Leandre Chapter 20 Healing Hands and Hidden Monsters 257
Leandre
The penthouse is quiet. Not the good kind—the kind after a raid, when the screaming stops and all you're left with is the ringing in your ears and the smell of someone else's blood on your hands.
Tonight, the violence lingers. I feel it in the furniture, in the walls, in the memory of Raven's face, pale and shaking, bruises spreading on her skin like rot on fruit.
The storm inside is anything but quiet. It wants blood. It wants to tear something apart. That bruise on her cheek—purple and ugly—burns itself into me. A brand. A failure.
I'm supposed to be the healer. The one who keeps them safe. The one who fixes what breaks.
But I wasn't there.
I can't wear stiff clothes tonight. Can't button myself into something that pretends I'm calm.
I yank on scrubs instead—soft, familiar—but even they feel wrong against my skin.
Nothing fits right when the hunger stirs.
It's always there—a gaping abyss I walk the edges of, constantly stopping myself from falling in.
Most days I can pretend it's just background noise. But tonight, with my venom in her system and her bruises on my conscience, the abyss is hungry. And it keeps whispering that she's the only thing that could ever fill it.
My thoughts keep circling back to the same damn thing: the two drops of venom in her tea. Two drops I put there without asking.
It's just a tool, I tell myself. Like a stethoscope. Like an x-ray. This isn’t any different than those.
The lie sits in my gut like spoiled meat. I know the difference. I've always known.
Consent. That's the difference. And I didn't ask.
I slip my phone into my pocket, clip my ID to my chest, and pause before slipping on my more comfortable pair of sneakers. I know my coworkers will gossip about the change of clothing. How it proves them right.
They keep telling me to take a vacation. As if I'd know what to do with one. They've even gone as far as leaving pamphlets on my desk. With titles like 'Burnout Prevention' and'Self-Care for Caregivers.' But what is my worth if I’m not helping those who need it most?
Mendez has kids. Chen has kids. They're already drowning in sleepless nights and school runs and all the small, regular things I traded away a thousand years ago. How can I ask them to cover my shift?
I barely sleep. I don't have a family. This burden is mine to carry. That's what I'm for.
I wait in the living room, unwilling to leave until my work here is truly complete.
The waiting is the hardest part. My hands need something to do, so I move through the penthouse on silent feet, righting a lamp someone knocked askew.
I refold the blanket I draped over the back of the couch earlier—the soft one, the wool-blend I hoped Raven would reach for when she needed something new to explore.
She hasn't. It sits there, untouched, a small failure among larger ones.
In the kitchen, I wipe down a counter that isn’t dirty, straighten the mug tree, and peel all the stickers off the items in the fruit bowl.
When I see Anik’s shaker cup sitting and dry on a towel next to the sink, I scoop his usual protein powder into it and place it where I know he’ll see it in the morning.
He’ll grunt something that’s as close to a thank you as I’ll ever get. Which is fine.
Kieran’s jacket is slung over a chair so I hang it. In the hall, I find one of his socks—gods, how does one man lose so many socks?—and toss it outside his door. Through the crack, I see his latest painting propped against the wall, half-finished.
It’s good. Better than good. He won't believe me if I say it, so I don't. Instead I step in, grabbing the discarded sock up, just long enough to cap the tubes of paint he left open, and wipe a stray brushstroke from the floorboards. He'll never notice. That's the point.
Forrest's suit coat is draped over the back of his office chair, tie puddled on the floor beneath it. I hang both, smooth the wrinkles. An empty mug sits beside his keyboard, forgotten hours ago. I take it. On the desk, a half-eaten sandwich—dry, neglected. I replace it with a fresh one from the kitchen, leave it in a paper sandwich bag where it won’t dry out and he’ll be sure to see it.
He'll eat it without thinking, probably won't even register the swap. That's fine too.
Emerson’s door is open but he’s locked away downstairs, having fun with our new guests.
Stepping in, I do my usual rounds, noting the mini fridge Anik stocks for him is nearly empty.
I’ll make sure to restock it tomorrow. I don't touch anything else.
He'd notice. He'd notice a single paperclip out of place, and then there would be questions, and then—no.
Better to leave his chaos exactly as he arranged it.
I pass by Raven's room. Her door is cracked, just enough to see movement.
She's propped against her headboard, the empty teacup on her nightstand.
Good. She drank it. She looks tired but peaceful, running her fingers over the fabric of Anik's shirt like she's still figuring out how to exist in a body.
Anik’s shirt.
Not the waffle knit set I left for her. The one I picked out specifically—soft, breathable, easy to move in. The one I folded and placed on her bathroom counter as she stood, motionless and in some sort of disassociative haze, while I readied what she needed.
I should have known that wasn't good enough. Should have grabbed something of ours instead. Of course she prefers our clothes. They're familiar, worn soft, and carry our scent. What I left was just... fabric.
I don't knock. I can't. Because if I did, I'd have to explain why I'm standing out here like the ghost she used to be, watching her.
And maybe that's why I understand her more now. This aching need to be near someone without knowing how to reach them. To watch from the dark because stepping into the light means admitting you're not sure you belong there.
But worse than any of those things, I'd have to face the truth I've been circling all night:
It's obvious I can't take care of her the way she needs.
I watch her for one more moment. Commit it to memory—the rise and fall of her chest, the way her fingers move over Anik’s shirt like it's the only thing keeping her tethered.
Then I turn away.
As I walk toward the elevator, my focus turns inward. To the few drops of venom now coursing through my lille r?dyr.
The nickname fits her more perfectly than ever. Seeing her wide-eyed and shaking, she was the very image of the little wild deer from the forests of my youth. Unpredictable. Startlingly beautiful. And so very, very fragile.
I note that the shock has passed completely. The sore spots on her scalp, the bruising on her arm, the livid mark on her cheekbone—all are healed. The physical evidence is gone.
But the men who did this still breathe. They are nieingr—honorless curs, the lot of them. The word, ancient and sharp on my tongue, is the only one that fits. They thought they could take what is under our protection.
I should be in that room with them. My hands should be the ones they fear.
But if I go in there—if I let myself get that close to what they did, to the memory of her bruises, to the hunger already stirring—I'm not sure I'd stop.
Emerson will be thorough. Kieran will be creative.
Forrest will ensure they survive long enough to regret everything.
I stay here because staying here is the only way I can hold on to any semblance of humanity.
Anik will watch over her while I go and heal whoever I can. All while the men who hurt her learn exactly what happens when you touch what's ours.
I feel her settle into bed. I shouldn't check. I check anyway.
Her mind sings, even asleep. A song I can't stop listening to.
She's guarded—better than she knows—but sometimes she projects, and when she does, it takes everything in me not to answer.
Not to reach back. Not to let the thing inside me off its leash.
I may not be the shifter I let people think I am, but it does nothing to stop my teeth from aching to sink in and finally steal a taste.
I still can’t believe I told her about my true nature.
I keep that part of me locked down tight.
Easier to let them assume since most fear vampires.
Good. Fear keeps them at a distance. It's why enclaves were built in the first place—islands of our own kind where we don't have to pretend.
The only outsiders allowed in are thralls, who offer themselves up to be fed on.
Most thralls are treated like pets. Others get it worse. And most of the time, they have no real idea what they're signing up for. They paint this romantic picture over it—a picture that doesn't exist.
I know. I did the same thing when I was turned. In that moment, standing on the edge of eternity, I pictured something beautiful. Then I learned what the picture was hiding.
I haven't set foot in a vampire enclave since the century I was turned. My human life ended not long after the longships left Paris in 845, their hulls weighed down with Frankish gold. That same gold fueled the betrayal that sent my life down a path I'd give anything to rewrite.
Well, maybe not anything. Not anymore.
My sire was a rare lone vamp who preferred solitude and the dark deeds that thrive in the shadows. The one enclave we briefly took shelter in felt more like a cage than a sanctuary, and I've avoided them ever since.
On the other hand, if I'd known from the start what he truly was, maybe the enclave wouldn't have seemed so bad.
It didn't matter. In the end, I learned the same lesson twice: there's no sanctuary with my kind and especially not for me.
I've stayed away ever since.
It's just easier to let people guess. Their assumptions are harmless enough. Certainly more harmless than the truth.