Chapter 32
thirty-two
Where am I?
The scent of pine and spices fills the air outside my closed lids. I don’t need to open them to know that I am no longer in my cell at my grandmother’s mansion. Something heavy is draped over my body, but it is soft and silky. Not the scratchy wool that was covering me before.
My eyes feel swollen and as heavy as lead bricks. My lashes are glued shut, and it takes considerable force on my part to pry them apart. When I do, my vision is foggy and blurred.
There is a soft voice filling the space.
Rough and sensual. His words are honey on his tongue as he reads out loud from a small book in his hands.
I can just make out the shape of him through my bleary eyes.
He is sitting right in front of me, at the side of the bed normally designated for a night table.
My ears are still ringing from the beating I took, but his soft murmur is soothing to my wounds.
He wears a pair of light gray joggers and a fitted white shirt that stretches across his broad muscles, melding to him like a second skin.
Shit, is that drool?
Too late to be worried about that now since he’s stopped reading and is looking down at me with a knowing smirk.
My cheeks heat. My husband has caught me ogling him, and I doubt it looks sexy.
A choked sob breaks free, and tears manage to escape from my swollen eyes. I didn’t think I have any left in me to shed.
“It’s all right, Krasnyy,” Matthias coos at me.
He rises from his chair and tucks himself into the small space beside me, drawing me gently into his chest. I wince at the pain the movement provokes, but I don’t push him away.
The warmth of his chest and the steady beat of his heart soothe the ache that sears through my belabored body. “I’m here, my love.”
My love.
That isn’t the first time he says those words to me.
My love.
Those two little words make me cry harder, clinging to the man I love with all my heart. Who has cracked it too many times to count. Who nearly broke it when he came back to life after making me believe he was dead.
“It hurts,” I cry, clinging to him. The long, measured breath he takes tells me he knows I am not talking about my physical pain.
“I know,” he whispers into my hair as he gently rocks his body back and forth to soothe me. “I’m so sorry, Red. So sorry.”
He holds me as I weep for the pain and suffering I endured. Not just in that cell at the hands of a sadist, but also during the months he was gone. I weep for the life I could have had with my mother and father if the world hadn’t been so fucked up.
I weep until my eyes are heavy with sleep and hiccups turn to yawns.
“Sleep,” Matthias’s deep voice susurrates in my ear as he runs his hand through my hair. “The doctor will be here soon to check in on you. I won’t leave your side. I promise.”
I want to argue. To tell him that he already left me, but I don’t. Instead, I give over to my body’s demand and close my eyes, praying that my monster keeps the nightmares at bay.
An entire week.
I drift through feverish dreams for an entire week.
Images of monsters and knights dance through my mind, the darkness refusing to let me go.
I can hear my mother’s shattering screams. Kellan’s twisted laugh as he plunges yet another needle through my skin, his hands wandering, caressing, pinching.
Marianne’s cold eyes watching me like a hawk, her face morphing into my mother’s, and then back again.
Over and over again, this plays, and each time, I can hear his soothing voice drifting through the fog. He whispers words of comfort and love. His gentle hand wipes at my brow, lips caressing my forehead so lightly I am unsure if it is happening at all.
Hushed tones fill the space around me as my nightmares shift and fade into oblivion. Gone, yet not completely forgotten. They always linger.
Just like the pain.
Pine and leather mix with the familiar scent of orange and cloves.
Safety. I am safe.
The early tendrils of the morning sun highlight the man sitting next to me, his hand buried in my hair, thumb rubbing soothing circles along my scalp.
My monster.
“We need to tell her.” That is Matthias. His voice is tense, fraught with frustration, but the hand on me is nothing but gentle.
“She’s been through enough already,” my father hisses in a low tone. “Telling her without having all the facts could damage her further.”
“She isn’t a piece of China,” Matthias snarls. “And I made a promise that there will be no more secrets. Ava deserves the truth, even if it only brings more questions than answers.”
My father sighs heavily and paces in front of the bed. He runs a hand roughly through his unkempt hair. He looks as if he hasn’t slept in days.
“I don’t understand how this is possible,” my father chokes. “Her body should be there.”
“It could have been dug up before they got there,” Matthias points out. Who are they talking about?
Father shakes his head. “Sully says the ground was undisturbed, and Mark circled through the footage. No one disturbed Katherine’s grave.”
My gasp gives me away. The two men turn, their faces etched with concern as they stare down at me. I take in the two most important men in my life. My monster and my knight. Two people who both crack me and build me back up. Who came for me in my darkest moments, when everything seemed lost.
Matthias is right.
No more secrets. Between any of us. We can’t let our allies live in the shadows. Or ourselves.
“Avaleigh.” My father gives a tired sigh of relief at seeing me awake. “We were so worried, mo réalta.” My heart. He has never called me that before. It makes me smile.
“I’m fine,” I whisper, my voice hoarse. Matthias senses my need and grabs a glass of water from the nightstand next to his chair. He holds the glass out to me, the straw perching on my bottom lip.
“Slowly,” he instructs sternly when I try to gulp down half the glass. Damn, getting the shit beat out of me sure as hell made me thirsty. The blood loss probably doesn’t help. Once I am finished, he sets the glass back down on the table and helps me sit up against the headboard.
“How are you feeling?” my husband asks.
I grimace. “Sore,” I answer honestly. “But nothing I won’t recover from. I think I prefer Christian’s cattle prod.”
Both of them growl, and the sound causes my eyes to widen. They don’t feel swollen anymore, just a bit heavy and thick.
“Don’t joke about that.” Father shakes his head.
I wave it off. “If you can’t joke about your trauma, then you’re already half defeated.” Or something like that.
“Krasnyy,” Matthias warns, but I just smile at him.
Okay, that action hurts a little too much, but I am happy.
“Tell me what I missed.”
They shake their heads in disbelief.
“You need time to heal, Ava.” Matthias’s gentle tone is unnerving. Who knew I would miss his alpha assholeness. Now I am hoping it comes back soon. Maybe if I annoy him enough, it will make a sudden reappearance. Gentle Matthias is just plain creepy. “Dr. Radick is on his way over now.”
In a good way, to be honest, but I don’t want gentle right now.
I want answers.
And revenge.
Again.
Damn, my life has become a mafia soap opera.
“I need you to not treat me as if I am fragile,” I scold them. “I understand where this is coming from, but I have information you need, and apparently you have your own information to share.”
The pair exchange a look.
I liked it better when they couldn’t stand each other.
“All right, Avaleigh.” My father gives in with a sigh. “But you need to let Dr. Radick check you over without a fuss. Understood?”
I hold up three fingers and smile at him. “Scout’s honor.”
He rolls his eyes at me, mumbling under his breath about me never being a girl scout. Eh, that is true, but still, the sentiment is the same.
“Tell us what happened after the building collapsed,” Matthias prompts after a beat of silence. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath, centering myself before opening them again.
“Well, my mother’s family is batshit crazy,” I admit. “Apparently psycho runs in the family as far back as anyone can measure.”
Matthias snorts, but my father does not look amused.
“Kristian knocked me out of the way of the building’s debris.” I swallow back the rising emotion. “I knocked my head on something, and when I came to, the building was destroyed, and she was waiting for me.”
“Who?” my father asks. My gaze flits to him, holding it steady.
“Sheila.”
My father’s forehead puckers. “Your grandmother?” he questions. “She should be back in Boston.”
“She’s not,” I tell him. “Her plan is to not go back to Boston until she has Seattle under her control. All this time, it was her.” I pause and blow out my cheeks. “Well, her and Seamus McDonough’s twin.”
“What?” The two men stare at me in disbelief.
“Okay, so there is a lot to tell you so—buckle up or something.”
My father sits at the edge of the bed, his soft emerald eyes on mine. He is listening. Not arguing about how it isn’t possible or doubting what I am saying.
He is focused on me, his expression open and not closed off like it usually is when I bring up one of my theories.
“Okay, mo réalta,” he whispers. “Tell us what you found, little spy.”