33. Sadie
DINNER PARTIES
Aran sat in the dark, smoking a pipe.
“Um…” I trailed off, confused why she was sitting in a chair with no lights on.
She flourished the long stick between her fingers, and I wondered how much drug use warranted an intervention.
We stared at each other for a long moment.
I ruined the intensity of the moment by giggling. “It’s hard work being a ho, but someone’s gotta do it.”
Aran bowed her head low, just like everyone did to the don. “Thank you for your service, oh impressive skanky one.”
“I prefer the term sexual deviant or twat .”
“Wow, it was that good?”
I let the tatters of my clothes fall to the floor and showcased the teeth marks and handprints that littered my body. The wounds were much fainter because shifting into a tiger had healed most of them, but the outlines of the bruises still lingered.
They still got the point across.
Aran choked on smoke. “Mother of the moon goddess.”
“That’s not even the best part.” I couldn’t help but brag.
“What else could there be? Were you hit by a car? Run over by a vampyre? Did a skyscraper crush your clit?”
I couldn’t hold it in. “Omegas have pulsating knots on the tops of their cocks that are like the world’s fastest vibrators.”
Aran’s jaw dropped. “No.”
“Yes.”
“Fuuuuuuuck, I should have gone for Xerxes.”
A low alpha growl rattled in my chest. “I’ll kill you.”
Aran put her hands up in the air and laughed. “Joking, joking. Your men are too sweet for me.”
It was my turn to gape at her. “What?”
They were all overly possessive, unhinged terrors who were the opposite of sweet.
Case in point, I’d just been violently fucked against a wall.
Aran sighed heavily and sucked in smoke, like this was something that had been troubling her for a while.
She shook her head. “I need darker men that can handle my more aggressive side.”
Images of Aran trying to smother people in their sleep flashed before me.
No one could argue that she wasn’t self-aware.
I nodded as I thought about it. “Oddly, I see that for you. But what man does that leave? The rumored devil himself?”
Aran waved her pipe dismissively. “Nah, I’ll probably just be a spinster my whole life. Since I was raised to be a breeding tool, it’s very empowering to choose celibacy.”
Her mouth turned downward, and she slumped dejectedly.
I flopped onto the bed. “Hey, don’t be like that. It’s also empowering to be a raging slut. Take back the power from the men, and all that good stuff. What happened to the bad bitch at the sex clinic?”
Aran flinched like I’d struck her.
Her bottom lip trembled.
Throughout everything we’d been through, I’d never seen her look so dejected as she did right now.
She dragged a shaking hand across her short hair.
It was growing out in a tumble of curls, different from her straight hair in the fae realm.
Aran saw the question in my eyes and fingered the locks. “Mother gave me an enchanted toe ring as a kid that kept my hair straight. Said my naturally unruly curls were ugly.”
Aran shrugged like it was no big deal. “I took it off the other day, since it helps keep me disguised.”
Such a small thing seemed so sinister.
“Aran, what happened after the sex clinic?” I asked softly, afraid of her answer.
She scoffed.
“Fucked-up stuff happened,” she whispered as she inhaled smoke and the pipe trembled between her lips.
“Shit,” I responded eloquently, afraid to push her too far but also to let her stew silently.
Abruptly, as if she’d made a decision, Aran stood up and threw her pipe to the ground. “I’m being a little bitch. If anyone would understand, it’s you. I need to stop wallowing. Gah, it’s killing me.”
She stomped her foot and heaved with aggression.
I nodded slowly, unsure what was happening.
Aran grabbed the bottom of her black T-shirt, but her hands shook so hard she couldn’t lift the fabric.
The room was still dark, and the shadows cast a nightmare-type quality around us.
Lightning flashed outside in the inky night, and rain battered the window.
Aran stomped her foot again and muttered expletives under her breath, then as if she was acting before she could talk herself out of it, she tugged off her shirt in one jerky movement and turned around.
The manor creaked as thunder crashed, and another bolt of lightning illuminated Aran’s pale body.
It was my turn to tremble.
Enchanted blue letters glowed in the dark.
They were carved sideways into Aran’s back.
Deep, jagged wounds that took up the surface of her entire back and left no doubt that some had dragged a blade roughly through her flesh.
“WHORE” was carved into her skin.
“Mother said she was inspired by your scars.” Aran’s voice was completely devoid of emotion.
Lightning flashed and thunder cracked in quick succession.
The manor shook.
“But she said your scars lacked finesse because any enchantment could cover them up. According to her, that ‘defeated the purpose of the lesson.’”
I bit down on my tongue to stop the scream that bubbled in my throat.
“The first day she met you, she had her palace aide create a blade that would permanently mar flesh and be impervious to other enchantments.”
My teeth gouged into my tongue, and I tasted blood. I whispered, “I’m so sorry. If we hadn’t gone to that clinic, this—”
“No.” Aran turned around and pulled her T-shirt back over her head. “Don’t play the ‘if only’ game. That’s what Mother wants us to do. She would have always found a way to use it against me, to punish me for running away. It was just a matter of time.”
Aran shrugged like it didn’t matter, and smiled.
But her mouth wobbled, and her shoulders slumped.
“Still.” My eyes burned, and I couldn’t stop the tears that spilled over.
To have a word carved into your skin with such a hateful connotation.
It was one thing to jokingly call each other whores in an attempt to overcome the latent prejudice; it was another thing to have it carved into your skin, never to fade or be enchanted away.
I’d been so happy when the enchantment had removed the scars from my body. I’d felt so free.
Aran would never have that.
I gasped in air shakily. “I’m so sorry.”
There was nothing else to say.
My best friend didn’t cry, but her lip continued to tremble, and she sat down next to me.
She wrapped her arms around my shaking shoulders, and I hugged her back as tight as I could.
“I hate her so much,” she muttered, her voice monotone and eyes dry as I held her and cried for both of us. “She made sure it was enchanted to burn whenever my body got the least bit turned on.”
A sob wrenched from my throat.
I bunched my fingers into the cover as I fought the urge to scream.
My chest tightened with rage. “The half warriors did this. They sold you out to that monster.”
Aran shrugged. “It doesn’t really matter who is to blame. It’s already done.”
I hated how desensitized she sounded.
Aran was the brightest spirit I’d ever met. Her personality was as vibrant as her shockingly blue hair and eyes.
As she held on to me, I realized this was what she’d been silently battling these last few weeks.
It explained the constant hardness in her eyes and the homicidal impulses in her sleep.
How many times had I seen her compulsively itching at her back and dismissed it as something mundane, like a bugbite or a rash?
I’d been so ignorant.
This whole time, she’d been suffering.
We held each other as lightning cast eerie shadows across the room, and rain slammed against the side of the mansion.
“It will be all right,” I lied.
“It always is,” she lied back.
For the next few hours, neither of us spoke, slept, or moved. We just held each other desperately because the world wasn’t a nice place.
Hours passed, and I watched Aran withdraw deeper into herself, as if sharing her trauma had made it real.
No drug was powerful enough to shield her from herself.
* * *
We all sat together at the long dining table for the first time since we’d arrived at Xerxes’s mansion.
Aran sat next to me but was silent as she pushed her food around the plate.
Something had broken inside her, and I wondered if she’d ever be the same.
My stomach wouldn’t stop hurting for her.
The massive chandelier twinkled above us, its expensive crystals a sharp contrast to our sweatsuits, haggard appearances, and overall shitty lots in life.
The only person who looked at home sat at the helm of the table.
Slowly cutting his steak, back ramrod straight, suit impeccably tailored, the don was the picture of refinement.
He’d sent a letter in the morning, announcing he would be joining us for dinner.
Like some high-society maiden.
I’d voted that we send a letter back saying he wasn’t invited, but Jax had pointed out that he would probably still arrive and slaughter us violently.
I couldn’t make myself care.
Apparently, when Hunter had slammed his foot into my ribs until I’d prayed for death, something had shifted inside me.
Maybe it was the violence.
Maybe it was the pain.
Maybe it was the postapocalyptic landscape and the voice in my head.
Maybe it was the heinous word carved into my best friend’s back.
Maybe it was the sex.
Maybe it was the endless monotony of a stressful existence.
But I just couldn’t make myself care.
I wasn’t hungry, but I shoved three bread rolls into my mouth at once, cut a chunk of butter with my knife, then crammed it past my lips.
I chewed aggressively in the don’s direction, mouth open, daring him to make a comment.
The don arched his dark eyebrow at me and smiled like he had a secret as he took a sip of his wine.
He didn’t say anything.
I chewed harder.
If Walter noticed the awkward tension at the table, it didn’t affect him in the slightest, and he twitted about, filling glasses and helping the maids serve our five-course meal.
His bushy mustache quivered with excitement at his getting to host a formal dinner.
None of the girls seemed to have reservations about the don—their lack of survival instincts was highly concerning—and they talked animatedly about their first day of school.