Chapter 12 Marcus
MARCUS
The click of the lock is clean and precise, the sound echoing for longer than it should. My wolf bristles, ears pricked, crouching low, reading danger in the sound long before my human mind does. The sound vibrates around the chamber before settling deep in my stomach.
Esmerelda doesn’t say a word as she walks by, chin held high, shoulders squared like a soldier entering a battle they might not survive but willing to fight anyway.
She settles herself into a chair and wraps Min’s blanket tight around her shoulders.
Her hands tremble just enough that I notice.
Is this all an act? If so, I’ve underestimated my wife.
The worst part? I don’t even know if she did it.
And that terrifies me. It also pisses me off.
How the fuck did the council think forcing enemies to marry was going to turn out?
Did they really think sending a council member to attend the dinner was going to prevent anything from happening?
All it guaranteed was that they were now a council member short, and Esmerelda and I are more suspicious of each other than ever.
The audacity of the woman to accuse me of murder.
Once a murderer, always a murderer.
My jaw clamps so tight I think my teeth might snap in half.
I thought I’d made peace with the accusations about the warehouse months ago, shoved them down so deep that I figured no one could touch them anymore.
But the bitter accusations spilling from her mouth sting, and combined with the shame and confusion I feel over tonight, it leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.
For a breath, I’m not in this chamber. I’m transported back to the chaos of the dining room where I failed everyone.
The dinner comes back in clean, merciless steps, as if to make sure I don’t miss a single moment of the torture meant for me.
Slowly, the images swirl around my head in a dizzying flurry.
The emotions assault me as if it’s happening in real time.
Frustration at Esmerelda, feeling smug that I got the speech over with while taking pot shots at the ridiculousness of the whole evening.
If I hadn’t tried so hard to prove we were functional to the council, to our families, maybe even to her, would they still be alive?
My shoulders have curled in on themselves without my permission, making me smaller, a posture that would make my old tutors clear their throats or slam wooden rulers on the desk.
My hands move of their own accord in a restless rhythm that has my skin itching from the inside.
They open and close relentlessly against my thighs.
Press, release, press, release, press harder until the muscles ache and still I press and release.
Heat rises up my neck and into my face. It’s not from the fire.
It’s the pure, undiluted shame I feel. A shame that’s like a presence of its own.
I see with sickening clarity my hand on the bottle of wine I hand-picked for the evening—a deep vintage with hints of dried blackcurrants, cedarwood, and violet.
Delivering a toast-worthy speech. Faces open, unguarded as every guest acted like one happy family.
Tallulah lifting her glass, her opal ring catching the light.
Lovell leaning back to say something I didn’t hear.
My father’s mouth forming a scowl as he mentally prepared the berating he’d give me later.
The clink of crystal. The soft scrape of a chair.
Then a pause. One that if you blinked, you’d miss. Taking a sip. Watching others follow. Watching everyone follow. How did I not know what was happening in my own house? How could I not see what was going on? How could I not sense it?
Guilt claws at me. I was so locked in on my frustration with Esmerelda that I couldn’t focus on anything else.
In my mind, I replay everything I did from the moment I saw Mr. Lovell begin to petrify.
What could I have done better? I could’ve been faster.
I could’ve crushed the herbs faster. I make a mental note to make sure I have crushed as well as whole herbs in the apothecary in future.
I could’ve had my herbs organized better for easier access.
How much precious time did I waste looking for mandrake root?
All that time lost in the initial shock and horror.
Did my shock lead to my incompetence? Did I hesitate?
Was I overconfident? Did I think things through?
I clasp my head with my hands as question after question delivers another punishing blow.
I taste metal. It spreads across my tongue the way blood does when you bite down too hard and pretend you didn’t. My jaw has locked tight enough to make the muscles buzz.
What good is knowledge if my hands were the ones that delivered the poison? What good is my oath to heal if I’m the one who delivered death with a smile and a well-rehearsed speech? All those years of training and it did nothing to sharpen my instincts.
I force in a breath. Hold it. Let it out slowly. It doesn’t steady anything, nor does it dull anything, but it keeps me from standing and putting a fist through the carved wall.
From the corner of my eye, a slight, almost imperceptible movement catches my attention, and I turn to face Esmerelda. She has been so still I could almost forget she was there except for her scent pulsing off her. Desperation. Sadness. Fear.
The fear is a cloying smell that sticks to every surface like a bitter oil.
She’s hunched on the chair, the blanket wrapped around her like a force field, her fingers white-knuckling the soft material.
She looks like a fox in a trap, desperate to leave the painful confines yet too scared to let anyone near.
I stay seated, unable to move even though every muscle in my body screams for action.
I should tear down these walls. Fight whatever spell or curse they have on this godforsaken place.
Retaliate. Avenge everyone. My wolf snarls inside me, straining to shift, to claw his way out, but the magic smothers us both. He paces, furious at my paralysis.
Esmerelda stares fixedly at one spot, looking at nothing in particular, but the width of her eyes tell me she’s seeing the same horrors I keep replaying.
Her finger traces the pattern of the woven wool blanket in jerky movements.
Her breaths are too high in her chest, but at least the sobbing has stopped.
Because even though I can’t figure out if she’s acting or not, the sound of her tears nearly killed me.
She looks fragile, like at any moment she’ll break apart if a breeze wafts through the room. And yet the set of her jaw says otherwise. She’s an unending package of contradictions and I can’t figure her out. Even in her grief, I can’t figure her out. Is she fragile or is she strong?
I shouldn’t feel sorry for her. She wasn’t there when dinner started.
She wasn’t there when it started. She wasn’t there.
She wasn’t there. The thought scratches into my mind like a needle on a record creating deep ridges.
She wasn’t there when it started. She wasn’t there when her father choked on silence.
She wasn’t there when the first scream tore through the air.
She came in after, running, wide-eyed and looking like she herself might petrify from fear.
Why?
My chin tips toward her without meaning to.
I track the small things, like the tremor of the hand that isn’t tracing the pattern like a jerky doll.
She looks up suddenly and catches me staring.
But her gaze is vacant. My mouth flattens before the scowl can settle.
I keep my face neutral because it’s all I know how to do.
Do I hold on to the look of devastation cloaking her like that blanket she’s holding onto for dear life, or do I hold on to the way she smirked at me when I frustratingly told her to hurry up or she’ll be late for dinner?
Do I hold on to the hollowed-out cheeks and blank stare that begs for what she has seen to be wrong?
Or do I focus on how she strolled across the room in nothing but a towel when I announced that she only had ten minutes to get done?
Do I hold on to the way she screamed for her father or the way she laughed when Min chided her not to antagonize me?
Is the Esmerelda I’ve caught glimpses of when her guard is down the woman I should be focused on, or should my instincts be telling me to focus on that one small detail yet so very important—that she wasn’t in the room when everyone else drank the wine?
It’s really hard to reconcile the two women.
The one whose laugh filled the courtyard when Khan, my Rottweiler, backed into her until she was forced to sit on the step so he could claim her lap as his.
He barely fit on her lap, and yet when he was perched there, he looked like he had just been named alpha, he was so proud.
The patience in her voice when old Farin talked about the mare and asked about the year the winter feed failed, like she really cared about those details.
And the woman who would do anything to antagonize me.
My head pounds with the relentless thoughts.
I don’t like puzzles I can’t solve. It usually means I’ve missed something obvious.
My senses heighten with each thrum, thrum, thrum of the pain.
The ancient markings on the stone vibrate at a level no human can hear, or they would certainly go mad from the sound.
The air becomes thicker, and the urge to loosen my clothing from its constrictive hold becomes almost unbearable.
Where is the sound of water coming from?
Is it coming from under the stone? The hearth spits embers into the room that float and seem to steal the oxygen with them as they do.