Chapter 45 #2
"Tell him to fuck off," Ryder muttered, the first words he'd spoken since I'd entered the room. "He doesn't get to demand anything from her. Not after-" He cut himself off, but the unspoken words hung in the air between us. Not after what we did to her.
I looked up, meeting Logan's gaze directly for the first time in days. His hazel eyes were shadowed with worry, guilt, and something else, fear. Not for himself, I realised, but for me. Nicholas Bale was not a man to be trifled with, and Logan knew better than anyone what his father was capable of.
"Fine," I said, the word falling like a stone. "I'll be ready." All three men stared at me, clearly surprised by my easy acquiescence.
"You don't have to," Cole said, his voice gentle. "We can figure something else out."
"No, we can't," I replied, standing up from the table.
The movement sent a flash of pain across my back, but I ignored it.
"Your father wants to meet the Consort, and that's what I am, isn't it? The Covenant House Consort. Property of the Regents. It’s written right there on my back.
" The bitterness in my voice was unmistakable, and I saw Logan flinch as if I'd struck him.
"Cade-" he began, but I cut him off.
"Dinner tomorrow. What time?"
"Seven," he said, his voice subdued. "We'll need to leave by six-thirty." I nodded, turning to leave.
"I'll be ready," I repeated, and walked out of the dining room without a backward glance.
The next evening, I stood in front of my closet, contemplating the limited options that wouldn't aggravate my healing back.
Most of my dresses were fitted or had zippers that would press painfully against my wounds.
Finally, I settled on a simple black wrap dress with three-quarter sleeves.
The fabric was soft enough not to irritate my skin, and the wrap style meant I could adjust it to avoid pressure on the worst areas.
Dressing was a slow, painful process. I'd got better at it over the past week, but every movement still sent twinges of discomfort across my back.
The brand, centred between my shoulder blades, was the worst, a constant, throbbing reminder of the night that had changed everything.
Once dressed, I sat at my vanity to apply makeup, carefully covering the dark circles under my eyes and adding a touch of colour to my pale cheeks.
I looked better, but still not like myself, more like a doll someone had tried to repair after it had been broken.
My hair was the final challenge. I couldn't lift my arms high enough to style it without pain, so I left it down, brushing it until it shone despite its faded colour.
The dark roots had grown out almost halfway down my head, the once-vibrant purple now barely visible, a ghost of its former glory.
I stared at my reflection, struck by how symbolic the faded colour seemed.
Like my spirit, my defiance, my sense of self, all washed out, diluted by trauma and pain.
I wondered if I should just dye it back to my natural colour, let go of the purple altogether.
The thought made my chest tight. It would be like admitting defeat, like letting them take one more piece of me.
Maybe I could ask Luce to help me re-dye it.
She'd been calling and texting, but I'd kept our conversations brief, unable to face her knowing what I now knew about her parentage.
The secret sat heavy in my chest, alongside all the other burdens I carried.
A soft knock at my door pulled me from my thoughts.
I checked the clock, six-twenty-five. Time to go.
I opened the door to find Logan standing in the hallway, dressed in a crisp black shirt and tailored trousers.
His hair was neatly styled, his face freshly shaven.
He looked every inch the heir to the Bale empire, polished and powerful.
Only his eyes betrayed him, shadowed with worry and that ever-present guilt.
"You look beautiful," he said, his voice soft. The compliment felt hollow, a social nicety rather than a genuine appreciation. How could he find me beautiful now, marked and broken as I was?
"Thank you," I replied automatically. "I'm ready."
We walked downstairs in silence, the space between us charged with all the things we couldn't say. At the bottom of the stairs, Ryder waited, his posture tense. He looked better than he had yesterday, less gaunt, more present, but still a shadow of his former self.
"You look amazing, Poison," he said, the nickname slipping out as if by habit.
I saw him wince slightly, as if expecting me to object, but I said nothing.
I couldn't bring myself to meet his eyes, focusing instead on a point just past his shoulder.
Cole stood a few feet away, silent but watchful.
His gaze moved between the three of us, assessing, concerned.
"Be careful," he said finally, though whether he was speaking to me or Logan, I couldn't tell.
"We will," Logan replied, placing a hand lightly on my lower back to guide me toward the door. I stiffened at the contact, and he immediately withdrew, a flash of hurt crossing his face before he masked it. "The car's waiting."
I nodded, following him outside without a backward glance at Ryder and Cole.
The night air was cool against my skin, carrying the fresh scent of early winter.
Somewhere, someone was burning a bonfire, and the smoke carried along the wind.
In another life, it might have been pleasant.
Now, it just reminded me of the woods, of the fire that had heated the brand, of the smoke that had filled my lungs as I screamed.
Logan opened the passenger door of his sleek black car, and I slid in, careful not to let my back touch the leather seat. He closed the door gently and walked around to the driver's side, his movements measured, controlled.
As we pulled away from Covenant House, I caught a glimpse of Ryder and Cole watching from the doorway, their faces illuminated by the porch light.
They looked lost, broken in a way that mirrored my own fractured state.
For a moment, I felt a stab of sympathy, of longing to comfort them.
Then I remembered my scarred back, the brand that would mark me forever, and the sympathy hardened into something colder.