Chapter 37
Istir awake to the sound of Quinn’s monstrous snores filling the dark room and reverberating off the walls around us. His thick arm is draped over me, so heavy that I have a hard time pushing him off and slipping out from underneath him.
But when I do, I take a moment to stop and watch him in his sleep.
His blond hair falls loose against his face, so unlike I’ve ever seen it.
He’s always so diligent about slicking it back, keeping it tamed.
But there’s something about seeing it like this, so wild and free, that has me weak in the knees.
He’s so beautiful, so at peace, despite the obnoxious noises coming from his throat.
I stifle the urge to giggle, not wanting to wake him.
Instead, I tiptoe through the small bedroom and ease myself into the hallway, making sure to soften the latch of the door behind me.
I take a moment to get my bearings, realizing this is the first time I’ve been alone since fully coming into my power.
I lift my hands in front of me, flexing my joints and letting the feel of the Arcane roll through my limbs.
It’s an interesting sensation. I’ve always felt it, in some ways. From what little bit my father shared with me about how I came to be infected, I was touched by the Arcane at an incredibly young age, its powerful presence lurking just beneath the surface.
But now? What was once a whisper of power threatening to pull me under, is now a burning fire radiating from the depths of my soul and bursting to life in my veins.
And as good as it feels, it still terrifies me.
This is what I’ve spent my whole life running from.
Rejecting. The poison that supposedly made me so weak, so breakable.
And despite the strength I feel with my new powers, there’s a part of me that’s still incapable of trusting it.
Like letting the Arcane out will once again take me under.
I sigh, dropping my hands and rolling my shoulders.
I know it will take some getting used to, but I could use somebody to talk to about this.
Not Quinn. And definitely not Aamon. Despite the care they took with me last night, I worry sharing these fears with them will only cause them to walk on eggshells around me, even more than they already are.
Sterling though . . . Sterling once told me that he saw me. That he believed the pain in my soul mimicked his own. He’s been my anchor in this new world, from the moment the Blood Order found me. If there's anyone who would understand, anyone who might understand my pain, I know it will be him.
I start forward, determined with my decision to find him and hopefully confide in him this new whirlwind of emotion raging inside me.
The clubhouse is quiet, even at midday, which may as well be their dawn.
And while the rooms are thoroughly blacked out from the sun, the common area has little in the way of protection.
I hiss at the sudden brightness as I turn the corner.
It doesn’t harm me, per se. But it doesn’t feel good.
I'm beginning to understand the Blood Order’s nocturnal schedule.
As my eyes try to adjust to the brightness, I turn slowly through the room.
Sterling is nowhere in sight, nor is anyone else.
I sigh, pushing forward, and flit my eyes over to the kitchen.
It doesn’t take long to clear, due to its small size.
But just as I’m about to slip back into the hallway and move on, my eyes catch on the fridge.
I don’t have to open it to know what’s on the other side of that door.
I can sense it from here. Through the metal and mechanics of the appliance, it calls to me, begs me to reach forward and consume it.
Quinn had insisted I feed again after our time together last night, lifting the bag of blood he brought into my room to my lips as I greedily gulped it down.
It wasn’t the same as feeding from him or Aamon.
Yes, it ignited my insides and satiated that near constant ache deep in my belly.
But there was something off about it, a sour tang underneath the pleasure.
And yet I’m barely able to walk away from the promise of more.
I lick my lips, engaging in a staring contest with an inanimate object as I try to decide what to do.
This isn’t my home. And as much as I want to step forward and pull a bag from the fridge, I’m not sure the protocol for feeding here, if there’s some sort of ration or expectation for taking from their stock.
But I’m too weak to fight it. And the longer I stand here, the more I feel my body leaning in, incapable of denying the magnetic pull.
A grunt from somewhere behind me pulls me from the trance and I stumble forward, whipping around as I nearly collide with the fridge. Zeke is behind me, in a dangerously low-sitting pair of sweatpants and nothing else.
“You’re up.”
It’s not a question but a statement as he looks me up and down, before stalking past me into the kitchen. He moves soundlessly over to the coffee pot, filling it with water and flipping the switch. As it whirs to life, he turns to face me, leaning back against the counter.
“So I guess the Angel’s Trumpet worked.” Again, not a question.
I rub my hand awkwardly over the outside of my arm, hugging my middle, suddenly dangerously conscious of the fact that the only thing I'm wearing is Quinn’s oversized white T-shirt.
“No, actually,” I force myself to say after a painfully quiet moment.
“But I wanted to thank you, nonetheless. Aamon told me it was you who figured out how to get it to Laurel for me. I don’t know how you did it, but—”
“What do you mean it didn’t work?” His voice is low, irritated, and I swallow around the lump in my throat. His gaze is so intense, those icy blue eyes penetrating me to the core. “You’re here, aren’t you? If it didn’t work, then how are you vertical right now?”
“I, uh—” I stammer over my words, my eyes flicking back to the fridge for a momentary reprieve from his. The scent of the blood is near blinding.
He must catch the motion, because his head tips back, his nostrils flaring as he inhales.
“Aamon, he . . . turned me,” I offer at last. But even as I say it, I can tell I don’t need to. He’s already sensing the difference in me. The full presence of the Arcane, along with Aamon and Quinn’s bond, most likely.
His muscles tighten, his shoulders going taut as he lowers his disparaging gaze on me. If it was possible for those eyes to grow colder, I think they would have. “He did what now?”
“There weren't a lot of options that would have worked,” I rush to say, not wanting to anger him. “My father has spent years formulating a treatment that actually suppresses the Arcane. Aamon’s only choice was to offer his blood in hopes—”
Zeke holds up a hand, cutting me off. “I understand. And I’d prefer not to hear the dirty details.” He turns to the cupboard, grabbing two mugs and slamming them down on the countertop with so much force I’m shocked they don’t break.
“Are you mad?” I ask, tentatively stepping forward.
Out of all four of the males, I’ve spent the least amount of time with Zeke.
And perhaps it was wishful thinking, but when Quinn and Aamon had filled me in on my time away, I’d felt the smallest spark of hope that maybe Zeke’s gracious offering was an opportunity for us to finally connect.
“No,” he growls, pulling the coffee pot from the burner and filling both mugs.
“Oh, I’m actually good,” I say, not wanting to be more trouble than I apparently already am.
He cuts me a sidelong glance, sneering in the most disgusted manner possible. “It’s not for you. It’s for Sterling.”
I cringe. I should have known that. The male is standing before me, revolting at my mere presence in the kitchen with him. Why would he be making me a cup of coffee? “I was actually hoping to speak with Sterling, if he’s around?” I hope the request is enough to gracefully move past my blunder.
Zeke sighs, setting down the coffee pot. “He’s sleeping. He came to my room, rather distraught, this morning. I had to give him a sleeping draught from Laurel to get him to calm down.”
My heart sinks, and I step forward again, ignoring the way he bristles. “Is he okay?”
“Aside from being scared shitless that his new favorite toy almost died? Yeah, he’s peachy.”
No, no, no. I turn, looking down the hallway leading to Zeke’s room.
I need to see him, need to reassure him that everything is okay.
He was by my side when I awoke last night, but I’d barely been able to talk to him before Laurel insisted they give Aamon a moment alone to explain what had happened.
And everything had just spiraled from there.
“Leave him be,” Zeke orders. And when I turn around to face him, he’s stepping towards me with the cups of coffee in his hands. “He’s spent enough time being tormented over you. Meanwhile, you’re not even the least bit bothered to check in. Too busy fucking his friends, from the smell of it.”
“That’s not what happened,” I argue. But isn’t it? I hadn’t even thought to check in with Sterling last night. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to remember how things happened so quickly.
Zeke huffs. “Five seconds with Aamon’s blood running through your system and you’re a slave to him. Incapable of thinking for yourself, let alone about anyone else.”
I narrow my eyes, refusing to back down from his wrath. “What did I ever do to you, Zeke? Why do you hate me so much?”
Zeke scoffs, rolling his eyes.
“Is it because of Sterling?” I press, stepping closer towards him.
His face bristles, his jaw hardening. “You don’t know anything, Angel.” And while the nickname they favor has been sarcastic from the start, it feels like more than that on his lips. Like a curse—a threat.
“I know Sterling cares for me,” I challenge, not the least bit put off.
Perhaps it's the Arcane now fueling my courage, or perhaps the power I feel after claiming both Aamon and Quinn last night. But I don’t back down from Zeke.
Even with the way I can see the rage simmering in his eyes.
“And I know despite your history with sharing him, that angers you.”
I lift my hand to his chest, tracing a finger over the swirls of black ink stretching the expanse of his bare skin.
It’s a bold move, to touch him uninvited.
But something possesses me to keep pushing.
To see what I awaken. “Perhaps it’s because you hate me?
Or perhaps because you’re"—I flick my eyes up to meet his—"dare I say, jealous?” I smirk on the last word, amused with the outrage I elicit.
But I forget, too easily, the power these males have. Even now, as I am one of them, I’m still so weak, so slow, in comparison. Before I know what’s happening, he’s rid himself of the coffee mugs and is wrapping his hand around my throat, pinning me to the fridge.
“I do not hate you, Evangeline.” His voice is venom as his words spew from his mouth.
His fingers constrict around the column of my throat and I grab instinctively at his hand, trying pointlessly to free myself.
This only makes him push harder, tightening his hold and lifting me into the air till not even the tips of my toes are touching the ground.
“Because in order to hate you, I’d have to think about you. And I do not. At all.”
I smile, despite the airflow being cut off.
I don’t need it, not now that I have become whatever I am.
Still, it’s careless for me to not heed his threats.
But I can’t help myself as I open my mouth and force the graveled, coarse words out: “This seems like the reaction of someone who doesn’t think about me. ”
He mimics my smirk, the movement completely void of any amusement.
“Let me make one thing perfectly clear.” He leans in, fangs elongating as he teases the shell of my ear.
“I am indifferent about your existence. You live, I do not care. You die, I do not care. All I care about is making sure Sterling does not get hurt. By you or anyone else.”
“I’m not going to hurt him,” I whisper, because my vocal cords are nearly incapable of doing anything else.
He laughs, the bitter, acidic sound burning my skin. “You are a Watcher. Of course you will hurt him.”
“I’m not.” I shake my head, or at least try to as his grip holds firm. “Not anymore. I’m one of you now.”
He pulls back, cocking his head to the side and running his gaze up and down the length of my body, evaluating.
It’s several painful moments before he speaks again.
And for a heartbeat, I think I see something pass in his assessing, icy eyes.
But I swallow, convincing myself it was nothing more than wishful thinking.
Whatever I see is gone a moment later, the emotion in his eyes hardening till there is no doubt in my mind the hate this male holds for me.
Then he shakes his head slowly. “No, Evangeline. I don’t care how much Arcane blood you drink, nor how much Blood Order cock you fuck. You will never be one of us.”
And without another word, he drops me. I collapse on the floor, hands flying to my throat to massage away the ache he’s left behind. He steps back, picking up the coffee mugs and staring down at me.
I force my eyes up to meet his, mad at the tears leaking from the corners—betraying how deep his words cut. “You’re a bastard,” I rasp out, trying to push down the feelings of unworthiness that are fighting to drag me under.
He tsks, shaking his head as he drinks in the sight of me. “And you’re a High Quarter whore who’s even uglier when she cries.” He turns, all at once, slipping into the shadows of the hallway and leaving me discarded on the kitchen floor.