Chapter 43
SHRAPNEL
Poppy
Cotton candy smoke billows from my nostrils as I sloth in a candlelit bath and twirl the black candle between my fingers.
Mama’s words play on a loop in my mind, louder than the March rain slamming its wrath against the windows.
Her gift to me, my proverbial death as criminal royalty, has been crowding my mind.
I haven’t even been able to think about Leviathan’s persistent radio silence.
I’ve been too focused on this stupid candle.
I don’t know how long I sit here, spiraling down the rabbit hole. Long enough for Jezebel to nudge the bathroom door open, whiskers twitching as she sniffs the air. As if she can smell my emotional turmoil. She sits on her haunches beside the tub and chuffs. It sounds like, Talk to me.
I let it all fall out, searching her eyes as if they hold the answer. Those bright, blue oceans are as vast as the possibilities I can’t even comprehend without suffering a wave of nausea.
This is the last dilemma I should be concerned about. Although no other innocents have lost their lives since that ominous phone call with whoever had answered, the threat is still there. There’s a blade in the wind, and we’re merely waiting for it to drop on our necks.
Papa’s empire is a pile of rubble, but I’m still set to inherit it.
The question is: What do I want?
That noxious wave returns as Mama’s words circle me, leading my mind around and around like a carousel that won’t stop spinning.
For whenever you’re ready, she said as she handed me both salvation and damnation.
The former, because I’ll finally be free from the clutches of this depraved life; the latter, because my father will never speak to me again.
“I’m not ready,” I croak, my throat burning. “Not yet.”
Jezebel nudges my cheek with a gentle purr, offering quiet comfort as I let the tears slide free. That’s when I feel it: the unbearable pain of a period cramp.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I gripe as little warriors with little swords carve their little warpath through my guts. “Kuso!”
Jezebel yowls and darts out the door. I would, too, if I had supersonic hearing and had my eardrums blown out by a shrieking harpy.
Moments later, boots cross the bedroom floor in long, confident strides. They stop short at the door left slightly ajar. “You all right in there, Petit Diable?”
“I’m fine, mon ange.”
“You don’t sound fine.”
“Well, I am.”
“I’m coming in.”
A cramp stabs my innards, and I snarl, “Cross that threshold, and I will flay you alive and make you watch as I bumblefuck my way through wrapping your hide around your boring book.”
Bronte’s rich chuckle trickles through the door. “Bumblefuck?”
“Mind your own business and go away.”
“Not until you tell me what’s wrong.”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“Lie.”
“I hate it when you do that.”
“Oh, look. Another lie.”
I set my vape on the nearby sink counter with a sigh. “What’s wrong isn’t something you can fix.”
The door drifts open. I glance down at the evidence of my misery still dangling between my fingers. Quickly, I wind the candle into my hair as light pours in from the bedroom.
Bronte leans a shoulder against the frame, angling his jaw as he studies me from across the space.
He’s in his tastefully tight black tee and cargo pants, the charcoal strands of his hair slipping free of their slicked style.
His clever gaze flits to my vape then sweeps over the slivers of soapy skin he can see in the dim light.
“You make brooding in a bubble bath look sexy, ma reine.”
"I'm not in the mood."
"That's a first."
“I told you not to come in.”
“Actually, you told me not to cross the threshold.” He toes the wooden panel separating the rooms. “I think my hide is safe from your bumblefucking.”
Cheeky bastard. “For now.”
He grunts, unfazed. “Talk to me, Poppy.”
“I don’t want to talk. I want you to leave.”
“Lie.”
“What do you want from me, Bronte?” I explode, whirling in the tub so swiftly that water sloshes over the lip and slaps onto the floor. “Is it a confession you wish to hear? A truth free of any lies? Fine, here it is.”
I rip the candle from my hair and whip it at his chest.
“My mother gave me an out, and I can’t seem to decide which path I want to walk.
I made my first kill at nine years old, and I lost count of the lives I took before I was old enough to drive.
It didn’t matter if they were men or women, young or old.
I killed them all, because this is what I was born and bred to be.
Nothing changes that. Nothing. No one, not even you, is going to save me from the damage done to my soul.
And if anything were to ever happen to you because of me, I’d eat a bullet so I’d never have to look at myself ever again. How is that for the fucking truth?”
I don’t know what kind of reaction I’m expecting from him. A snapping riposte, maybe even a draconic roar I know he is entirely capable of making. He doesn’t do any of those things. No, he just pivots on his heel and walks away.
I sink under the water and envision strangling myself, screaming into the depths until my brain goes numb. When I slide back up, coughing suds, I glimpse a silhouette leaning against the sink and jolt out of my skin.
Bronte juts his chin toward me. “Finished?”
No longer trusting my forked tongue, I nod.
“Très bien.” He proffers a palm. “Out.”
I obey, shivering as his warm, calloused fingers close around mine. He leads me to my bed, nudging me forward with a palm splayed low on my spine.
“Lie down.”
I dig my heels in, rubbing my cramping abdomen. “I need a t—”
He grabs my nape, snarling in my face, “Lie. The fuck. Down.”
That shouldn’t be hot, right?
Gulping down desire, I slide onto the fur duvet. He turns to the nightstand, rummaging through a tray of massaging oils.
I immediately want to stab myself for being a raging bitch.
Bronte sniffs a few, waving the vials beneath his nose before uncapping a pair.
“That better not be chamomile and sandalwood.” I scrunch my nose the way I know he finds endearing. “They smell like dirty feet.”
“It’s balsam and lemongrass, my brother’s personal recipe for rough days.” His words are clipped and clinical, his movements rigid as he gestures to my naked body. “May I?”
I hate that he’s asking for permission to touch me. “Hai, you may.”
Thick oils splash onto my shoulders and down the curve of my spine. I shiver as he dribbles the cold liquid over my rear and down the soles of my feet. He coats his broad hands in a glistening sheen before leaning over me and kneading my shoulders.
I shudder and stifle a gravelly groan into my pillow. “Stars, this is almost better than sex.”
I hate that he doesn’t laugh.
“No wonder your first instinct is to bite.” His thumbs press deep, massaging in tight circles. “You’re knotted down to the bone.”
A string of senseless curses slips out as he works a particularly tender spot on each side of my neck. “I didn’t know muscles existed there to tangle.”
“They do, and they are. If I do anything that hurts, or you want me to stop, speak up.”
“Mhm.”
Bronte slowly works down my spine. My eyelids droop as I gaze into the flame upon a bedside candle and soak in each passing second of relaxation and relief.
“You’ve been holding out on me, mon roi.”
The heels of his palms dip into my tailbone, tight muscle loosening like melting clay. “As have you.”
Regret stings my eyes. “Bronte—”
“You spoke your truth, Poppy.” His hands skip down to my legs. “Let me speak mine.”
His words are short, curt, pained at their sharp edges.
I shut my mouth and wait.
“I knew who you were when we first met, but I didn’t know what to expect when I called you to make a deal.
It certainly wasn’t saving you from an assassin.
To this day, I wonder what would’ve happened if I hadn’t called at all.
If you’d crawled into bed that night only to wake to Vladimir Volkov crushing your windpipe. ”
I scoff. “Your lack of faith in me is wounding.”
He smacks my ass sharp enough to make me yelp in surprise.
“The fuck was that for?”
“Interrupting me.” There’s a dangerous glint in his hazel smolder as he slaps me again. “That was for the sass.”
I open my mouth to spit a retort, but he raises his reddening palm in warning. I grit my teeth, my cheeks burning as raw want heats my blood. He smirks, rubbing the thick muscles with a level of tenderness that melts me into the bed.
“We’ve both done terrible things. That doesn’t mean our futures are set in stone.
The difference between us is that I made my choice.
You have one to make, too. It doesn’t have to be today or tomorrow.
Take your time, figure out what it is you want and do it.
Despite popular belief, magic exists. It’s called free will. ”
Bronte leans down and presses a gentle kiss to my tattoo. I swallow a bout of tears as he finally cracks a genuine smile. It crinkles the corners of his eyes, stretches the scar over his right cheek. It’s so beautiful—he’s so beautiful, so seraphic. I’m completely spellbound.
“No matter what you decide, Poppy Lucia Morgenstern, I will be by your side. Whether you fly to heaven or fall to hell, I will fly or fall with you.”
A wall inside me fractures and then ruptures into a thousand tiny shards of shrapnel. I can almost hear it shattering like glass crashing to the ground. I know, right here and now, that the decision I make isn’t just impacting me.
It’s impacting him, too.
“Where did you learn how to wax poetic like that, mon ange?”
“Must be all the boring books I read.”
I giggle and kiss him as slowly as falling snow. His tongue rolls with mine, his lips tender and gentle. He tastes like forgiveness and patience. I want to bathe in his virtue, his grace, his divinity.
“You must be exhausted,” he murmurs. “I should let you sleep.”
“No.” I fist his hair. His lashes flutter, a purr rumbling through his chest. “Stay.”
“How can I resist when you beg like that?”
“You can’t.” I kiss the edge of his grin. “Scythe.”
His eyes slowly open, his pupils widening and contracting like he’s waging some inner war. “How is your wound?”
“Scarring, finally.”
“Any pain?”
“No.”
Bronte brushes his lips over my cheek. “Then I suppose you won’t mind if I fuck you to sleep tonight?”
“I, um…” I shift my hips, face heating when I spy the crimson blotch staining the duvet at the apex of my thighs. “We may have to wait a few more days.”
Bronte’s gaze snags on the blood. I expect disgust, not…hunger. His nostrils flare as he works a swallow down his thick throat, the darkness in his eyes warring for dominance. "I'm tired of waiting."
He rolls me onto my back and climbs over me. His large frame dwarfs me as much as a dragon dwarfs a mouse. But I don’t feel like a mouse around him. Even now, with him trapping me in place, I feel like his equal, his match.
“We don’t have to.” I place a palm on his chest. I don’t know his boundaries, especially given his past. Seeing is one thing, but feeling blood on his bare skin could be a trigger I have no intention of pulling. “Seriously, we can wait.”
His hazel smolder ignites with a burning flame. “How bad are the cramps?”
“Not that—” He nips my ear, chasing the lie from my tongue. “Bad.”
“Hmm.” He palms my navel, his long fingers slinking toward my aching core. “I can fix that.”
A leashed moan leaves my lips. Still, I push his shoulders. “Are you sure?”
Understanding clears his expression. “Oh, I—ah…I have a thing for blood in the bedroom. It’s different to me than what you’re thinking. So oui, I’m sure.”
“You have a blood kink?”
“Is that too strange for you?”
“No.” I fist his shirt and yank him down to me. “I really fucking love it.”
“Thank the angels you’re just as sick as me.”
I let out a moan, silenced by the pouring rain. “Shut up and fuck me, Scythe.”
“Begging already?” He tsks as he slips a single fingertip through my slick seam, teasing me with a slow stroke. “I thought you were too proud to beg.”
“Not begging. Demanding.”
“Always making demands, ma reine.” His finger dips into my pussy, delving deep, and I garble a curse. “How does taking a break from your throne sound?”
“Better than Mozart, mon roi.”
“That’s my girl.”
Bronte plants gloriously languorous kisses on my neck. Slowly, he curls a second finger into me, adding a third to stretch me taut.
“Bronte,” I groan, clawing his shirt as he winds me tighter and tighter. “I need you inside me.”
“Pathetic attempt, Petit Diable. You can beg better than that.”
His tongue and teeth rake a ravenous path of fire down to my heart. He lingers there for a long moment, kissing the flesh encasing that vital organ with undivided attention. It feels like he’s kissing my soul.
“Try again. Make it pretty.”
“I will not b—” I gasp as he snaps his teeth around a nipple, pinching and twisting. “S’il te pla?t. I’ll do anything you want.”
“Anything?”
“If you make me repeat myself just to hear it again, I will murder you.”
“Such a tease.”
He suddenly grabs my ankles and drags me to the edge of the bed. Before my brain can catch up with my body, he snatches my throat with blood-slick fingers and pulls me up.
“Sit like the goddamn queen you are.”
I obey, straightening my spine and crossing my legs. I lift my chin and set my features into stone.
“Bonne fille.” Bronte chuckles, slips a cigar from his pocket, and tucks it behind my ear like a flower. He skims a bloody fingertip down my chest, trailing a line of scarlet to my navel and drawing a downward arrow under my belly button. “I don’t need to explain this, do I?”
I shiver in anticipation but manage to steel my facade. “No.”
A devious smile spreads his lips, and it feels like I’m staring into the devil’s eyes as he croons, “If you wish for a safe word, you’d better tell me now.”
Fuck, what is this man going to do to me?
Nothing that will hurt me.
I know it. He knows I know it.
He just wants to hear me say it.
“No safe words.” A smirk twists my lips. “Scythe.”