Chapter 25
Ihad no plans of retiring to bed, not when Calia was in our home. She would not seek me out—I knew that for certain—yet I remained awake. The information we learned had been vast, and yet I still felt as though we were in the dark about so much.
I held my father’s glasses in my hand, drawing comfort from the worn metal frames. I wondered what he would think of the man I had become, knowing in my bones he would not be proud. Under his care, I would have flourished, loving Corvina with the fire and passion of a thousand suns. But the thought also churned my stomach, knowing if Corvina and I had stayed together as we were destined, Calia would never have been born.
Could I then hate the man for dying? Hate my mother for what she turned me into?
There was no correct answer. And regardless of if he lived or died, nothing would stop me from hating the woman who birthed me.
My father had always said hate was too powerful of a word to use, but I could not help but think of how much I truly hated my mother. If possible, my feelings surpassed the definition and landed in uncharted territory.
More than anything, I hated myself for playing into her manipulation. I let her tear me down time and time again, only for her to pick up the broken pieces and fit them where she wanted them to go.
I let her mold me, unleash my inner monster, the worst possible version of myself, and for what? Some twisted sense of self-importance? Why had it been imperative to earn approval when I knew how she treated me was wrong?
Perhaps it had something to do with a biological need ingrained to make my parents proud. That was the only explanation I could surmise. Anything else would mean I was born with a dead, unfeeling, and malfunctioning heart.
Despite my efforts to show her otherwise, I could not blame Calia for seeing only the worst in me. Who could love the man who brought them to his mother like a lamb to slaughter? No matter how I tried to justify my actions, which in this case I never could, that is what I did.
“Woo her, Rion. Make her fall in love with you.”
My mother’s words should have raised more flags, but perhaps I was too far gone to see the depth of her depravity.
The sun began to peek over the edge of the Odesza, glittering black water shining like jagged shards of obsidian. Dawn had come at last, and for the first time in nearly two weeks, I had not resented it. I did not dread walking these halls and being among others.
The sound of a door slamming and rushed footsteps drew me from my reverie. I found myself staring at the door, willing it to open. “Come on, come on, come on,” I muttered under my breath. Raised voices drifted up from the foyer, but as the minutes ticked by, I could not bring myself to listen, so I shut them out.
I shut everything out.
Which is why I was surprised when the doorknob turned, and a blazing redhead stomped over and stood in front of me. Her eyes burned with hatred, and maybe something else… Something I did not want to think about lest I was wrong.
“What the fuck, Rion?” she asked, placing her hands on her hips.
I met her scorching gaze and felt a twinge of familiarity that had me wanting to tame that fire with my own. No, tame was not the right word. I wanted to be burned by her, to let her thoroughly destroy me in a way only she could do.
“What the fuck indeed, Calia?” I echoed, unsure of what brought her to my door. I tried to reflect on the past six hours since I had seen her last, but nothing came to mind. “What is wrong?”
Her nostrils flared, and I could not help but smirk. Something that only seemed to enrage her further. “Elios just told me that we are staying here now?” It was more of a question than a statement, as though she could not believe what she had been told. “Care to explain that?”
“Elios?” I asked, ignoring the voice in my mind that told me not to taunt her. “Not father? Not daddy dearest?” When she did not respond, I conceded, throwing my hands up. “It was his idea. Something about safety in numbers. If you want an explanation, it would be best coming from him.”
She rolled her eyes, and my palm twitched at her incredulity. “And you’re telling me you had nothing to do with it?” she asked, taking a step forward.
Gods, I itched to touch her, to take her in my arms and show her just how much I had missed her. In a perfect world, it would be slow, almost to the point of torture, but I would not be rushed. I would take my time until she was overstimulated and limp in my arms.
But if she gave me the chance, I knew I would have to act fast and claim her before she changed her mind and realized exactly how much of a lost cause I was.
Her breathing hitched, chest rising and falling in an unsteady rhythm as though she knew my intention to devour her. She could deny it all she wanted; her words were at odds with how her body reacted in my presence.
“I swear on your life,” I said, holding my palm up as though taking an oath. “I played no part in Elios’ decision to stay.”
She crossed her arms. “That isn’t comforting,” she mumbled.
I leaned forward, bracing my elbows on my knees. “And why is that?”
“Because,” she stammered, fighting for words she could not conjure. It was the one thing she could never accuse me of. Despite all my mistakes, I had shown time and again that I valued her life above all others and would continue to do so until I took my last breath.
I stood, catching her off guard with the sudden movement. She stumbled back to escape my proximity, but I reached out to steady her. I wrapped my hands around her waist, loving how she nervously glanced down and swallowed. “Because what, wife? Because you think I do not care, even though I have done nothing but grovel since I saw you in that dingy basement? Or do you not want me to care because that would be an easier lie to tell yourself?” My hands dug into her soft, pliant flesh, and I tightened my grip against her feeble protests.
Give her space, give her time, but do not let her go.
Though it may not have been in the way Elios expected, this was me doing just that. She could not run from me for once, because I would not let her go. I would force her to have a conversation with me, and if she still wanted to walk away, I would give her space to form a decision.
But now having her here, in my room, in my arms, I knew I would struggle with even that.
“You’re full of yourself,” she said, but the fight was dying from her eyes. She wanted something just as severely as I did, though I was unsure exactly what that was.
The theories ranged from my head on a spike—most likely—to forgiving me for every awful thing I had ever done—least likely.
At least at the moment. I held on to hope for a future where forgiveness was still a possibility.
This close, I could count the freckles lightly stretched across her nose. I longed to lean in, to kiss each one and murmur my adoration across her skin. How she looked up at me through thick lashes with those green doe eyes threatened my resolve.
I must have a death wish, I thought as I leaned in, brushed my lips across the shell of her ear, and whispered, “I have missed your anger, love. But not as much as I have missed you.”
But what a lovely way to die? I could think of no end more fitting.
She froze at my admission, her hands resting atop my chest. Our breaths came in quick synchronous pants. The moment seemed to stretch, both of us standing in limbo, either from shock or obstinacy.
In that glorious time, a truce, so to speak, I let hope soar. I let myself believe that our fight was done, that she would let me love her the way I ached to from the beginning.
“Don’t call me that,” she said, trying, but failing, to add bite to each of her words. Holding my gaze proved difficult for her, and I watched with great pleasure as she fought to stay in this game we played.
“Call you what? Love?” I asked, tilting my head. “Would you rather I called you my wife? That can be arranged, as it is easily my favorite.”
“I’m not your love; I’m barely your wife.”
“And whose fault is that? I have tried owning up to each of my mistakes since I saw you in the cellar, but you have yet to apologize for the fact you jumped out a fucking window and let me believe you dead.” She opened her mouth for a rebuttal. I waited, giving her whatever time she needed to craft an argument in her defense. But in the end, there was none. She knew there were apologies owed on both sides and while she was more than happy to hear mine pour from my lips, she refused to allow me the same.
I tightened my grip on her waist and brought my other hand to her chin, forcing her to look at me. “Hold me accountable for what I have done and will do wrong in the future. Push me, yell at me, fight with me, but do not put the weight of your wrongs on my shoulders, for I cannot bear it.”
“Are you saying I don’t own up to my mistakes?” she asked, intentionally focusing on the one aspect of my words she could pick a fight with. When she pushed at my chest, I kept my hold. “I don’t want to talk anymore. Let me go.”
“No,” I said sharply. I was no longer in control of my actions. Panic had seized control at the thought of her leaving this room. If she would not listen to me in this room, she would not hear me anywhere.
Perhaps it was as terrifying to her as it was to me. It was easy to hang on to a grudge, to pretend I was a soulless monster, rather than accept a different narrative. But this was my chance, and I would not let it go to waste. I would fight like hell to make her see reason. I could only accept defeat when I knew I had lost.
“Let. Me. Go,” she hissed, wriggling in my grasp. Her breathing accelerated, the skin along her cheeks flushing a delectable red that piqued my vampiric attention. All that blood brought to the surface in either fear or anger… It would taste all the sweeter.
I could sense her need, though she fought it well. Her arousal always paired well with her rage, and I was reminded of a similar encounter not long ago.
“Do I make you angry, wife?” I asked, brushing the tip of my nose with hers. She let out a breathy little moan that had me pressing her body closer to mine. I wanted her to feel how hard I was for her, how desperately I wanted to claim her and mark her as mine once more, and not stop until I had filled her with my cum.
My hands balled in the fabric of her shirt, pulling it down enough that I caught a glimpse of the scar my bite had left on her breast. Seeing it there, marking her beautiful, creamy skin, nearly had me falling to my knees. There is no magic in this world or any other that could remove it; it was made permanent the moment my venom flowed into her veins.
Many vampyres took the mark to mean ownership, but I did not view it as such. It was a reminder that no matter what happened—we were real once upon a time. And she had returned that sentiment with enough dedication that she demanded I stake my claim and show the world she was irrevocably mine.
“You infuriate me,” she whispered, and my resolve broke just as it had the first time. The word she did not say echoed in my thoughts, husband. Yet my mind quieted the moment my lips crashed into hers.