38
DESTRUCTION IN ITS WAKE
HENRY
I ’m certain this is going to be a fucking shitshow, but I’m here and we’re doing this anyway. It’s too damn easy to walk into the mansion Ivy used to live in and retrieve the goddamn Book of Revelations. There’s got to be a catch and we’re still walking toward the front door like we’re going in for Sunday lunch.
Ryan isn’t happy. Matt’s on high alert. Half my fucking coven is stalking around the goddamn gardens and the cursed priest is loitering with enough intent to make most men shudder.
And Ivy’s moving nervously.
I can smell the fucking fear dripping off her.
She’s terrified of this place and the memories it holds, and nothing we’ve said on the plane here has helped calm her down. We’ve gone over the plans again and again, outlining what we’ll do in every eventuality we can think of and yet she’s still afraid. Still tormented.
The mind is a curious thing, and her father makes hers reel.
He’s left an imprint I don’t like. One that makes me more determined to leave a fucking impression of my own before I finish the cunt off.
“It’s going to be fine, Ivy.”
She looks up at me and smiles. Weakly. Like she doubts my words as much as I do.
“Fine never means fine.”
Ryan’s eyebrow arches, and everyone draws a heavy breath. The mansion doors swing open and there isn’t a trace of anyone inside. As Ivy predicted, the mansion appears empty. Her stepmother likes to travel and her father enjoys time on his yacht. Not necessarily together. It doesn’t sound like the marriage will last much longer, with or without my intervention with her father.
Ivy tenses as she steps into the entrance hall, and her footsteps echo on the marble floor. The whole fucking house is gaudy and crass. Everything’s expensive, everything’s ornate. It’s the kind of ostentatious that screams how much money was spent making the place look like this and makes it look cheap.
I stay with Ivy as Matt and Ryan surge forward, moving like the lethal killing machines they are. My wife leans into me, pressing her face against my chest and her little, frantic breaths blow hot air on my cool skin.
Killing the asshole who did this to my wife won’t be enough to sate the anger rippling through me. I doubt Ivy will be pleased about the torture I’ll inflict and it’ll be difficult to hide it from her now she can feel me through our bond. She’s learning, and quickly. Far too fucking quickly. I doubt she realizes it, but she’s beginning to calm me when my temper flares and arouses me when she thinks of me in the shower.
I don’t mind the ease with which she’s taken back some control. I mind the fucking inconvenience of sensing her arousal and being turned on but unable to do anything about it, caught in some meeting or forced to wait until she’s decided her alone time is over.
Admittedly, it works both ways, and Ivy’s come to me exceptionally bothered. Desperate. Needy. Soaking wet. But it’s growing increasingly difficult to conceal the depth of my more violent emotions from her and it’ll be impossible to hide everything when she drinks my blood.
I’ve tasted hers, and soon she’ll want to taste mine. More than enough to get her high. Ivy wants the connection and we’ll need to discuss turning soon. Not yet, but soon. Certainly not today.
Ryan snarls, and the vicious sound echoes through the mansion. He’s found something he doesn’t like, and I can hear Matt racing to reach him. Ivy’s oblivious to the carnage stirring inside this house, clinging to me as she waits for me to tell her we can head to her room.
Her old room.
The one that won’t be a patch on the one I’ve provided for her.
The one containing the memories and trappings of her childhood and a small hoard of crap she thinks is sentimental and will try to bring back with her. We’ve agreed to a small bag or two. We both know she’s going to push it.
Matt marches toward us and Emmanuel stiffens, reading Matt’s body language perfectly. He’s fucking furious and strangely at ease, aware Ryan’s found a problem, but it isn’t a threat. At least not a physical one. Not for us.
His amber eyes flick down to Ivy and I guess at what he’s about to say, certain my wife’s about to shudder.
“Ryan found her father hiding in his office,” Matt says, as gently as he possibly can, but it’s still enough to make Ivy wince. “We thought you would want to talk to him.”
Ivy shakes her head frantically and her fingers dig into me.
“Not you, lea.” My voice is soft, but my expression is as hard as steel. “It’s not a bad idea.” It’s a fucking good idea. One that will let me start the long and drawn-out process of torturing the cunt who should have been protecting his daughter. “Matt and Emmanuel can help you find the book and sort out your things while I have a chat with your father.”
She whimpers and I seethe, beyond livid because my wife is enduring an unpleasant ordeal. Her head turns to Matt and his eyes soften as he smiles and offers her his hand.
“Let’s go see what you’ve been hiding in your room. I’m betting there’s a ton of pink fluffy shit we can bring back with us.”
We all know the game he’s playing. The one where he makes light of a dark situation by offering Ivy something that’ll drive me insane. There’s not a fucking chance I’m letting any pink fluffy shit contaminate my room—our room—but I might flex and allow her a little in hers.
On this one occasion.
Now Matt has forced my hand by wrapping his around Ivy’s.
“Take care of my wife,” I hiss at both Matt and Emmanuel as they walk up the hideous curved staircase. “You put one fucking foot wrong and I’ll deal with you myself.”
Both their strides falter and I smirk, delighted the mere threat of violence affects the head of the Brotherhood. But my excitement is over more than that and I’d be a fool to deny myself the pleasure of anticipating the hell I’m about to unleash on her father.
I follow Matt’s trail, stalking his scent through corridors and rooms until her father’s stench overpowers all the other smells around me. It’s rancid, sweat laced with fear and dread, but an arrogance that defies all expectations. I’m not surprised Ryan found him so fucking quickly, and I pity my second for having to endure the foul odor for this long.
The pathetic excuse for a man sits behind his desk, trying to assert his authority despite the fact he clearly has none. Ryan’s standing behind him, controlling every fucking move he makes, pulling his strings like the expert puppet master I know him to be.
“You took your time, Henry,” the man says, his tone thick with disdain.
“I had more important matters to attend to, Charles.”
He laughs and he really shouldn’t. The man is a cunt of the highest order and even Ryan screws his face up in disgust, appalled.
“Like fucking my daughter? How have you found your new wife?”
I sit, reclining like I don’t give a single fuck. I do, but I have not one fucking concern about anything that happens from here on out. Not when he’s been so fucking disrespectful to my fucking wife. I smile politely, letting my anger brew beneath the facade I use to conceal my viciousness. Always the polished gentleman and never the ruthless monster.
“Ivy is a delight. We’re very happy, thank you for enquiring.”
Ryan scoffs, aware the cunt didn’t ask.
The asshole smirks, and it’s fucking unbecoming. “I’m glad you’re enjoying her. You paid enough for the whore. ”
I keep my composure. Just. Ryan doesn’t, and his disgust and revulsion pours into the room, present in his scent and the blazing red fury radiating from his irises. Ryan’s lived through many horrors and witnessed many unspeakable acts throughout the centuries we’ve endured, but this has shocked him.
“Fathers tend to dote on their daughters, Charles. At least in my experience. In the same way that husbands adore their wives.”
He throws his head back and laughs, and Ryan uses every fucking ounce of his control not to slit the man’s throat. Our eyes meet and he’s waiting on my command, pleading to have permission to execute the revolting, nauseating asshole delighting in whatever the fuck amuses him.
“She’s not my daughter.”
I arch my eyebrow, maintaining my calm exterior when my insides churn and run wild with surprise and disbelief. I’m experienced enough to contain my disbelief, but grateful I chose to sit, ignoring the slight stagger as Ryan succumbs to his astonishment.
“Her mother was a whore and I see no reason why her daughter would be any different.”
There’s the loathing. There’s the hate. It’s the cruelty and wickedness Ivy knew was lurking inside her father and the spitefulness she hid from. It’s why she asked me to protect her sister, why she didn’t dare leave her here. It’s the bitter, petty anger of a weak and wounded man. One who’s jealous and pathetic enough to take his anger out on someone too weak to fight back.
“Ivy isn’t your daughter?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “No, Henry. Her mother was my wife, though. Before she had the accident.” He smirks as his fingers drum the desk and his meaning is crystal clear. “I didn’t realize until after Izzy was born and I refused to be fooled twice.”
Ryan’s teeth extend, and I lift my index finger, telling him to fucking wait.
“And Izzy?”
“Mine,” he says. “That girl is perfect and given the circumstances, I thought it appropriate she inherits everything. You’ll take care of Ivy, especially since you seem so enamored with her.”
I lean forward and invade the desk, demonstrating he doesn’t own this fucking space. The coward shrinks back at the slight infraction and I press my point, smirking as he pales.
“I never cared about the money.”
His skin turns sallow and sticky as the pressure mounts and the man who never fathered my wife approaches the limit of his endurance.
“I’m well aware of what you wanted, Henry,” he says, staring at me like a man who’s trying to snatch a last victory before the jaws of defeat clamp down on him. “A friend of yours made it abundantly clear to me. I say friend, although you’d probably use another term to describe Rowan.”
If I had a beating heart, it would have skipped a beat, but I don’t miss a single fucking one as I round on Ivy’s father.
“He’s already suffered the extent of my wrath, Charles. You’re achieving nothing but increasing the chances of joining him.”
His eyes scream in terror as his throat turns dry. “I know, Henry. About all of it. About vampires and the fucking prophecy you’re all losing your fucking minds over too. There’s nothing special about the slut who thinks she’s my daughter. She won’t be missed.”
Ryan’s eyes widen as I realize far too fucking late the game he’s been playing. I’ve wasted time here when I should have been protecting Ivy and every second counts.
“It’s too late,” he says, grinning as he takes what he’s certain is his last moment of glory. “She’ll have found the fucking necklace by now and as soon as she does, she’s gone. Rowan won’t give her back, Henry. And if you do get her back, he’ll make sure she’ll never be the same again.”
I race to the door, turning to see Ryan hauling him out of his chair by the hand wrapped around his throat. Feet kick and hands claw, all useless. All as pathetic as the man who owns them. The man Ryan’s showing no mercy to as his grip tightens around his throat, crushing his larynx as he stares in horror at Ryan’s face.
“Make it hurt.”
Ryan doesn’t need the instruction and agonizing cries sound out behind me as I race through the mansion. I’m fast and for a second time, I pray I’m fucking fast enough to reach Ivy. I know this house as if I own it and I race into the unfamiliar room that was Ivy’s bedroom, staring at the aftermath of whatever fucking happened.
Matt’s down. Emmanuel’s down. Both prone. Both unconscious. The room’s a fucking bombsite, its contents decimated as if they were worthless. Meaningless. Reduced to broken pieces of shattered dreams.
In the center of it all is a clear, calm space. A circle untouched by the devastation wrought on reality. The cream carpet remains clean, and the jewelry box in the middle is untouched. A drawer is open and there’s a fucking gap where I imagine the trinket was sitting before Ivy touched it and released the curse or enchantment that took her from me, leaving only destruction in its wake.