CHAPTER 23 #3
“By accepting all parts of yourself. The part that longs for meaning, and the part that endures whatever that meaning costs.” He releases my hand and reaches into his pocket, taking out a small vial filled with blood.
Fresh, by the look of it. “The part that demands survival, and the part that transcends it.” He presses it into my palm. “It’s not much, but it should help.”
I should refuse. I should throw it against the wall, watch it shatter, prove that I’m stronger than my thirst. But I’m so, so hungry. And so very tired of fighting.
With trembling fingers, I uncork the vial and raise it to my lips. The blood slides down my throat, rich and vital, spreading warmth through my veins. It’s barely a mouthful, nowhere near enough, but it’s better than the gnawing emptiness inside me.
“Thank you,” I whisper again, this time with genuine gratitude.
Saul takes the empty vial back and tucks it away. “I’ll try to bring more when I can, but it won’t be easy. Ace has eyes everywhere.”
“What happens if he decides to kill me?” I ask, voicing the fear that’s been lurking since I woke in this cell.
Saul’s expression turns grim. “I won’t let that happen.”
“You said yourself you don’t have much influence.”
“I said I used what influence I had to keep you alive thus far. I didn’t say what I’d do if it came to the worst.”
Before I can respond, pounding footsteps echo down the corridor outside. Saul tenses, rising from the cot. “He’s coming. I have to go.”
Panic surges through me. “Will you come back?”
“When I can.” He moves to the door, pausing with his hand on the handle. “Stay strong, Sister. And remember what I said about accepting all parts of yourself. It might be the only thing that saves you now.”
Then he’s gone, slipping through as if he’d only come to deliver me a glass of water. Muffled voices resound faintly through the thick walls, but I can’t make out the words. A few moments later, a key turns in the lock, this time revealing Ace silhouetted in the doorway.
I push myself upright, trying to keep distance between us, my spine flattening against the cold stone wall.
Something in his eyes has changed—a glacial calm replacing the fury I’d glimpsed before. This isn’t rage anymore. It’s something worse.
“You know what fascinates me about you, Seraph?” His voice is flat, emotionless, like he’s speaking to a piece of furniture.
It carries none of the warmth I’d heard when he spoke to Sophia, none of the calculated authority from our previous encounters.
“Your remarkable talent for making the worst possible choice in any situation.”
I say nothing, tracking his menacing movements as he prowls closer. My muscles tense, but there’s nowhere to run. In a blur too fast for my eyes to track, he’s on me. Before I can dodge or even blink, his palm is flat against my chest, the pressure unrelenting.
According to my brother, Nobles cannot be killed through regular means. Ace’s unpierceable skin, even against lumenite, proved that.
But as a dhampir, I’m part human too, so where does that put me?
His fingers break the surface of my skin, sinking in without fully penetrating. The pain is immediate and blinding—a burning, tearing sensation that steals my breath. His nails scrape against bone, hovering mere inches from my heart.
I gasp, my body rigid with shock. The intrusion is excruciating, and halfway between a threat and an execution.
His eyes never leave mine as his fingers start curling inside me, not quite touching my heart but close enough that I can feel the pressure against it with each frantic beat. Blood soaks through my shirt, hot and sticky against my skin.
“Do you feel that?” he says, his voice low and eerily gentle despite the violence of his touch. “How fragile you are? How easily I could end you right here and now?”
I can’t speak, can barely even breathe. My heart thunders against his fingers, each beat pushing it dangerously closer to his grasp. One slight movement and he could crush it, just as I did to Hanae.
His fingers twitch slightly, and a shaky whimper escapes me.
“But that would be too merciful, wouldn’t it?” He leans closer, his breath ghosting across my face. “No. You don’t get to die that easily. I want you to live with what you’ve done. To feel the weight of her death every time you look at me.”
I try to speak, but a wet cough is all that comes out, flecks of blood spattering my lips.
With agonizing slowness, he withdraws his hand from my chest.
The pain as his fingers slide free is almost worse than when they went in. Blood pours from the wound, soaking my shirt and dripping onto the stone floor. My legs give way beneath me, and I crumple, one hand clutching the ragged hole he left behind.
He drops to a crouch in front of me, leveling himself to my height. “You will heal,” he says, wiping his bloodied hand on a handkerchief, meticulous in cleaning each finger. “But without proper nourishment, it will be agonizingly slow.”
His now-cleaned hand reaches out, and I flinch. His fingers hover in the air for a heartbeat, still, before he bends to pick up the empty glass beside me. He rises and turns to leave then, closing the door with a heavy thud, the lock clicking into place with dreadful finality.