Chapter 12
Laurel makes quick work of tending to my wounds, reassuring me that there isn’t much damage. She cleans the bite on my arm and the relief is near immediate. I sigh as she rubs a salve over the worst of my cuts and scrapes, relaxing the slightest bit into the sofa.
I marvel at how quickly her potions work, my skin going from a rough, angry red to a light, clean, baby pink in no time.
She motions towards the older wounds, pointing out that whatever treatment I received previously was still lingering in my blood and helping me to heal faster.
She doesn’t pry, and for that I’m thankful.
I’m still trying to decide just how much information about myself I’m wanting to divulge to them.
But something tells me the less they know, the better.
“There,” she says at last, handing me one last vial and encouraging me to drink. “That should take care of the last of it. You may be sore for a day or two still. So maybe take it easy. Rest up.”
I take the vial, downing its contents and grimacing at the acidic taste, but I don’t complain. “Thank you,” I offer once I suppress the urge to cough up the foul liquid.
She pushes off her knees to her feet, swiping the box off the coffee table and offering me a kind smile.
“Don’t mention it.” And with that she’s walking through the room again, the very air acting as if it’s parting for her presence.
She stops by Aamon, laying a hand against his chest. “And what of Andras?” she asks.
Aamon is still standing in the middle of the room with his arms folded tensely over his chest. Even with Laurel’s hand against him, he doesn’t relent. “Don’t concern yourself with the business of the Blood Order, Laurel. It’s nothing to involve yourself with.”
“Like the seven hells it is,” she answers tersely. “You know damn well I’m in this now. Andras won’t discriminate if he comes for blood. Which he will unless you get ahead of this.”
“I’m aware,” Aamon grinds out.
Laurel leans in slightly, her fingers curling around the collar of his leather jacket. It’s a peculiar sight, seeing such a tiny female going head to head with someone as intimidating as Aamon. My respect for her instantly deepens.
“You need to tell him, Aamon. Or I will.”
“Tell me what?”
All eyes go to the shadowy depths of the hallway behind Aamon. The slow, methodical footfall of boots echo through the room and off the walls for several painstaking moments as the figure emerges, accompanied only by the jingle of the chains adorning his belt.
Andras Blackthorn. Looking no different than the night I saw him in his box at the Market Ebon.
Except last time there was a whole fighting ring separating us.
And now? Now there’s nothing more than a rickety coffee table and a handful of vampires I have no doubt will jump to his defense before they’d even consider coming to mine.
“Aamon,” Andras coos. “It seems as if you’ve brought home a stray?” His cold eyes burn into me before turning to Aamon and Laurel.
“Let me explain.” Aamon puts a hand up. If I didn't know any better, I'd think he stepped between me and Andras.
“Explain why you’ve brought the daughter of the High Quarter Alpha, leader of the Watchers, into our territory? Inside our home?” He chuckles darkly, his hand rubbing at the grey stubble on his chin. “This, I can’t wait to hear.”
The room falls deadly silent, and I feel the exact moment all six pairs of eyes turn their attention to me. So much for keeping that information close to my chest.
“Daughter of the Alpha?” Laurel echoes, looking at me through a new lens. I can’t tell if it’s one of judgement or wonder.
Sterling shifts closer to me, an arm reaching around me slowly—pulling me towards him. I swallow hard, clenching my trembling hands in my lap.
Andras rocks forward, preparing to take a step, but Aamon clamps a hand down on his arm. “Not here. Let’s discuss this in your office.” Andras raises an eyebrow at him before Aamon hesitantly adds, “Father.”
Andras' gaze is slow, assessing, as he looks from Aamon, to me, and then around the room. “She does not leave." At his tacit agreement, the tension in the room settles. "Understood?”
With the command, the other two males, Zeke and Quinn, go to either side of the living room to guard the exits. Laurel lowers her gaze and even Sterling stiffens beside me.
“Understood,” they say in unison. And without another word, Aamon and Andras turn to leave.
It dawns on me as I watch the ungoverned district Alpha command a room with little more than a singular word, whatever loyalty I thought I may be afforded due to their kindness was nothing compared to their loyalty to their Alpha.
Quinn leads me down one of the hallways, thankfully in the opposite direction of Andras and Aamon.
Sterling accompanies us as well, his hand on the small of my back as he ushers me into a room towards the end of the hall.
His fingers are soft, gentle as they brush against the fabric of my dress.
I close my eyes for the briefest of moments, pretending he’s someone else.
Someone that’s not in the Blood Order. Someone who could offer me true comfort in the midst of this nightmare.
Comfort similar to what I’ve sought time and time again when I’ve snuck out of my father’s house and through Requiesse’s nightlife.
The lights of the room snap on, righting my mind.
“There’s a bathroom through there,” Quinn calls out, closing the door behind us and leaning against it. His eyes drift up and down my body as he runs a hand over his jaw, smoothing out his scruff. “You should get cleaned up, while you still can.”
Ice spreads over my skin as I turn to look at him, my eyes widening at the threatening words.
He smirks, a huff of laughter passing between his barely parted lips.
“Settle, Angel, I just mean we don’t know what Andras is going to say after Aamon talks to him.
Maybe he’ll let you stay, maybe he won’t.
” He shrugs, running a hand through his slicked back hair.
“If I were you, I’d take advantage of the amenities in the meantime, just in case. ”
“I’ll grab you a towel.” Sterling offers me a kind smile, dropping his hand from my back as he steps past me and into the bathroom.
Another light flicks on as I hear Sterling rummaging around beyond the doorway.
In his absence, I feel the burn of Quinn's eyes still on me. I wrap my arms around myself, not sure what to do with the sheer amount of attention I’ve received since I arrived here.
It feels as if all of them are taking me in, judging who I am. And I hate it.
He pulls a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket and slips one out. He takes his time lighting it, taking a heavy drag as I stand awkwardly in the middle of the room.
On his exhale, a plume of smoke dances through the air, finding its way towards me. The tobacco is warm, rich, and I find myself inhaling out of temptation. This catches his attention and he raises an eyebrow, repeating the action for me. "Want a drag?"
I shake my head, trying to ignore the desire to breathe in the smoke again.
I don’t know what’s gotten into me. I should be terrified of them, should be running out that door and to anywhere but here because I am their enemy and the gods only know what they will do with the daughter of the High Quarter Alpha in their hands.
But that’s just it. As much as they scare me, I feel more disarmed than anything in their presence.
I want to learn about them, not run from them.
“All ready for you,” Sterling says as he reenters the bedroom.
He waits by the bathroom door, arm extended like he expects me to walk right in and start showering.
I glance past him, tilting slightly to get a decent look inside the bathroom.
He’s not only put out a set of towels for me, but the shower is on and the room is filling with steam.
“Um.” I chew on my lower lip. Do they just expect me to shower with them right here on the other side of the door? “Could I maybe have some—privacy?”
Sterling looks to Quinn.
“No can do.” Quinn shakes his head slowly. “Andras ordered me to watch you. You’re lucky I’m giving you the bathroom to yourself.”
I narrow my gaze on him, my awkwardness slipping away to make room for my irritation. “Are you serious?”
“As a heart attack.” Quinn stares back at me, unfazed. “When Andras gives an order, we carry it out. To the fullest extent.”
I scowl back. “You sure Andras didn’t want you to actually watch me shower, too? Should I undress out here just so you can make sure I’m not hiding anything on me?’
“Are you?” Quinn asks, a hint of a smile playing on the corner of his lips.
“No,” I grumble, rolling my eyes.
“If you wish to give us a show, I’m sure both Sterling and myself would have no objections over watching you undress, Angel. But something tells me you’re all talk and no game.”
“Don’t call me that,” I bite back. But he’s right, I'm exhausted, too weak to argue. I want nothing more than to disappear under the stream of that shower and wash off the evidence of the abuse I’ve been dealt.
“That’s what I thought.” He pushes off the door, placing his hands on my shoulders and turning me towards the bathroom. “Now, I suggest you get that tight little ass in there and stop fucking around. That hot water only lasts for about ten minutes.”
Before I can argue, he’s pushing me through the door and pulling it closed behind me.
I open my mouth to yell at him, to argue.
To fight. But the fight in me has died. At the hands of my attacker last night, at the hands of Tamiel and all of her experimentation on me.
At the hands of my father, who abandoned me.
So instead, I turn and stare at myself in the mirror.
I force myself to watch as I undress, to take account of the marks that sully my skin.
Even as I’m standing here they are fading, thanks in joint effort to whatever Tamiel did last night and Laurel’s efforts to heal my new wounds today.
Before long, I will be back to normal. As if none of it ever happened.
And yet, the weight on my soul feels exponentially large.
The evidence of the hells I’ve endured and the hells I’ve damned myself to cut bone deep, burrowing inside me to a place that I will never be able to dig it out from.
I drop my soiled clothes on the floor, tearing my gaze away from the pale, bruised skin and hollow amber eyes that stare back at me from the mirror.
But it’s not until the warm water hits my skin that the tears start to fall.
I stand in the shower like that, crying silently, until the water goes cold.
I pray to whatever the fuck gods may or may not exist that they can remove this pain inside me.
Fix whatever it is that’s wrong with me, cleanse me, purify me.
Do whatever it takes to make me worthy in my fathers’ eyes. But I know they won’t.
Because they have not done so yet.
So instead I scrub my skin raw in the ice-cold water, using the foreign soap and shampoo to wash away the dirt and grime and sins that stain me.
The calming scent is something I’m not used to, something earthy and thick.
The soap from home is medicinal, antiseptic in its qualities.
The scent of it burns my nostrils and sours my stomach every time I use it, but father insists.
Between the treatments and the experiments, the risk of infection is too high, or so he says.
But I’ve always thought he secretly enforced it because he knew how much I hated it.
By the time I turn the water off and step out of the shower, I’m shivering from the cold. But I don’t even care, because I’m the cleanest I’ve felt in weeks—years, even.
I wrap myself in the towel Sterling provided, looking around the small bathroom for my clothes, only to realize they're gone. My eyes go wide as I spin in circles, checking every corner of the cramped space to quadruple check I didn’t somehow overlook them.
My eyes land finally on the slightly cracked door, just the smallest sliver.
But I know Quinn latched it when he led me in here.
I storm forward, teeth grinding as I push open the door and stand in the doorway—seething, shivering, and wrapped in a towel barely big enough to cover myself.
“Where the fuck did you put my clothes?”