Chapter 11
ELEVEN
Kallie
The night was long, and Atticus had to scrounge up blankets from a forgotten cabinet to fight off the chill.
Despite the chaos from last night, I slept surprisingly well.
Maybe it’s having the connection back with Voraxis.
Maybe it was all the energy I used. The only thing I’m certain of is my body desperately needed it.
Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I tug the blanket tighter around me, rolling over on the couch to stare out the gaping hole where an insulated wall used to stand. The sight stuns me silent, the world narrowing to nothing but the delicate flakes coating the floor.
You’re awake, Voraxis states. Standing, I wrap the blanket around my shivering frame and put on a pair of boots that rests next to the front door. I debate if I should check on Atticus but decide against it. Better leave him be—especially after last night.
Snow days were always my favorite, I admit down the bond.
It snows a lot in Maine, so actual snow days from school were few and far between.
But my dad always let us play hooky for a day or two.
They were always full of snowball fights, building snowmen, and covering the yard in snow angels.
Once Kate and I were borderline hypothermic, with our cheeks flushed red and—despite wearing so many layers we could barely move—our fingers and toes ice cold, we’d finally come inside, thaw under warm blankets, and curl up with mugs of cocoa, a movie playing in the background while I snuggled up with a book.
A pang hits deep in my chest with the memory.
Now I know it was all fake, like I was in some sort of simulation of a life that wasn’t meant to be mine.
How could she pretend so effortlessly? Were the signs there and I was too oblivious to see them?
I don’t know. But now, I’m worried that all my good memories, the ones I held on to so tightly during my darkest times, are tainted with the harsh truth.
My feet land on the snow softly, and my hair is immediately peppered with the falling flakes.
Plowing my way through the snow, I make myself a pathway to Voraxis.
His head blends in with his surroundings, perfectly undetected besides his piercing violet eyes.
The snow blankets the darkest part of him, but when he stands, the camouflage falls off, and the contrast is astonishing.
Are you ready to leave? he asks.
Where would we go? I don’t have a home anymore. I never really had one. I can’t exactly take you back to Maine, can I? Even if I could, would I want to? That life feels so foreign to me now. I’m not sure where I belong—if I ever belonged anywhere to begin with.
We can’t stay here, Firebird. He’s right. Aside from the gut-gnawing guilt I feel, the guards, and whoever else, could very well be on their way here.
I have an idea, Voraxis starts. But I don’t think you’re going to like it.
Any idea is a good one right now. But before he can tell me, his eyes narrow into slits, focusing on something behind me while smoke billows from his nostrils. Spinning around, I’m met with a very rigid Atticus holding a steaming cup of—what I’m hoping is—coffee.
“Can you be nice, just once?” I ask, directed to the overbearing burnt marshmallow.
“Ignore him. He’s in a mood. Well, he’s kind of always in a mood, but you get used to it,” I elaborate, taking a few steps toward Atticus.
He hands me the cup, eyes trained on Voraxis, who I know hasn’t moved even an inch.
Bringing the cup up to my lips, I let the warmth seep into my bones while the delicious notes of deep roasted beans dance along my tongue.
Gods, I forgot what it tastes like—truly what anything decent tastes like.
“I’m going into town to get some supplies to repair the house.
Do you want to come?” Atticus offers. He can really fix a whole house?
Granted, I don’t know much about him—well, nothing at all, really—but that seems a bit difficult.
Looking back at Voraxis, I see his demeanor hasn’t changed. Will you be okay while I’m out?
You’re not leaving. I shouldn’t be surprised the imperious attitude hasn’t changed—considering—but he’ll be fine. I’ll be fine.
I feel bad enough as it is. The least I can do is help in any way I can. You will have full range of my mind while I’m gone. Okay? He doesn’t reply, aside from the dragon equivalent of an eyeroll. So dramatic.
“Yes! I would love to go—and also pay for whatever supplies you need…since it was my fault and all,” I tell Atticus.
“That won’t be necessary.”
“I insist.”
“With what money?” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest.
Well, shit. He’s right. I’ve never had to think about money since being here. Gross, that sounds entitled.
Take one of my scales, Voraxis suggests—rather demands, actually. I look back at him inquisitively, and he adds, If you know the right people—and I’m assuming Big Guy does—you can sell it.
I relay the message to Atticus, and he seems rather pleased by the suggestion.
I didn’t know dragon scales were a form of bargaining.
But I also don’t know a lot about how this realm works.
Walking over to Voraxis, I ask, Does it matter which color?
It’s a valid question—one could be more rare than the other.
One of each.
How do I–
Cut them off, Voraxis instructs. Don’t get me wrong, I know he has tough…skin? Is it skin? I should really brush up on my dragon anatomy. But either way, that’s gotta hurt. When he doesn’t comment on my curiosity, I peer over at Atticus. “I’m gonna need a knife”—I tug on a scale—“or a machete.”
Finally, the scales come free, and I’m shocked there wasn’t so much as a flinch from him—not even a drop of blood. When I offer him my thanks, he brushes it off and vaults toward the sky, making sure to tell me if anything feels off to him, he’ll burn the town down with a single fireball.
The drama.
Being the hospitable man he is, Atticus offers me a shower before we leave, and there is no way I am passing it up. Before I go into the bathroom, Atticus stops me. “Here, you can wear these.” He pushes a pile of forged clothes toward me.
“I appreciate it, but the clothes I’m wearing now don’t fit. Yours would for sure fall off.”
“They’re not mine.” He doesn’t need to elaborate. The distant, pained look in his eyes is telling enough.
“I can’t,” I whisper.
“Serena would want you to. I want you to.” He pushes them closer, and I hesitantly take the pile and wordlessly close the door. I set the clothes on the counter next to the sink and brace my palms on the edge while my head hangs low.
At this point, the gods and goddesses above have to be playing some kind of cosmic joke.
I never thought any of this was going to be easy, but this is maybe pushing it a bit far.
I got over the whole ‘my life was a lie’ thing.
I was abducted, tortured—multiple times—and betrayed by the one person who made me feel safe.
Then, my best friend turned out to be the biggest, conniving bitch of them all.
And to top it all off…there was Serena. The only person who understood what I was going through, who figured out how to get us out, and ultimately sacrificed herself for my freedom.
She deserved to be set free too. In some ways, she has been. Hopefully, she’s amongst the stars, finally at peace.
And out of all the people in the realm, I stumbled on Atticus, her brother, her twin, who selflessly offered me refuge—with a small nudge from Odeyssa—and I burned his house down.
Like I said. A fucking joke.
You okay? The intrusion brings a small smile to my lips. I shouldn’t be surprised he’s listening.
Just peachy. Undressing, I step into the shower and turn the knobs until I’m satisfied with the temperature. I surrender to the storm in my mind, letting the tears cascade with it.
I don’t take long—even though I could’ve stayed in there forever—and change quickly, trying to not think about how Serena wore these same clothes once upon a time.
Atticus was right, they do fit me pretty well, only a size or two too big.
I weave two Dutch braids down the back of my head, and the instant I get the inevitable burn in my arms, my mind rushes back, remembering Callum doing it for me.
How it felt to have his fingers running through my hair, how meticulous he would be if it didn’t look quite right.
The way his lips would brush against the nape of my neck when he pulled the last section taut, and shivers would race down my spine.
Talk about fifty shades of fucked up.
Tying off the last braid, I scoop up my dirty clothes and walk out the door.
“Took you long enough,” Atticus comments while measuring something on the wall.
When he turns around, he looks taken aback, like he’s seen a ghost. It takes him a moment to regain his composure, but I’m already mumbling out apologies.
“I’m sorry. This was stupid. I never should have—”
“Kallie.”
“—accepted the clothes. I’ll go change. It’s fine.” I turn to rush back into the bathroom, but he catches my elbow, turning me back around.
“It’s alright. It stunned me, that’s all.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.” He releases his grip, turning on his heels toward the door, and adds, “You can leave those in there. I have to do laundry when we get back anyway.” The moment he says that, I remember I left my disgusting gown back at the ranch house.
I’m a godsdamn trainwreck.
Doing as he says, I toss them behind the door and slip into the boots he handed me before trailing after him outside. He doesn’t wait for me—not that I expect him to—and waltzes down the snowy path.
After a few minutes of silence, I break it, not wanting the voices in my head to start up again. “You grabbed the scales, right?”