Chapter 35
POWERLESS
Poppy
Iinhale the faint scent of incense smoke and old books fused with snow and sea brine. Without opening my eyes, I know where I am.
Home.
Not Beelzebub’s, but the place I called home for eighteen years before I put what distance I could between me and my ancestors’ everlasting shadow.
Morgenstern Manor.
A barbed tongue tickles my face, and I swat it away. “I don’t need a bath, Jezebel.”
“Petit Diable?”
My eyelids snap open.
I’m in my room where I grew up, swathed in a sable yukata printed with pale pink cherry blossoms. Empty chairs surround me.
The fire in the hearth is low. Jezebel purrs as she flicks her snout up to lift my chin.
Clinical monitors map my pulse. An intravenous morphine drip is in my arm.
A hand squeezes mine, and my gaze clashes with twin hazel firestorms.
Memories flood my system, and my heart kicks. “Mon ange?”
Relief strikes his beautiful features like a meteor crashing to Earth.
Tears in his eyes, he kisses my palm, but it’s not enough.
I fist his shirt and pull him toward me, albeit weakly.
He climbs onto the bed, slinging an arm over my shoulders and tucking me into his side as I sob against his chest.
I could’ve died.
I could’ve fucking died.
My father may have raised me to be fearless, but death never stopped being the ultimate nightmare.
Bronte wraps me in his warmth, his arms strong as steel.
He dips his head to meld his cheek with mine and hums a song into my ear.
It sounds like a French lullaby. I don’t know how long we stay like that: me, snotting all over him; him, holding me like he’ll never let go.
Eventually, the maelstrom of emotion passes, leaving me drained and barely conscious as I nuzzle the hollow of his throat.
“How are you feeling, ma reine?”
“Like I took a knife to the gut.” I smile as he lets out a hoarse chuckle. “High as the fucking moon.”
“Enjoy it while it lasts.”
“I intend to.”
He thumbs my fringe aside and kisses my brow. “Do you remember what happened?”
I wish I didn’t, but I do. “I squared things with Nik and then had a panic attack. A woman wearing a Leviathan mask came out of nowhere, grabbed my knife, and stuck me. I fired a shot. The bullet grazed her ear. I fired a few more, but nothing hit.”
Bronte stiffens. “A woman? You’re sure?”
“She was wearing tight robes and definitely had tits.”
“Any other notable features?”
I delve into my mind, playing through the brief bursts of imagery. “Average build, though on the taller side. Ran quick and knew how to dodge gunfire. Beyond that…nothing.”
He eases back against the headboard. “Not Quinn, then. She’s fast, but she’s small like you.”
“You sound relieved.”
“Oui. It means we’ve hit yet another wall, but…I spoke with her. I’ll tell you more when you’ve had some rest.”
“Haven’t I rested enough?”
“You were stabbed, Poppy, and you lost a lot of blood. Your body went comatose to heal the worst of it, but you’ll still need a few weeks to recover.”
“Exactly what we don’t have: time.”
“We’ll do what we can.” He kisses my nose and traces his fingers over my dragon tattoo. “For now, rest is your ticket out of this bed.”
Rubbing my eyes, I scan the empty room and snowy windows. “How long have I been here?”
“A while.”
“How many hours?”
“Try days.”
“Days?” My eyeballs bug. “I haven’t pissed or shit in days?”
“That’s what catheters and bedpans are for.”
“Catheters and bed…” I wriggle beneath the blankets, and my pulse skyrockets. “Oh, kuso—”
“Relax, before you give yourself a heart attack.” He gives me what I assume is meant to be a reassuring smile. “Rin and Emi have been bathing and changing you.”
“Changing me?”
He winces. “Are you hungry? Thirsty?”
“I want to take my own bath,” I seethe, “and I don’t want anyone’s fucking help.”
Bronte chuckles, curling a knuckle beneath my chin and capturing my scowl with a tender kiss that nearly brings me to tears. “Don’t ever scare me like that again, Poppy.”
I kiss him, over and over.
Because I can.
And because I don’t want to make any promises I can’t keep.
Time passes in a haze. My friends visit when they can, even though they shouldn’t take the risk.
My parents linger when they think I’m asleep, their whispers low yet no less urgent.
Bronte only leaves when he must. Dante or Dr. V watch me in his stead.
Otherwise, he’s at my bedside. Reading, humming, sleeping.
Drinking coffee. Always, always holding my hand.
I yawn as Bronte settles into his seat with Jezebel stretching at his feet. “What are you reading tonight?”
“A book.” He winks at my scowl. “You wouldn’t like it. There’s no vampires.”
“That’s not all I read, you know.”
“There’s no sex, either.”
“Ugh, bor-ing.”
Bronte laughs quietly, opening his book and threading his fingers through mine. “Sleep, Petit Diable. You’ll need it for your session with V tomorrow morning.”
Dr. V left it up to me to resume our therapy visits whenever I saw fit.
The first day I was awake for more than an hour at a time, I made the call.
I can’t afford any more hazardous episodes, especially not after that last panic attack crippled me from defending myself and brought me too close to the grim reaper.
The next one could literally prove to be fatal.
I yawn again, nestling into the sea of pillows. Bronte smiles softly and leans over to brush a kiss to my cheek, far too chaste for my liking. I snag his shirt before he can straighten.
“Sleep with me, mon ange.”
A beat of silence passes, filled by the crackling hearth and the featherlight tap, tap, tap of snow against the windows.
“I don’t think that’s such a good idea, Poppy.”
“I meant actual sleep. The bags beneath your eyes are sagging worse than an old hag’s tits.”
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re shit at giving compliments?”
I toss him a droll look. “I’m obviously not going to jump your bones with all these stitches keeping my insides from spilling out.”
He sighs through his nose, eyeing me. “Can I trust you to keep your hands to yourself?”
“I take offense to your complete lack of confidence in my self-control.”
“You are a heathen.”
“Bronte Bourbon, I’m cold and tired and cranky. If you don’t get in here, I’m going to gut you and then crawl inside your stomach to use your corpse as my bed out of pure fucking spite.”
“Raziel.” He plops his book aside with a half-hearted glare and unlaces his boots. “If you’re going to use my name like a weapon, you may as well know the whole thing.”
“Raziel.” It tastes like ambrosia on my tongue. “Which angel is that?”
“The one who records divine secrets.”
“That’s actually very accurate. You do like to keep secrets.”
He scoffs and tugs the duvet, but I yank it back.
“Strip.”
He blinks. “Excusez-moi?”
“You heard me. Take off your clothes.”
“Poppy—”
“Everything but your boxers. Go on.”
Bronte curses under his breath but concedes, reaching between his shoulder blades to doff his shirt in a single fluid motion.
Warm firelight and cool moonlight eagerly lick between the deep grooves and high rises of his thick arms and broad chest and rippling abs, caressing his strong jaw and lapping the scar on his right cheek in ways nothing else ever could.
I’m fucking envious of that light.
He grins like a cat. “Like what you see?”
Who wouldn’t? “Take off the rest, you egotistical brute.”
“Egotistical brute? Is that meant to be an insult?”
“Hurry the fuck up, Bronte Raziel Bourbon.”
His laughter licks up my spine as he continues to undress.
Veins cording his long arms and big hands bulge as he grips his belt and flicks it loose.
Hypnotized, I watch him unbutton his pants and unhurriedly unwind the zipper.
He lets the thick fabric fall, nudging it aside with one powerful, tattooed leg.
His black boxers are tight enough for me to see the outline of his cock swollen halfway to a full erection.
Fuck, he’s enormous. It’s not natural for any man to have the manhood of a god, is it?
Saliva pools onto my tongue, and I audibly swallow. He climbs in and lowers onto his back beside me, fingers interlocking under his head as he lets out a heady groan of relief. The mattress gasps beneath his weight, wafting his scent over to me on a cloud of bourbon and cherry smoke.
I really, really need Bax to replicate that aroma as vape juice.
As I slide the furs over him, my focus locks onto a broken sword inked on his left thigh. I reach across him and—
“Poppy, hands.”
I scowl, pointing to the blade rather than touching it. “That’s a broken sword.”
“Ah, oui.” His tense body relaxes. “Narsil, the sword of Elendil. Before it became Andúril, the sword of Gondor.”
“I thought Dante was the nerd,” I utter, lying on my side to face him. “What does it mean?”
“After Elrond had it reforged for Aragorn, it became a symbol of—”
“Clarification: What does it mean to you?”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “Revival. Harmony. Hope for a better world.”
“That’s…beautiful.” Tentatively, I feather the tip of my forefinger over his scarred cheek. Despite his earlier warnings, he leans into my touch. I take his unspoken invitation to shift closer and trace the raised flesh in a soothing line. “You’re more broody than usual tonight.”
“Oh, lovely. More high compliments.”
I poke the edge of his frown. “What’s bothering you?”
“Nothing you should concern yourself with.”
“If it’s responsible for your rapidly growing age lines, I beg to differ.”
Bronte closes his eyes, his chest expanding with a full breath. “It’s Quinn. She’s been on my mind lately.”
My ears perk. He hasn’t mentioned her since the night I woke up. “Tell me what happened.”
“That’s the thing: I’m still trying to make sense of it.
” He relays his experience of discovering Quinn’s secret affair with Scull and her explanation for being involved with Leviathan before their spat ended on a sour note.
“When you and I showed your parents the video of Quinn planting that poppet at my house, Scull had ample opportunity to clear the air. Instead, he played dumb and let us believe he was chasing a lead. Why waste everyone’s time, including his own? ”
My heart skips as the answer clicks—and suddenly, it all makes sense. “That Machiavelli son of a bitch.”
Bronte peeks at me from the corners of his eyes. “Machiavelli?”
“Hai. The man who wrote the controversial classic about ruling with an iron fist.” His expression remains blank.
I huff, pointing to the bookshelf above our heads.
“It’s embroidered in gold. Grab it.” When he does, I finger through it, explaining, “Niccolò Machiavelli wrote this entire book dedicated to sovereigns. His ideals were radical but effective: power comes to those who strive to be feared rather than loved. Only those who are willing to rise by any means necessary will succeed in their reign. Especially through deceit and ruling with an iron fist.”
“And you have this because…?”
“I’m the daughter of a crime lord. Do the math.
” I close the book and splay a palm over the cover.
“Scull is likely using Quinn as a diversion. He’s manipulating her while simultaneously distracting us.
It’s genius, really. The more he leads us down the wrong path, the longer he has to fulfill his vendetta.
I wouldn’t be surprised if he set Quinn up from the start. ”
The revelation washes over him, shock quickly replacing the confusion. “Scull is a member of Leviathan.”
“Not just a member.”
“A Master?”
I nod. “It’s a probable theory, but we still need proof. Do you know where he lives?”
“Oui.” He tosses the duvet aside and begins to rise. “He’s been spending his nights with Quinn at the office. I’ll be back in—”
“No.” I grab his arm, my fingernails digging bloody crescents into his skin. “We’re not splitting up, mon roi. I’ve told you before: we work better as a team.”
“You’re a little out of commission at the moment.”
“I can handle myself.”
“You need to heal.”
“Bronte.”
“Poppy.”
“Stop arguing with me, and let me come with you.”
“No.”
My right eye twitches. “No?”
“Foreign concept?”
White-hot wrath arcs across my vision, and I lurch up—only to yelp in pain and flop down. Bronte utters curses and checks my wound, applying gentle pressure to the gauze on my stomach.
“You are not ready for this,” he insists, his tone both soft and hard. “I’ll move faster on my own.”
“I’m fast enough.”
“You shuffle like a penguin to and from the bathroom.”
“That’s because my calves hurt from not using them.”
“Exactly. Your body is in a weak state.”
“I’m not fragile, fuck you very much.”
His glare turns glacial. “Is that what you believe? That I think you’re fragile?”
“You just said I’m not strong enough to—”
Bronte grips me by the throat and hauls me onto his lap. I gasp, shoving the butterfly knife from my pocket under his chin. A trickle of blood slides down the rainbow blade from his stubble to my trembling fist.
A slow, knowing grin slants his mouth. “Still believe I think you’re fragile, Petit Diable?”
My strength—or apparent lack thereof—has nothing to do with it. I don’t want him going in alone. Knowing our luck, shit will find a way to go sideways. What if he gets hurt? No one will be around to doctor him back to life.
My chin wobbles as I picture him lying in a bed, unconscious for days. For the first time in my life, I feel completely and utterly powerless.
“Don’t go alone.”
“I work best alone.” Bronte skates his palm over my heart threatening to split in half. “You will see me again, Poppy.”
I don’t argue any further, pocketing my knife and hanging my head. “At least call Emi to navigate any cams for you.”
“I will.” His arms wind around me, hugging me to him. “When I get back, I’ll cuddle you properly.”
“Promise?”
“Scout’s honor.”
My snigger stutters into sobs. He smooths his hands up and down my spine, humming softly. His voice is my anesthetic, and I slowly lose my grip on reality.
“Bonne nuit.” Bronte angles my jaw up with a knuckle and kisses me once, deliriously deep. I instantly mourn his lips when they’re gone and chase him for another. Chuckling, he obliges and shifts me onto my back and tucks me under the covers. “Ma reine.”
“Say that again,” I mumble into my pillow. “It’s fucking hot.”
“And you wonder why I’m an egotistical brute.” His grin settles against my lips. “Ma reine.”