63. Leandra
The blood is everywhere.
It’s on my hands, my arms, my face. It’s soaked into my clothes, staining the fabric a deep, dark red. I can feel it drying on my skin, sticky and cold. I stare down at my hands like I don’t recognize them. They’re not mine. They’re the hands of a monster, a killer.
But I don’t feel like a monster. I feel… nothing.
Lazarus is here, his presence the only thing anchoring me to reality right now. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t ask questions. He just takes my hand and leads me away from the body, away from the blood, away from the chaos.
We’re in his chambers now, the room dimly lit by the soft glow of candles. The air is warm, scented with lavender and something else, something earthy and comforting. He guides me to the bathroom, where a large tub of steaming water awaits.
He doesn’t ask if I want to wash. He doesn’t need to.
I stand there, numb as he begins to undress me. His hands are gentle, careful as he peels away the blood-soaked fabric. I don’t resist. I don’t have the strength.
He helps me into the shower, the warm water enveloping me like a cocoon. I shut my eyes as the water turns pink. Lazarus steps in beside me, a sponge in his hand, and begins to wash me.
He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t say a word.
His touch is soft as he cleans the bits of congealed blood from my skin. He moves slowly, methodically. As if he’s washing away not just the blood but the pain, the anger, the fear.
I close my eyes, letting the warmth of the water and the gentleness of his touch soothe me, but it’s not enough. Nothing is enough. I step out, forcing myself to move, and wrap a towel around my body.
“The other man,” I say, my voice barely audible. “What will happen to him?”
“He’ll be dealt with,” Lazarus says, his tone calm and matter-of-fact.
“What does that mean?”
He looks at me, his expression unreadable. “You know what it means.”
I do. Of course I do. The man will be killed. Executed. All because he saw too much.
“And the guards?” I ask, my voice trembling. “Did they not see too much?”
Lazarus shrugs, his gaze steady. “My guards are loyal to me.”
I shut my eyes, turning my face away. An image of Isaac’s face flashes in my mind, and suddenly I’m back there, in that house, strung up for him to use however he wants. I shudder, fighting back a wave of bile that threatens to come up.
“It’s okay,” Lazarus murmurs, his hand brushing against my cheek.
“No,” I snap, my voice sharp. “It’s not. None of it is okay. Can’t you see that? Can’t you understand?”
He’s silent for a moment, his gaze fixed on me. “Tell me then.” he growls and I need that anger, that harshness.
I take a deep breath, my chest aching but my rage still there, bubbling under the surface. “I have no identity,” I whisper. “Nothing. It was stolen from me. Destroyed. First Isaac, then Konstantine. They took everything from me. They erased me. I-I don’t know who I am anymore.”
Lazarus watches me, his expression unreadable. “You can be whatever you want to be now,” he says.
I pull away from him, scoffing. “Like you would allow that. Am I not your ‘wife’?” I ask, the word dripping with venom.
He catches my face in his hands, his grip firm but not painful. “You are my wife,” he says. “But that doesn’t mean I’ll seek to contain you the way other men would.”
I stare at him, my heart pounding in my chest. His colours swirl around him, those same soft blues and greens I’ve seen so many times.
“You wanted to escape, to be free. I can offer you that freedom.”
“You offer me death wrapped up in pretty ribbons.” I snap back.
“I offer you far more than that, Leandra. I’m offering you money, power, more than you could possibly imagine.”
“What good is any of that to me?” I retort.
His lips curl. “Because, my darling wife, it will grant you what you really want; what you crave, what you dare not to even think of in your darkest dreams.”
“And what is that?”
“Revenge.” He traces his fingers down my face, and it’s all I can do not to curl myself into him. “Revenge on those who sold you, revenge on those who changed you…”
“And revenge on you too for allowing your brother to hurt me the way he did?”
I see the flicker in his eyes at that. The truth that we both know; He did allow it. He could have taken me away at any point, but instead he chose to keep me here, to have me play the part of a dead woman, and for what?
“Is that what you want, vengeance from me?” He asks, sounding far more aroused than offended. “You want to hurt me, cut me, make me suffer too?” He pulls out a knife, producing it from God only knows where and he snatches at my hand, placing the blade in it.
“Do it.” He commands. “Take your revenge, sate your soul in my blood if that’s what you need.”
I pull back, but he pins me against the wall with his other hand wrapped around my throat.
“Do it.” He repeats.
I stare up at him, at this beast of a man, at this monster, and something in me erupts. Something furious, something hateful and angry and out of control. As the knife starts to cut into his flesh, he groans, making a noise that is far more ecstasy than pain.
My entire body reacts. My lips crash into his and I’m the one kissing him, claiming him. God I must be mad. No, I am mad, why the fuck am I behaving like this, why am I wanting this?
He bites me back, he bites my lip, splitting it enough that my blood spills onto both our tongues. He’s kissing me, devouring me like he’s some sort of vampire wanting to drink every last drop in my veins.
“Lazarus.” I scream out, though those words are lost in his mouth.
His hands rip at the towel, pulling it from my body. His body presses further into mine, and mine moves of its own accord, wrapping around him, embracing him.
His cock is so hard. He presses into me and I open my eyes, connecting with his as he finds my entrance. He then slides inside me; he forces his way in. I cry out as my body welcomes him, welcomes the pain, welcomes it all.
“Fuck, fuccck.” I gasp.
“That’s it,” He groans back, “Let me in. Let me in.”
I can’t, I can’t… but I have to. It’s no longer about right or wrong. It’s about need, about sating this awful desperate thing clawing inside me, needing to get out.
‘You’re so fucking incredible, do you know that?” He says. His colours swirl around him, those vivid blues and purples that I know so well.
I press the dagger further into his throat and I can see the trickle of blood, I can feel it dripping down between my fingers. Can he feel it? Does he even care that I could drag this blade across his neck and watch him bleed out?
His hands are everywhere, rough and demanding as he explores my body.
I can feel him inside me, filling me, and I cling to him, my nails digging into his back. He’s rough, but so am I. We’re equals in this moment, two broken people finally finding solace in each other.
He reaches between us, his fingers finding my clit and I cry out, my body trembling as pleasure washes over me. He follows me over the edge, his body shuddering as he spills inside me.
We collapse together, our bodies tangled, our breaths ragged.
For a moment, there’s silence.
And then he kisses me again, softly this time, his lips brushing against mine.
“No one has ever shown you what love is, how it should feel. That’s what I will do, what I will spend the rest of my life doing.”
I don’t know how to respond to that. I don’t even know how to process those words.
“You’re mine, Leandra” he murmurs, his voice low and possessive. “Now let me love you.”