29. Chapter 29
29
Chapter 29
Bronwen
The streets were eerily empty, the kind of silence that makes even the faintest footstep echo like a thunderclap. The sun hovered low in the sky, casting long, golden shadows across the cobblestones. There were only a few hours left before darkness swallowed the town.
I walked toward the town gates, each step crunching against the uneven stones. My fingers brushed the soft fabric of my dress, a futile attempt to soothe the unease prickling at the back of my neck. The distant caw of a lone crow overhead seemed to mock the stillness, its cry fading as quickly as it came.
“Did you think I had forgotten about you?” I murmured as I trailed my hand down Shadow’s side. He shifted restlessly beneath my touch, his dark coat glistening faintly in the dying light. His unease mirrored my own, his movements jittery as he stomped the ground and flicked his tail. Only a few horses remained throughout the woods, their nervous whinnies barely audible over the rising wind.
I mounted Shadow in one fluid motion, the leather of the saddle creaking beneath me. The reins felt cold and stiff in my hands as I guided him onto the path leading home. The quiet pressed in, broken only by the rhythmic crunch of his hooves against the dirt road.
August’s face flashed in my mind, unbidden and unwanted. The memory of his voice, his touch, and the twisted interplay of power between us sent a shiver coursing down my spine. What I did with him, what I allowed—no, invited —flooded my thoughts, and the shame of how much I had liked it burned deep. Guilt gnawed at me, not for what I had done, but for the undeniable truth that I wanted more. That bitter taste in my mouth wasn’t regret—it was self-reproach for the dangerous, intoxicating thrill I had felt in his presence.
The weight of it pressed against my chest, each breath feeling heavier than the last as I stepped inside my home. The smell of roasted herbs and warm broth filled the air. Mama and Papa sat at the table, bowls of stew steaming in front of them, their quiet conversation a soft murmur against the crackle of the fire.
“How were the Finches?” Papa asked, looking up as I entered.
“What?” I asked, caught off guard by the question.
“Did they like the jackets I made for the boys? It is starting to get cold, and I didn’t want them to wait any longer. Thank you for taking them for me.” Mama smiled, though her eyes pleaded for me to understand.
She had covered for me.
I nodded slowly, forcing a small smile as I moved toward the table. “They loved them,” I said, my voice steady despite the guilt twisting in my stomach. “The boys refused to take them off.”
Mama’s smile softened, the worry in her eyes easing. Papa grunted in approval, returning his focus to his meal. The room fell quiet again, but the unspoken tension lingered, heavy and suffocating. I picked at my food, the stew’s warmth doing little to thaw the icy weight in my chest.
***
The sound of a crack—splintering wood, or perhaps bone—rang through the black void of my nightmare. A scream followed, distant yet familiar, the kind that clawed its way into your soul and refused to leave. I jolted awake, gasping for air as my heart hammered against my ribs.
Moonlight spilled through the small window, casting silver streaks across the room. My chest heaved as I clutched the blanket tightly, the phantom echoes of the nightmare still lingering in my ears. My neck throbbed faintly, and my hand instinctively brushed over the scars that August had left.
The nightmares had haunted me for weeks now, each one more vivid than the last, leaving me restless and raw. Except for that one night. The night he cornered me and I let him feed. That had been the only night I’d slept peacefully.
The memory burned, as much from the shame as from the unsettling truth that I hadn’t hated it. Yesterday, I thought he was going to bite me again. When he didn’t, I felt something close to disappointment. My stomach twisted at the admission, but there was no denying it.
I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, my feet meeting the cool floorboards. The air in the room felt heavy, pressing against my skin like a tangible weight. I couldn’t stay here, trapped in my thoughts. Not with the way they spiraled toward him, toward the things I couldn’t afford to admit.
Pulling on my cloak, I stepped into the hallway, the soft creak of the floorboards breaking the silence. I needed air, a distraction, anything to escape the war waging within me. But no matter how far I walked, I knew the truth would follow.
I had wanted him to bite me. And that terrified me most of all.
The woods were dense with shadows, the remnants of last night’s rain clinging to the underbrush. My feet moved automatically, the path familiar even in the dim light of early morning. The stillness was almost oppressive, broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves or the distant call of a bird.
Then, through the trees, I caught sight of movement. A figure emerged, his steps heavy. It was Papa. He carried his hunting gear slung over his shoulder, the crossbow strapped across his back a stark reminder of what he had been doing. He didn’t hunt often—not vampires, at least—but the sight of him now, blood staining the hem of his cloak, sent a chill through me.
“You’re out early,” he said, his voice rough from exertion. His gaze swept over me, lingering for a moment as if searching for something.
I swallowed hard, forcing myself to meet his eyes. “Couldn’t sleep,” I replied, my voice steady despite the unease curling in my chest. “You?”
“Same,” he admitted, his expression unreadable. “I thought I’d see if the woods were quieter last night. They weren’t.”
I glanced at the blood on his cloak, my stomach twisting. “ Vampires?”
He nodded, his mouth a grim line. “Two.”
My heart sank at his words, guilt prickling at the edges of my thoughts. I should have been the one out there. Not him.
“Did you get them both?” I asked, my voice quieter now.
He hesitated, just for a moment, before nodding. “They weren’t together.”
The weight of his answer hung between us, unspoken questions and concerns pressing against my chest. But he didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t push. Instead, I fell into step beside him.
The warmth of the fire greeted us as we stepped inside, and the sound of Mama humming softly from the sewing room drifting through the air. I paused briefly in the doorway, watching as she bent over her work, the golden morning light spilling across the table. Papa patted my shoulder as he headed toward his room, leaving me to follow the sound of scissors slicing through fabric.
“Pass me the blue thread, will you, Winnie?” Mama asked, her tone light but distracted as she focused on hemming a dress.
I reached for the spool and handed it to her. “This one?”
She nodded, her fingers deftly threading the needle. I sat beside her while she went through the rhythmical motions. For a moment, the only sound was the soft pull of thread through fabric. Then, without looking up, she asked, “Lowen or August?”
My hand stilled, the piece of fabric I had been folding slipping from my fingers. “What?”
Mama glanced up briefly, a knowing smile playing on her lips. “Lowen or August. Which one was it?”
I hesitated, my throat tightening. “It wasn’t Lowen,” I said finally, my voice barely above a whisper.
Mama’s smile softened, her gaze returning to her work. “I thought so.”
The silence stretched between us, comfortable yet charged. I could feel her waiting, giving me space to say more if I wanted to. For a moment, I considered telling her everything—the nightmares, the bite, the way August’s presence unsettled and intrigued me in equal measure. But the words caught in my throat, too heavy to let go.
Instead, I reached for another piece of fabric, focusing on folding it neatly. Mama didn’t press me further, but her quiet understanding lingered, a calm against the storm brewing inside me.