58. Leandra
The first thing I feel is pain.
It’s everywhere, a searing, relentless agony that turns my body into a prison of raw nerves and shattered hope.
A dull, throbbing ache pulses through me like a second heartbeat, but it’s the sharper; stabbing pains that make me gasp, my ribs, my wrists, the tender places where his fingers dug in and refused to let go.
My head feels like a swollen, fogged mess, my limbs pinned under the weight of something invisible and crushing.
I try to move, and a scream tears from my throat before I can stop it, the sound ragged and inhuman.
Where am I?
The question splinters through my mind, frantic and formless.
Konstantine. His hands, his voice, the way he laughed while I broke. Ines. Oh God, Ines. The memories rise like bile, and I choke on them, thrashing against the bed as if I can escape what’s already inside me.
I force my eyes open, but the world is a blur of shadows and muted gold. The room is large, opulent, wrong. High ceilings, heavy drapes smothering the light, sheets that slide like silk against my battered skin.
This is not my room. Not anywhere safe.
Panic detonates in my chest. I lurch upright, ignoring the fire that lances through my body, and my feet tangle in the covers. I claw at them, at my own skin, needing to get out, needing to run, but my legs give way and I’m falling…
Strong arms catch me before I hit the floor.
“No, let go of me!” I scream, bucking and twisting, my voice cracking into something feral.
I beat at the solid warmth surrounding me, my fists glancing off muscle and bone, and when that doesn’t work, I turn my nails on myself, raking at my arms, my face, anything to ground the chaos inside.
A hand captures my wrist, firm but not cruel, and another pins my shoulder to the mattress.
“Stop. Leandra, stop. You’ll hurt yourself.”
The voice is low, steady, a rumble I feel through my own heaving chest.
I fight him anyway, sobbing now, my vision swimming with tears and the remnants of fear. “Let me go, let me go…”
“I will, when you’re still. Breathe. Just breathe, and look at me.”
That voice cuts through the static. I blink up through matted lashes and find a face hovering above mine; dark hair, sharp jaw, eyes that hold none of Konstantine’s madness.
The colours drift around him in gentle waves, cool blues and soft greens, like the calm of a sea that has weathered a thousand storms.
Lazarus.
The name unlocks something worse, a fresh wave of horrific memories, and I shudder violently. He’s holding me down, his weight braced carefully so he doesn’t crush me, and I realise with a jolt that he’s keeping me from hurting myself. My arms sting from the scratches I’ve already inflicted.
Slowly, degree by degree, the fight drains out of me. I go limp beneath him, my breath coming in short, panicked gasps.
“Where, where am I?” I manage, my voice hoarse and splintered.
“The villa,” he says, his tone even, almost gentle, as though I’m not a wild thing he’s just wrestled into submission. “You’re safe.”
The villa? The word sends fresh ice through my veins. “Why… why am I here? Where’s your brother?” The question rises into a sharp, trembling pitch.
Lazarus eases back, but his hands remain on my shoulders, grounding me. His expression hardens. “There is no more hiding now. Konstantine is dead.”
Dead.
The word hangs in the air, heavy and final. I shake my head, disbelief clawing at my throat.
“No. No, he’s not. He can’t be.” He can’t be gone before I tell them what he did, before someone knows the truth. Before he answers for it.
“He is,” Lazarus says, his gaze burning into mine. “I made sure of it.”
“How?” The whisper is barely an exhale.
He shakes his head, a muscle feathering in his jaw. “You don’t need the details. Only that I’m Grand Master now. It is done. It is over.”
The words unlock something inside me, a door I’ve been holding closed with bleeding hands.
“He killed her,” I breathe, and the tears spill over, hot and relentless. “Konstantine murdered Ines. It wasn’t the Esau, it was him. He set it all up, he made it look like them, but it was him.”
Lazarus goes utterly still. The cool blues of his aura flare with a sudden, violent streak of disgust, deep, visceral, the green churning to a stormy grey. “Ines?” His voice is low, controlled, but I can feel the tremor beneath it. “You’re certain?”
“He told me, he told me everything. He laughed as he hurt me and said he could kill me like he did before, could resurrect me again.” My voice breaks on the last of it, and I press a shaking hand to my mouth, trying to hold in the keening sound that wants to follow.
Lazarus pushes back, standing abruptly. He drags a hand through his hair, his back to me, and for a long moment the only sound is my ragged breathing. Then he speaks, and his voice is thick with a rage I’ve never heard from him.
“That explains it. Last night, he was talking about Ezra, he said the boy saw too much.” He turns, his expression grim. “That’s why Konstantine wanted him silenced.”
Silenced. The word hits me like a slap.
“No.” I scramble upright, ignoring the pain, my heart jackhammering against my ribs. “No, you can’t, Lazarus. Please, he’s just a child. You can’t hurt him. You can’t let anyone hurt him.”
Fear chokes me, and I reach for him without thinking, my fingers clutching at his shirt. He catches my hands, his grip gentle but immovable.
“Leandra. Listen to me.” He waits until my frantic eyes meet his. “No one is hurting Ezra. I swear it. Ezra is my son. He is safe.”
The words don’t make sense. I frown, my mind struggling to find purchase. “Your… your son? How is that possible? How can Ezra be your son?”
For a heartbeat, something flickers in his gaze, grief, maybe, or a secret too heavy to share.
Then he cups my cheek, his palm warm and steady against my tear-streaked skin.
“That doesn’t matter right now,” he murmurs.
“All that matters is that he is safe. You are safe. The two of you are all I care about.”
I should press. I should demand answers but I’m so tired, so hollowed out that I can only lean into his touch, my eyes slipping closed for a fragile moment. When I open them again, Lazarus lifts my hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to my bruised knuckles.
The gesture is so sweet that it startles me, and I glance down. That’s when I see it; a ring on my finger, a massive red ruby gleaming in the dim light like fresh blood.
“Get some rest, wife,” he says softly.
Wife. The word echoes through the hollow spaces inside me, sharp and dissonant. I stare at him, my heart stumbling. “What?” I whisper.
He smiles faintly, a shadow of something tender in his hard face. “You’re safe now,” he says. “Everything will be different.”
I shake my head, confusion and fear still warring beneath the exhaustion. Safe? Different? How is that possible? How is any of this real?