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Chapter 42
Arabella
The air smells singed. That kind of musty smoke scent you get after a bonfire hangs in the air. All I can think about are warm hazel eyes…verdant woodlands and serene lakes. Beachy bonfires and autumn evenings. Christmas days in front of crackling fires.
It’s all dreamy until pain sears from the back of my head to my nose. My eyes water with the distinct scent of dried blood a
nd rich down.
Rich down. Feathers and plumes…
My hair tickles my face as I exhale, and as I shake my head to move my it from my eyes, a sharp stab slices from the top of my skull to my shoulders.
“Ow…” Why is my head so sore? “Ah…”
“Shhh,” a soft feminine voice whispers from beside me, followed by cold hands brushing my hair back. “Don’t wake up.”
Fluttering open, my eyes sting even in the dim light. My head pulses and before I can fully take in my surroundings, I scrunch my eyes shut. Tears trickle down to my temples.
I’ve never had a migraine in my life, but fuck…this feels like my head is about to pop right off my neck.
“Don’t move. Don’t speak. Sleep.”
I don’t want to sleep. I want to see where I am. Who this person is. I don’t remember leaving the auction.
Where’s Christopher?
“Christopher?”
“Shhh…perestan’te razgovarivat,” the soft voice cajoles in a low, fearful whisper.
The words filter through my head; their tone and rough twang is familiar. So brutish for such a warm voice.
Forcing my eyes open with my breath held tight in my aching lungs, I fight through the curdling pain in my head.
Long, messy blonde hair shields my face like a veil. It looks so silky even in its dishevelled state.
The girl’s high features catch the light, and familiarity glows across her milky skin. I know this girl.
“Where am I?” I breathe out, swallowing the bile that rises with the pounding in my head.
“Shush!”
No! The desperate way she hisses unfurls a deep panic inside me. My chest tightens. Acid singes my lungs as it collects on my chest. Hands push me back down as I try to get up. My stomach twists and as I’m about to hurl the contents of my stomach, her cool hand lands on my mouth.
Fuck, full-blown panic rampages through me at the thought of drowning in my own sick. It’s the creak of a heavy door that kills my fight to get free.
“Ona ne spit?” a deep, aggressive voice rumbles from a short distance.
More tears form as sick begins to push through my closed lips.
“Net,” the girl replies. I feel her fear tremble in her limbs.
Footsteps clunk closer, muffled like heavy boots over thick carpet. Her hand reluctantly slips from my mouth as she twists on the bed beside me. Try as I might to hold the vomit in my mouth, it explodes out of me. Yanking my body up to a sitting position. I can’t control it as wave after wave of sick covers me in the soured contents of my stomach.
My body threatens to fall limp in the aftermath of its purge, but as the large figure comes closer, panic becomes terror.
The singed walls of the club’s recreation room draw in. Purple and gold and midnight swirl around me as large hands grasp my shoulders. Dark, pinhead eyes freeze on me.
