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I clutch my head, my fingers digging into the flesh of my scalp. And while I can’t feel the bite of my nails breaking the skin, Rhys can because he hisses in response. He crosses the room, grabbing my wrists, gently pulling them down and away.
“Stop. You have to stop, Aurelia,” he murmurs as I try to get my mind back to the here and now.
I must not have been very successful because he’s roaring for Evan.
Soon, our room is invaded by one pissed-off baby wraith, her hands black as coal smoke and curled into talons. The iris and sclera of her usually ice-blue eyes have bled to an almost-demonic black, and she’s hissing like a snake through a set of impressive fangs.
Holy shit balls.
That’s enough to scare anyone straight, or at least shock me enough to get my shit together. Even with bullets flying in the gallery, Evan didn’t fully phase. I’d almost forgotten how scary she could be.
“Put the fangs away, baby doll,” I croak. “It’s just a flashback.”
Just as the words leave my mouth, a very relieved Rhys pulls me into a bone-crushing hug. His embrace is tight enough to steal my breath and warm enough to calm me down to almost normal—or as normal as I’m ever going to get.
“Sorry, guys. Where’s a straitjacket when you need one, huh?” I say on a self-deprecating chuckle as I gently push away from Rhys.
He lets me go this time, and I realize I’m wearing next to nothing by way of a loose T-shirt and underwear. That, and the door is open to all and motherfucking sundry with nine warriors peering inside this room.
Fuck. My. Life.
Running to the bathroom like my ass is on fire, I shut the door with a hearty slam. And thank the Fates for forethought, because my duffle is on the vanity. Showering for the second time in twenty-four hours, I sluice off the spent adrenaline and fear. It takes time to rub the blood from my scalp, but the small crescent wounds from my nails nearly healed already.
Staring down at my arms, and through the ink, I spot the slight ridges of scars covered by beautiful pictures. Koi-like mermaids swimming toward a lotus flower conceal a few. Beautiful dark-haired women in Dia de Los Muertos makeup hide others. There are flowers and sea creatures and quotes from my favorite novels and songs. An intricate butterfly covers a jagged scar on my ribs. No matter how I treated it, it never healed properly. A cherry blossom tree conceals the thin scar on my abdomen Rhys and I most likely share.
I remember every single second of my time in that hell. I remember every single cut Iva and her soldiers sliced into my skin, making them permanent with those stupid knives. And Morganite is supposed to mean true love.
True love my ass.
I took those horrible scars and turned them into something better. My tattoos made something ugly and twisted pretty again. Just like my soul, every prick of the needle healed my flesh, took what was dirty and made it new. I’m better than I was before. I’m stronger. And I won’t be defeated by some fucking flashback.
I will not falter.
I refuse.
Dressing in workout clothes, I finish by pulling my hair into a messy knot on top of my head. I grab my phone and earbuds and set my shoulders, praying no one is in the room when I head out.
I should have known that I’ve never been that lucky.
Rhys is sitting on the bed, much like he did last night—nervous and riled, trying to figure out what to say and failing miserably. He opens his mouth only to close it with a snap as he anxiously runs a hand through his hair.
“Out with it,” I bark, because I’ve been standing here for five full minutes waiting for him to get his shit together enough to spill.
“What was your dream about?” he asks just above a whisper. “Was it a vision? What did you see that made you scream as if you were being tortured?”
I want to feel sorry for him—to comfort him a little—but a bigger, harder part of me wants him to pay for the pain he caused. The gentleness I felt for him last night is long gone.
Why did he have to kill Lucien? We were leaving the Legion. Others got to leave. We weren’t the first to choose something different. We were choosing exile.
He should feel the same pain—he should know what I endured. The cruelest part of me rears her ugly head—the part that allowed me to survive. The awful part that forced me to trudge forward without them.
Alone.
“It wasn’t a dream or a vision. It was a flashback. And I was being tortured. I was reliving scattering the ashes of my dead husband. The husband you killed. The husband I was putting to rest when Iva’s soldiers caught me. And before that, I got to relive the death of my unborn child. So, you see the flashback itself was torture—those screams were real.” I sneer through my tears, but the satisfaction doesn’t last.
His expression wounds me more than anything—because I know that look has been on my face more times than I can count. It’s the look of misery. Of guilt. Of remorse. And to give that look to someone else?
It tears me up inside.
