Chapter 13 Allegra
ALLEGRA
When I wake up after a restless sleep, Cassian’s side of the bed is empty and untouched. I know I shouldn’t care, but something twists in my belly at the thought of his not being here. He regrets what he did. What we did. And maybe I do too. Hell, I should.
Being with him, what we did, it felt like everything and nothing at once. Like it was so fragile that it could vanish in an instant. Evaporate like smoke. And I guess it has, but the problem is not quite that, but the fact that I care. That I am upset by it.
I hate this man. I am nothing to him, but collateral, a thing to hold on to until my brother repays a debt.
Of course, Cassian made an assumption in taking me.
He assumed I’m valuable to Michael. I’m not so sure of that.
And if he can’t or won’t repay what he owes, which according to Cassian he won’t be able to, I’ll be the one to pay.
I only have two currencies. My skin and my life.
We’ve danced this dance before.
The memory of him telling Malek that makes me shiver. A sacrifice was made. An innocent punished.
I will be that innocent.
I feel the soreness between my legs when I push the covers off and sit up.
I look down at the blood staining the sheets, the blood that’s dried on my thighs.
I get out of the bed and strip the sheet off.
I don’t know why I do it or what I’m going to do with the bloody evidence of what we did, but I can’t just leave them on the bed, so I carry them into the bathroom and shove them in the hamper.
After locking the door, I switch on the shower.
With the temperature as hot as possible, I step beneath the flow.
I use his shampoo and soap. I didn’t bring mine with me since I won’t be staying more than a week.
That’s when this deal is done, I guess, and either I go home or…
Nope. Not thinking about that. But when I smell his scent in those bottles, I wish I’d brought my own because that smell conjures up all kinds of memories I don’t want.
So, I hurry and when I’m finished, I dry off and listen at the bathroom door to make sure he’s not back before slipping back into the bedroom.
I put on my clothes and brush out my hair.
I open my makeup bag to moisturize and I see the compact which contains my birth control pills.
I take it out and open it, trying to think of what day it is.
I am, no, I was a virgin. I’ve never had boyfriends. Crushes and minor flirtations, maybe, but it’s just never been a part of my life. I’ve been taking the pill regularly for years to manage painful periods, not because there’s any possibility I might have sex.
Although I attended a private school in town through middle school, at fifteen, my dad pulled me out.
After what happened, the kidnapping, my mom, he decided it’d be best if I was homeschooled, and I didn’t disagree.
After what I witnessed, what I fell victim to, I was afraid of my own shadow for a long, long time.
I didn’t want to leave the house then. Some days, I couldn’t leave my room.
It was my mom who’d insisted on us having normal lives.
Who pushed until my father relented and allowed us to go to a normal school with normal kids.
I know now it was na?ve of her to think we could be anything resembling normal.
I was home-schooled through high school and closely guarded when I started college.
Most of my classes I was able to take online, but there were several that required me to be in class.
My father had a driver as well as two soldiers who brought me to and from school, waiting on site in case anything went wrong or if I panicked.
I’m not great in public settings especially outside my house.
Since my father’s death, I haven’t attended any classes that aren’t offered online.
Michael doesn’t allow me to, and I don’t fight him.
There’s a part of me that will always be afraid of what’s out there.
Hell, I’m reminded every time I look down at my hand and as much as I hate to admit it, I’m scared.
A daughter is always a pawn.
Cassian’s words repeat. Was I that to my father? I know the truth, don’t I? The real truth. Was I only that to him, though? No. He loved me. I know he did.
My thoughts wander to Amal. She hates her father.
That I understand. Malek is an opportunistic and selfish man.
My father didn’t trust him, not at the end.
I don’t know how Michael does, but he’s got this strange hold over my brother.
He is clever though. Cleverer than he lets on. He’s one to watch.
I pop four pills out of their little pockets to make up for my missed days and swallow them with a handful of water.
Better safe than sorry. Then, I draw a deep breath in and head to the bedroom door, but stop, double back to the bathroom to take the bloody sheet out of the hamper.
I know where the laundry room is so I decide I’m going to put the bedding into the washing machine and wash away any evidence of last night.
Like it didn’t happen at all. Cassian probably won’t be here anyway.
But the minute I’m out of the bedroom I know I’m wrong. Cassian is here. He’s in the kitchen. I can observe him from behind the pillars. He’s wearing jeans and a charcoal sweater, his uncombable hair is damp. He must have showered. I wonder where he slept. Once again, I note that he’s barefoot.
He has his phone pressed to his ear. For one stupid moment, I consider quietly sneaking back into the bedroom and hiding out there until he leaves, but before I even complete the thought, he turns and his eyes land on me. This man must have superhuman hearing.
“Fine. I’ll be there,” he says into the phone before disconnecting, sliding it into his pocket. “Moth,” he says, leaning against the counter and sipping his coffee. He looks me over, eyebrows furrowing in question at the bundle I’m holding.
My face goes red. He must know why I have the sheets. I clear my throat. “I need to do laundry.”
“I have someone for that.”
“No. It’s fine.” I head toward the laundry room.
I have to cross all the way to the opposite end from where his bedroom is situated, and I feel his eyes on me the whole way.
Once inside the laundry room, I close the door and exhale, then get to work setting the sheet in the washer.
In the cabinet I find a stain remover and pour a bunch of that in along with detergent and set it to as hot as I can, then turn back to the door, steeling myself to face him.
He's acting cool. Relaxed. I can do that too. Last night didn’t matter. It was nothing, not to him and not to me. I’ll just act like it never happen.
When I get back to the kitchen, I notice my backpack is on the floor by the counter and my books and iPad are on top. He’s also picked up my sketch pad from last night which I must have dropped in the chapel.
“Is there coffee?” I ask, hoping he doesn’t notice that I don’t quite meet his eyes.
He sips his mug and gestures with a glance to the pot percolating beside him.
Last night never happened, I tell myself, and walk over, keeping as far from him as possible as I take the mug he has already set by the machine. I pour myself a cup. My stomach growls at the smell of bacon and I squeeze my belly muscles to muffle the sound.
“I’ll make you a plate,” he says, voice deep, aftershave potent. “Sit down.”
“I’m not hungry,” I lie.
“I can hear your stomach growling.”
“And you care?”
“Sit.”
I open my mouth to argue, but I need to eat and what am I going to do? Hide out in the bedroom until this is over? And what does over look like exactly?
He takes a dish out of a cupboard and plates a generous serving of bacon and eggs, then turns to me, waiting.
I look up at him. This is awkward. There’s a giant elephant in the room.
“Sit, Moth.”
His use of the nickname Moth snaps me out of my stupor. A moth is an annoying, ugly wannabe butterfly. I should remember that that’s what he thinks of me.
Not that I care. Why would I?
Narrowing my eyes, I reach out to take the plate.
He holds onto it and for a second, I wonder if he’s going to say something, to mention last night, and I don’t know what I want, but then he releases it.
Feeling stupid, I cross the room and sit at the table where my things are laid out.
He follows me with utensils and a glass of freshly squeezed juice.
I try to picture him standing there barefoot, hair wet from a shower, drinking coffee and juicing oranges.
“Why do you call me Moth?”
“Do you know the symbolism?” he asks, surprising me.
I look up from my plate to find his eyes on me. “Ugly, stupid things that burn themselves up.”
One eyebrow rises in that way of his and I hate how shallow I am for falling for his easy beauty.
“Life is a matter of perspective, Allegra. Have you ever wanted something so badly, even knowing how bad it is for you, that you’d be willing to die for it?
Think of the moth wanting so badly to be a part of the flame she’s unable to resist even knowing it will burn her up.
Consume her. That’s neither ugly nor stupid. The symbolism, well, that’s beautiful.”
I pick up my coffee, unsure how to respond. His answer is not what I expected. “I don’t think they think all that through.”
“No, you’re probably right,” he says, one corner of his mouth curved upward. I can’t tell if he’s laughing at me or what. “But don’t get a big head over it. It was the small wings,” he says with a disarming wink, and I have to tell myself he’s just insulting me. Definitely not flirting.
“Cassian means hollow and vain,” I blurt out.
He smiles and although that smile makes the corners of his eyes crinkle, there’s a shadow in them, under them. He’s got something on his mind. Whatever this is, this casual almost-flirtation, it’s an act. “Did you have to look that up?”