42. Angélique
42
Angélique
C assiopé hasn’t crossed the door when she’s already running to me, engulfing me in a tight hug.
“Ouch,” I say, without realizing what I did.
“Sorry,” Cassiopé says.
“You said you didn’t hurt.” Elhyor’s voice comes as accusatory.
“I said I wasn’t wounded,” I retort just above Cassiopé’s head. “Not my fault if you heard only what you wanted,” I add for good measure. “I’ve taken some gunshots. It’s bound to bruise a bit.”
I hear him growl and mutter something under his breath, but I can’t make out what he said, so I give up and just enjoy the hug Cassiopé is giving me.
She’s a hugger; I know that now. It’s her way of showing she cares.
After a while, she removes her arms from around me and looks me over from head to toe.
“You need a bath, Angie,” she says as she crinkles her nose. “And maybe some of that medicine that works like magic because I can see that thigh, and if you have anything like that under that monstrosity of a sweatshirt, I bet it’s going to hurt like hell tomorrow.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I say absentmindedly. “I’ve had worse.”
The room goes deadly silent.
“Brice, call the doctor.” He pauses. “Cassie, go prepare a bath for Angélique.”
Within moments, Cassiopé and her father exit the room, and I’m once again left alone with a raging dragon.
“What. Did. He. Do. To. You?” Elhyor enunciates each word one by one, his breath choppy once again and his eyes the color of molten lava.
“What do you want me to tell you?” I ask with disdain. “Do you want me to tell you how I’ve trained up to twelve hours a day every single day of my life since I first shifted? Or do you prefer that I explain to you how many times I have fallen or burned myself? Maybe you’d prefer that I explain how I already know the pain of a bullet when it’s shot from close range and the only thing you’re wearing is a bulletproof outfit? Or maybe you want to know who hurt me personally? They were all just pawns. There’s only one person behind all my suffering, and he won’t stop at that. You were preparing for a war tonight against the humans. Now, you should prepare for one against my father. Because he won’t stop at sending me to you. If by Monday you’re not dead, he’ll burn down Notre Dame, because if he can’t have it, then no one can. You’re just a means to an end for him. You need to die for him to take it, but he can raze it to the ground, too, if he so pleases. So, yeah, you want to know who did this to me. You want to hurt them and make them pay, but are you really ready to do what it takes? Because it’s far more than you were preparing for tonight. It’ll mean the deaths of people you care about. It’ll mean so many deaths that you won’t sleep at night anymore. It’ll mean the end of things as you know them.”
By the time I’ve finished ranting, I’m yelling, and as breathless as if I’ve run ten kilometers. I feel like just a breeze would trigger my crying, and I want to roll into a corner, but maybe I needed this, because I’m not sure Elhyor understood what he bargained for when he agreed to marry me.
I don’t know what I expected after that rant, but it was definitely not Elhyor slamming the door open and running to the back door of Notre Dame.
Sadly, expectations are just that—expectations—and they’re often so very wrong.