Chapter 14
The Trickster
T he quiet stretches are getting longer. Not silent—she still screams, still kicks the bars hard enough to bruise—but the bursts are farther apart now. I can’t tell whether she’s pacing herself or conserving rage.
Like me, Eve hasn’t slept. I’m pretty sure half of her reason for constantly making noise is to make sure I don’t. Little does she know I don’t need her help to stay awake. Since Ruby’s death, I only sleep a couple of hours a night unless I’m drunk off my ass, which I haven’t been for months.
I’ve been in the living room for hours—shirtless, hunched over a half-empty bottle, listening to her come undone one scream at a time. Sometimes I hear her pacing, and not in a way that comes from restlessness. She wants me to wonder what she’s planning.
It’s been almost twenty-four hours since I brought her here. Twice she’s demanded to be let out to use the bathroom, and I’ve obliged.
Eve still hasn’t touched the food and refuses to drink water unless it comes in a sealed bottle. The latter is smart, but the former is fucking stupid.
If she’s trying to punish me by starving herself, she’s playing the wrong game. Or maybe she thinks she’s being strong, and perhaps she is. But I’ve seen stronger women break.
A ciga rette smolders between my fingers. Even though the windows are open, the room reeks of smoke and bourbon. I used to smoke years ago, but I stopped right until we put Ruby in the ground.
I tip my head back and take a deep drag, savoring the burn.
Another slam echoes through the house, followed by a scream. I smirk as I exhale slowly and evenly. She’s still got spirit, but it’s not the same as last night. Not the same chaos as her whispering threats into the dark.
This is something else entirely. Something meaner and more patient. She’s spiraling. And she’s dragging me with her.
I thought the house would be strong enough to withstand the storm that is Eve Mortis. But it’s in the walls now. Her rage, her breath, the soft scrape of her pacing feet—I hear every sound she makes, even when she’s still.
The echoes slide through the hallways, pooling in the corners, sinking into the wood like this place is learning her patterns and whispering them back to me.
This is not a home anymore. Fuck, maybe it never was. Ruby used to say that a house doesn’t make a home, and she was right. I’m not sure what it takes, only that I don’t have it. This is nothing more than a place for the worst parts of us.
While her mouth curses me to Hell and back, I know her body wants me. Every time I’ve touched her, she’s soaked me in her arousal and come so fucking prettily for me. Just remembering her cunt squeezing my cock has me aching and leaking for her all over again.
She might be a force to be reckoned with when she’s free, but I’ve clipped her wings, and shoved her in a cage for my viewing pleasure.
Raising my bottle, I salute the air. “Let the games begin,” I rasp.
Thunder cracks somewhere far off. Then the silence creeps back in. I close my eyes and wait for the next blow.
I wake to the sound of screaming and metal pounding . Eve’s voice ricochets off the bedroom walls as she slams her foot into the bars again and again.
“Wake up, you useless son of a bitch! You’re burning your fucking house down!”
My head’s a swamp of liquor and smoke. When the hell did I move back to the bedroom? My mouth tastes like ash and regret, and it takes a second for the rest to register.
What the fuck’s that burning smell? I look down to see the cigarette I must’ve dropped is melting a slow hole into the edge of the carpet. The cherry’s eaten through the fibers, leaving a smoldering ring.
“Jesus,” I mutter, grabbing the damn thing and crushing it into the ashtray. The glass wobbles, tipping a streak of gray across the wood grain of the nightstand.
“You fucking idiot,” Eve spits, voice shredded. “What are you gonna do next, jackass? Drown me in the tub because you can’t hold your liquor?”
I push upright, wincing at the pull in my back and the burn in my throat. My temples pulse as if they’re caught in a vise. “It didn’t catch,” I rasp.
She kicks the bars again. Hard. “It could’ve. I’m not dying in a goddamn fire because my jailer’s too drunk to finish a smoke upright.”
My eyes finally focus. She’s standing now, fists tight at her sides, eyes wild and bloodshot with fury. She’s practically shaking with rage. My wife looks feral, and beautifully so.
“Don’t worry yourself,” I grunt, rubbing my eyes. “I’d have gotten you out before the flames hit.”
“Oh, right. Because you’re such a fucking gentleman.”
“Because you’re mine,” I snap. “And so is your pain.”
That shuts her up—but only for a second. Then she starts laughing. Dry, breathless, on the edge of hysteria. “Your what , exactly? Wife? Prisoner of war? Pretty sure even war criminals get meals and ventilation that aren’t full of secondhand smoke.”
“I gave you food and water,” I growl, dragging the bottle off the floor. “You just refuse to touch it.”
“Bec ause I don’t trust you,” she spits.
“Fair enough,” I relent, striding over to the walk-in closet. Her colorful insults chase me as I find fresh clothes.
“Next time, try not passing out like a fucking rookie before the smoke kills us both.”
Tuning her out, I take the bottle and clothes with me to the bathroom, where I immediately run the shower. I don’t even bother undressing. Just put the fresh clothes next to the sink and walk my ass into the shower, still clutching the bottle.
If this isn’t rock bottom, I don’t know what fucking is.
Leaning my head back against the tiles, I sit like that until the bottle is empty. Then I finally get up, my legs unsteady as fuck as I remove my clothes and clean myself.
As I look down, I notice the water turning red as it washes away the dried blood from my skin. Fuck, I should have cleaned both of our wounds yesterday. Letting out a grunt, I cut the water off and get out.
I find my first aid kit under the sink, but before cleaning my own, I need to check on Eve’s. I might hate her, but that doesn’t mean I want her infected just because I was careless and high on the rush of claiming her.
Cutting us both with the same knife without sterilizing it was stupid. But mixing our blood like I did was fucking reckless. Her blood’s in my veins now, moving through me with every heartbeat, staking its claim from the inside out.
“Fucking hell,” I curse while towel-drying.
Her blood is in my veins, her scent under my nails. There’s no part of me that doesn’t reek of her anymore, and no part I want to wash clean.
I wrap the towel around my waist and grab the key from my dirty jeans before heading back to the bedroom.
“Get up,” I order, switching the light on.
I’m surprised when she obeys, slowly unfolding her limbs and standing. “What now?” she demands.
Unlocking the cage, I open the door. “I need to clean your wound.” I point at her hand that’s caked in dry blood.
She scoffs, but I notice a small glint of relief in her storm-gray eyes. “Fine.” I’m surprised when she leaves the cage and strides straight into the bathroom without trying anything.
“Sit,” I command, gesturing to the edge of the tub. She doesn’t move. “I said, sit,” I repeat, sharpening my tone.
This time she complies, perching on the edge of the bathtub like a bird ready to take flight. I turn to the medicine cabinet, retrieving antiseptic, gauze, and tape. When I face her again, her eyes are tracking my movements with wary precision.
I take her hand in mine, turning it palm up to examine the cut. It’s not deep, but it has reddened around the edges. I run my thumb across the wound, and she hisses, trying to pull away.
“Hold still,” I say, holding her wrist firmly as I reach for the faucet with my other hand.
Cold water sluices over both our hands, washing away the dried blood in rusty spirals. She makes a small sound—part pain, part something harder to name. With clinical efficiency, I dab the cut dry, then apply antiseptic.
She flinches but doesn’t pull away this time. Her pulse beats against my fingers, quick and stubborn, and I wonder if she’s thinking about how easy it would be to sink her teeth into my wrist. Maybe she really is a fucking progeny with how fast she’s learning.
“Our blood mixed,” I say conversationally as I wrap a strip of gauze around her palm. “In the bowl. Did you see what they did with it?”
She doesn’t answer, but I feel the tension in her arm.
“They sealed it,” I explain, securing the gauze with medical tape. “That vial around your neck contains both of our blood.”
Her fingers curl into a fist beneath my ministrations. “You’re disgusting,” she spits. “And for all I know, you might have passed some disease on to me. I want to get tested.”
I laugh darkly. “Maybe you’ve given me a disease,” I reply calmly.
At my words, she smiles coldly and locks her gaze on mine. “I really, really hope I have. And I hope it kills you slowly, Jack.”
Eve’s feistier than I anticipated, and I think I’m going to love having her here until Sanctuary of Shadows closes its doors. What happens after, well, that remains to be seen. There might not be a lot left of her when I’m done with her.
“I mean it,” she continues. “People shouldn’t be mixing blood. You need to get me to the hospital.”
“Not happening, wife,” I bark, dropping her hand.
I stand and move to the sink, washing my own hands thoroughly before cleaning my own wound and bandaging it. Eve remains motionless, watching me with her storm-gray eyes.
“You have fifteen minutes to clean yourself up,” I tell her, leaning against the counter. “There’s soap, shampoo, towels in here. Use what you need.”
Her eyes narrow. “And if I refuse?”
I smile thinly. “I don’t see why you’d refuse. But if you like having my cum on your inner thigh that much, be my guest.”
She swallows hard, throat bobbing.
“Only ten minutes now,” I tell her, pulling my phone from the jeans on the floor and setting a timer. “Starting now.”