longer I was here.

I stopped longing for deliverance.

For my best friend.

For the carefully constructed life I’d been fed, only to have this choke me.

I didn’t care anymore. I just hated that every time I swallowed, it felt like razor blades were stuck in my throat. I wish they were. I wish it were real blades that cut me open and bled me out until I was nothing but a corpse on the floor.

My eyes closed, even though I knew sleep wouldn’t come.

The door opened in the room and my skin prickled. My fingers clamped together beneath the cover, as I scrambled for the black Van Cleef bracelet locked around my wrist.

It would happen again. I guess I should be thankful.

They were okay.

The shadow stood over my bed, and I blinked up at the harsh lines of the silhouette. Afraid to blink because I knew. I knew that sometimes, that was all it took to be over.

But then other times, it would feel like weeks.

The mattress dipped beneath his weight. The umbrella of the top bunk doing nothing to calm my racing heart. He didn’t care. He used it as he pleased. He would take everything with an iron fist and make no apologies when he tore it from me.

His head tilted to the side a little, and because of the flickering light from the burning candle on the other side of the room, I allowed myself to follow the hollowness of his high cheekbones and his pillowy lips. Even his side profile was melodic. Girls wrote poetry because of boys like him.

He slid out of his coat and placed it onto the end of the bed. I watched as his long fingers fumbled with his belt. I sighed melodiously as he peeled back the covers and a gust of wind prowled over my naked body.

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