32. Louise
F ocus sharpens my senses out of the haze of sleep, as I become aware of the strange sensation of Sébastien tenderly lapping at the crescent moon of teeth marks that wreaths the outside of my left wrist, the ring of raw flesh left by so many hours spent in handcuffs—angry, red, and flaking where the scabs have dried and begun to pull away from the healthy skin.
Even though the bite stings slightly, the tender sweeps of Seb’s tongue help to ease the pain.
I can feel the buzzing of approval along the mating bond that connects us even though Caz is still asleep.
I feel him, warm and resonant just beneath the surface—a glimmer of Quentin shining through like rays of sunlight.
Even though I've taken Frank's knot, we did not exchange bites. For this, he may never forgive me.
What I could not say, what I would not say is that I wish I had bitten him—but I will not disrespect myself or any of the rest of my pack members by giving or taking his bite when his mind is on our lost mate—not the Saints, not me.
Even though Frank and I do not yet share the connection that I have made with the other Saints—the closeness and the intensity of the moment with him buried inside me—I could feel just how far away he was.
I won't do that to my pack. I won't let him do it to himself.
In time once we've all had a little while to make more sense of things and I'm a bit more secure in the bond that I have made with the others—if Frank comes around to understand that this is what he really wants, then we can revisit the subject and not a moment sooner.
Right now, our priority is survival, and I am prepared to do anything to protect my pack.… even if that means protecting it from another of our fated mates.
The very idea sends a pang of longing through me. If one could be homesick for a person—I would be homesick for both Dennis and Frank; both so close and yet so far.
I look out of the large plate-glass windows at the bow of the ship where Frank leans against a rail, looking at the gulls and the rays of sun on the surface of the water; his elbows propped on the railing—hands dangling from his relaxed wrists—the wind in his coal black hair.
The duality of it is so strange; at once being so compelled to go to him—to bring him inside the circle and yet at the same time to keep him at an arm’s distance—to protect the others from him.
To protect myself.
Beside me, Quentin rolls over, his yellow-green eyes slitted lazily in the morning light like a cat. He follows my gaze out the window, then reaches up to touch my arm.
“He'll be alright.” Quentin assures me. I nod and turn away from Frank.
“Yeah, he'll survive.” I wriggle back beneath the covers, Sébastien and Caz still indulging in their nap after our exertions.
“We should get going soon, make the run for supplies,” Quentin yawns, giving his long limbs a good stretch before turning on to his side and pulling me toward him, making me the small spoon as he curves around my back like the moon.
“What if I don't want to go? What if I just want to stay here? Like this?” I pout like a spoiled child.
“Well, isn't it good that you can stay? That you should stay, actually. Until we do something about this.” Quentin pinches a lock of my bright red hair between his fingers, pulling it back from my face and tucking it behind my ear.
He places a kiss on the angle of my jaw before dropping his head back on his own pillow.
“After that wig I wore in our escape from Liberty City, are you thinking that you like me better as a brunette?” I tease.
But Quentin doesn't laugh.
“I love your hair just the way it is. Like a sunset or the changing of the leaves or fire—with your brown eyes and alabaster skin, it makes you look like a painting.”
I feel the tip of his nose brush against my ear; hear the little pained sigh he releases as he thinks of it going away.
“Where we're going, you'll draw the least attention as a blonde,” he laughs unkindly. “Lucky for you, Sébastien's actually a whiz with the pair of barber’s shears, and I've never seen Caz without a perfect bleach job.
This sets us both into a fit of giggles that rouse Seb and Caz from their slumber.
“Fuck, what time is it?” Caz hisses as he sits bolt upright in bed, Seb hurrying after him.
“It's alright, we've got time.” Quentin assures them lazily, lifting himself from bed while I refuse, only coiling myself tighter and tighter in sheets and blankets.
Even though I'd only been making fun about staying back at the yacht, I'm surprised by how quickly I fall asleep. One moment I'm listening to the boys discuss logistics about going to the market, picking up our uniforms, making the cash drop—and the next, I'm in dead asleep.
My dreams are fraught with curious images; Caz and Sébastien dressed in robes of grey and white, bathe my bleeding feet In the bowl of water hewn of pure hammered gold.
I try to speak to them but my words do not reach their ears. Once I understand that they cannot hear me, I cover my eyes.
The tears I cry fall like tiny red gemstones. Like blood, no—like the seeds of a pomegranate into the damp black earth.
Quentin bursts forth like a plant stretching its limbs forth toward the sun; a tree, cracked bark and shining green leaves shooting skyward—fingers grasping.
I reach for him, for his outstretched hands, but the unfurling boughs of the tree, growing ever taller, only seem to extend further from my reach.
The fruit, shining and red; its blossom end like the pointed spires of a crown, finds itself in the palm of my hand.
Knowing I shouldn't, I press my thumbs into the skin and tear my harvest in two. The flesh, like clusters of red gems, twinkle back at me as I hold one ragged half of the fruit out to Dennis; his lips already shadowed with the stain of their juice.
Crushing, creeping—I feel the coil of muscle and sinew as it winds tighter and tighter around me; black and the silver scales like the night sky drawn with stars push sweet air from my lungs.
A snake, A spiral, A glimpse of true danger—of evil.
Yet at the same time, I also catch a rare view into a twisted kindred soul. Like ink diffusing into water or darkness falling over the land as the sun sets; Frank descends upon me, threatening to consume me whole.
I jolt awake in a cold sweat just as the sun is about to begin its golden arc down behind the horizon into the lilac of twilight and blue of night.
I'm still alone. The rest of the Saints have not yet returned to the yacht.
I peel my tank top away from my clammy skin and step out of my soaking underwear. I haven't had a real shower in days, and right now, little else could sound much better.
Under the hot water, I wash my hair and shave my legs. No doubt our temporary cover will require a fair amount of shorts and bathing suits.
I emerge from the tiny capsule shower and use my towel to clear a circle of mirror through the stream. Running my fingers through my wet hair, I take a moment to mourn it. I've never been a blond, but they say blonds ‘have more fun.’
An unexpected laugh bubbles up from me, and I feel a warm fizzling joy reflected and multiplied by my mates at the end of the bond.
A loud burbling noise from my stomach lets me know that I need at least a glass of water before the boys come home.
In our initial rummaging, I didn't find much. A couple boxes of stale crackers, some emergency rations, and of course, a miniature refrigerator completely filled with champagne.
Champagne. An ice-cold glass doesn't sound bad right about now.
I step into a pair of yoga pants and pull on a plain black sports bra from the assortment of garments that have made their way with us from Liberty City to the yacht.
I toss a towel over my head and do my best to dry my hair. I scrub the plush white cloth over my mass of tangled hair as I walk barefoot into the salon. When I remove the towel from my head, I nearly scream at the unexpected sight of two figures on the white leather couch.
The scream dies on my lips when I see it’s Susan Lowry and Ed Compton—perched there with smug smiles on their faces, flutes of the ice-cold champagne I'd had designs on earlier held aloft as if it were simply cocktail hour.
Blood rushes in my ears, and I'm worried I'm about to pass out when Susan reaches out a hand to me—the large diamond center stone of her wedding ring winking in the light.
Like a trained dog, I reach for her.
For so many years, this was the hand that I held—that I looked for when I needed help.
As soon as our fingers touch, I recoil.
“What are you doing here?” I struggle to breathe, my lungs starving for oxygen as if I can't seem to catch a breath.
“Louise, darling, I should think that's obvious.” Susan croons condescendingly.
Compton rolls his eyes and tosses back a deep slug of his champagne.
“Come on, kid. You've got a lot of fight in you, but you're not stupid,” he scoffs, slouching down on the white leather couch.
“It's true we had hoped that you would cooperate where your parents had not,” Lowry sighs regretfully.
“Of course, whether or not your parents decided to cooperate with us wouldn't have saved them from elimination. As soon as they discovered those indicators, the very moment they developed the serum—we no longer needed them.”
“You, on the other hand, Louise, we do need. You are the key to everything.”
My head begins to swim with panic and I desperately pray that this is just another dream, another nightmare.
“It would have been easy to kill you, to eliminate you like your parents.
But, you see—it's rather difficult for a shadowy cabal to profit off of the Zeitnot virus without a cure.
Of course, once we've figured out how to develop such a cure, we won't have a need for you any longer, but—Compton has more confidence in our R&D than I do.
I have a feeling you'll be around long enough to be very, very uncomfortable If you don't cooperate.”