32. Welcome to my Dark Side
Chapter 32
Welcome to my Dark Side
CINDER
T he news hits me like a sucker punch to the gut. It wasn’t just my attacker, there was another man too.
Snow rushes over to look at Goldie's phone, but I remain rooted to the spot. I feel Kaison's gaze on me, heavy and searching.
I know. I know it was Kaison.
A part of me is relieved, grateful even. That entitled fucker can't hurt anyone else now. But another part, the part that clings desperately to the tattered remnants of my morality, knows that murder is wrong. No matter how justified.
“How was he killed?” I ask, my voice sounding distant to my own ears. Suddenly, I’m staring down at an empty martini glass. When did I down the whole thing?
“They don't know yet.” Goldie shakes her head, scrolling for more information. “He was totally mangled and left in a dumpster.”
I meet Kaison's gaze, steeling myself for what I might find there. Remorse? Regret?
But his eyes are unreadable, a carefully constructed mask that I'm all too familiar with. It's the same one I wear every day, the one that hides the broken, jagged pieces of my soul. But what is he hiding?
No one comments on how quiet I am over the next hour, and we don't speak of it again.
Not even as Kai, Snow, and I make our way back to my dingy apartment. Not as I start packing my suitcase for our return to Midnight. But the weight of the unspoken hangs heavy between Kai and me, a palpable presence that threatens to suffocate.
It's not until we're alone in my bedroom, surrounded by the chaotic jumble of my paintings and art supplies, that the dam finally breaks.
“You killed him,” I say matter of fact, the words tasting like ash on my tongue. “That man from the bar. You killed him for me.”
Kaison swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. “Cinder, I?—”
“Why?” I demand.
He rakes a hand through his hair, a gesture of frustration, of helplessness. “I couldn't let him hurt you again. I couldn't?—”
“So you decided murder was the answer?” I cut him off, my tone sharp as a blade.
“Cinder, please.” His voice is deeper, darker. The side of him he hides is emerging and I wonder if it’s the real him. “You have to understand. He didn't understand the word no. A man like that can't just be allowed to walk around doing whatever he wants.”
“Funny,” I say coldly, “Hearing that from a Charming.”
I regret the words as soon as they leave my lips. I see the way they slice into him, the flash of hurt that he can't quite hide.
Because the truth is, Kaison is nothing like his father. He's not the ruthless, power-hungry tyrant ruling Midnight with an iron fist. But in this moment, with the blood of my assailant on his hands, it's hard to separate the two.
Kai bears down on me, backing me up to my bed. He’s so fast, I barely have a chance to skip backward before I’m trapped.
“Don’t say that,” he snarls. “I’m not my father. Do you know why? I don’t view you as property. I don’t view you as less than me, but we are engaged. It may be a fake one, but it makes you mine for now, and I refuse to let anything happen to you. You want me to be sorry? I can’t be. Not when I know what that bastard has done,” he points out the window, “what he would have done to you. And I’d kill him a hundred times over if I could for even thinking he could take you by force.”
“Kai,” my voice shakes. My entire body trembles. I need my iron pills. A shot of whiskey. Anything to fortify me against this version of him.
Realization enters his expression. Kaison turns and stalks away, putting his back to me.
The silence pulsates between us.
“The other man,” Kai says in a low voice. “He was there to kill you that night. The meathead who put his hands on you was a paid-off distraction. If I hadn’t been there, the assassin from Midnight would have taken you out.”
I drop to sit on my little, unmade bed. “What?”
He turns so I only see half his face. “The assassin was likely sent by someone on the Midnight court, or maybe even my father. Though I imagine if the King knew we were traveling back and forth between Midnight and Common, I imagine he would put a stop to it.”
I open my mouth then shut it.
“If you want me to be sorry, I’m afraid I have to disappoint you.” He brings up his knuckles, looking at the heavy rings adorning them.
There he is. The Kai no one knows, fully realized.
A cold, powerful killer. A shrewd one at that.
Now that it comes into focus, I wonder why I didn’t figure it out sooner. So many signs, so many signals that he’s not what everyone says.
It’s as if I’ve seen the dark side of him no one else is supposed to. The parts he works so hard to keep hidden. I should be shaking with fucking unbridled fear, but I'm not.
But it is a lot to take in. He’s killed someone, for me. To protect me, and he’s saying he would do it again. It causes something to open up inside of me. Something I’m not sure I want opened.
I stand up again and take a step towards him.
Lucifer streaks past, a blur of black fur and bad attitude. He swipes at my ankles, leaving angry red welts in his wake. I trip over the demon cat, about to plummet.
Witchtits!
My arm smacks into the covered painting in the room, but I don’t hit the ground. Kai is there, holding me up, drugging me with his intoxicating scent and the intensity of his fury.
“Damn cat,” I breathe.
I hate that I want to kiss him. That I want to lose myself in Kai, right here, right after he confessed to killing someone.
Kaison's gaze falls to a spot over my shoulder. It’s landed on my painting, the twisted, tortured expressions of my innermost demons.
The mostly done painting of a girl’s face, eyes closed as thorny vines surround her, dig into her flesh until red drips from everywhere they bite into her.
“It’s supposed to be you?” he asks in a low voice.
I don’t respond, because he already knows. I didn’t mean for him to see it.
I move to block it from view, a reflexive action born of years of hiding, of burying my pain deep where no one can see.
As Kaison steps forward to intervene, Lucifer winds around his legs, purring like a damned engine.
The insult isn't lost on me—the way this demon cat accepts the fairy prince without question, after attacking me for no good reason.
I can feel myself slipping away, retreating into that empty, numb space where nothing can hurt me. It's a defense mechanism, a survival tactic that's kept me sane all these years.
“I’ve never seen your paintings before,” he says in a voice that seems far away.
Usually, my work is covered up or turned away from curious eyes.
Unable to stop him from looking, I make my way to my dresser and pull out my pills. I dry swallow two of them, leaning heavily against the mottled wood. “Can we go now?” I ask.
“Yes, of course,” he says, his edginess all drained away.
As I slip on my glass slipper, ready to return to the poisoned paradise of Midnight, I can't shake the feeling we both gave up an important hidden part of ourselves.
Things that should drive the other way.
But it only makes me want him more.