Текст книги "The poison daughter"

Автор книги: Sheila Masterson

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Текущая страница: 26 (всего у книги 48 страниц)

“But you can do it,” Henry says.

Carter holds up a hand. “If you could give me a second to think, I could.”

He paces back and forth a few times, then looks toward the catwalk and back at the bodies on the floor.

My hands are still tacky with drying blood. It’s a reminder that my time to escape without making a scene is dwindling. I try to think like Kellan. How would he manage a situation like this? He would never use his manipulation on someone who wasn’t asking for it.

“Could you make him believe that he hurt his friends?” I ask. “Like, could you make him stab them now and then trick his brain into thinking he’d done all this violence?”

“That is a degradation of a blessing,” Carter says, his face the picture of genuine disgust. “Just because Polm is Divine of Malice doesn’t mean his blessings have to be used for harm. Very few even have that level of power. It’s a rare gift that can force someone to do a physical act.”

Henry meets my eye, and I wonder if he’s thinking of the fight against the rebels at our engagement dinner—of Kellan forcing all those men to lie on the ground until dawn. Kellan’s magic is very powerful. It’s the reason he’s the leader of the city guard.

“Doesn’t seem rare enough in Lunameade,” I say.

All of them stare at me blankly.

“There are those who would use their blessings to—force women,” I say.

Henry’s aura billows out like an explosion in all directions. “What are you talking about?”

All three of the other men flinch.

I scoff, trying to shove down the panic and rage. “Calm down, my wolf. Not me. Women I know. Women in my community.”

This is too close for comfort. Anger claws its way up my throat, dragging something from the center of me. I take a breath, shove it all down, and level a glare at the men.

“Do you know one of the first things a girl learns when she’s young? The first thing her mother teaches her when she’s coming of age?”

None of them speak.

“How to recognize influence blessings. What the first press of it feels like—how to ground yourself so that it can’t get in deeper. I don’t imagine that men learn the same, judging from the looks on your faces. It might be rare in your circles, but it’s not rare in this world.”

Even Gaven looks chastened.

It’s a slip-up. I am slowly splintering, and I need this figured out now so I can leave this room that smells like mold and death and breathe clean air.

“Their families—” I gesture to Joe and Roland’s bodies. “They’re powerful, right?”

Henry nods. “Not as much as Stefan’s, but still very connected.”

I scour my brain for a believable lie. “What if Joe and Roland were tired of playing sidekick? What if they wanted to take Stefan on?”

Henry frowns. “It would make more sense for them to wait until I was out of the way too, but it could work.”

“Can’t you just make him forget?” I ask.

Carter rolls his eyes and bends to check Stefan’s breathing. “I can’t erase a memory or remove it, but I can refocus the mind on different parts of a memory. The more you know the person, the easier they are to influence. To know them is to understand what motivates them. Minds want to take the path of least resistance. But Stefan hates Henry and, by proxy, you. I’m not sure how I’d find a way in.”

I replay the few interactions I’ve had with Stefan in my mind. “He wants to fuck me.”

Henry’s jaw clenches. “And how is that relevant?”

I place a hand on his chest. “Calm down. You can’t be the bad guy, but I can. What if I make myself the slut everyone already thinks I am?”

“Absolutely not. That will humiliate me,” Henry says.

I glare at him. “And yet, somehow I’m certain your ego will survive.”

Carter and Bryce muffle nervous laughter.

“You could make him think I lured him here to seduce him. We thought it would be somewhere that we wouldn’t be disturbed.”

“Harlow, no,” Henry says at the same time Carter says, “That could work.”

I push my advantage. “The people here already hate me. If anything, you’ll get sympathy. I lured him away. We thought it would be safe here. Joe and Roland were supposed to stand guard. The Breeder got free of its cage. There was a fight and all of you showed up at the tail end of it.” I turn to meet Carter’s gaze. “Could you do that?”

He gives a half-hearted shrug. “I could.”

“Absolutely not. There has to be another way,” Henry says.

Gaven sighs. “I don’t like it either because it puts her more at risk, but we’re running out of time and I don’t see another option. The hunters outside those doors are going to be wondering what happened. This story holds up for them and it holds up with what’s here in the room.”

I can feel Gaven’s disapproval, but I can’t tell if it’s because of the kiss or the suggestion or both.

Henry looks to his friends.

“She’s right, Hen. It’s the only way to keep the target off of you,” Carter says.

“But they’ll hate her. It will be more dangerous for her,” Henry argues.

“They already think she’s a selfish, spoiled city girl from a corrupt family. If we play into their expectations, they won’t look for another explanation,” Bryce says.

I hold up my hands. “Good—it’s settled. I need to go back to my room and wash up.”

“You’re hurt,” Henry says.

“You’re hurt worse. Clean up here. Gaven will walk me back to my room.” I thread my arm through Gaven’s and start toward the door before Henry can argue.

Bryce makes short work of the bar on the door, ready to intercept the half-drunk hunters as we slip out.

Gaven and I walk in silence down the gravel trail back toward Havenwood House. Silver moonlight turns the evergreen tree shadows ghoulish as we cut up the trail toward the back door.

He waits five blessed minutes before chastising me. “That was incredibly foolish.”

“Believe me. Silk would certainly not be my first choice for a fight with the Drained, but⁠—”

Gaven jerks me to a stop. “Is the careening toward oblivion going to stop at some point? The risks you were taking in Lunameade were one thing, but this isn’t a controlled environment and you are not invincible, Harlow.”

The venom in his voice is as startling as the use of my name. As much as I resent his coddling, Gaven has always been a better approximation of a father than the man who raised me. A more gracious woman would appreciate his concern, but it just makes me feel stupid.

I glance back the way we came. “Stefan and his friends caught me off guard. They must have spotted me and followed me through the sixth level. I just wanted to peek and see if the Havenwoods were really keeping a Drained, especially after what that idiot at the bar told me about the Breeders. I’m here to do a job and I got in a little over my head, but I’m not trying to make a regular thing of rumbling with these mountain men.”

His scrutinizing gaze rakes over me. “You fell from the second story?”

I don’t remember the fall. I remember the moment before and the moment of impact, but the falling is a blank spot in my mind, just like stabbing Joe. It frightens me that this could be my descent into the same madness that claimed my father and brother.

Forcing the thought away, I shrug. “Fortunately, Joe broke my fall, so⁠—”

“What happened in there?” Gaven snaps.

“A man put his hands on me.”

“And?”

“And I put my hands on him back.”

He clenches his jaw and looks away. “We’re going to discuss this later.”

That’s all the scolding I can take. I continue up the trail toward the house, listening to Gaven’s footsteps behind me as I cross the back patio and duck inside the large glass doors of the solarium.

The glass panes of the ceiling form a moonlit checkerboard on the tile floor and highlight the white, shimmering petals of the Stellarium Blossoms. I’ve only ever been in this room in daylight, when the blooms look withered and dead. They’re named after the Divine of Stars and Darkness because of the way they come alive in the dark.

These flowers are rare in Lunameade, but grow wild in the mountains here. They’re stunning. Moss grows over the rims of the planters and the vines cling to the glass walls, forming an intricate pattern all the way up to the ceiling. Their soft floral scent fills the space, blending with the ever-present beeswax smell of the rest of the house.

Havenwood House is quiet. The gentle clatter of dishes echoes down the hall from the kitchen.

The glass door creaks open behind me as Gaven enters. “His parents should already be in bed. I ducked in the kitchen and let them know you’d need a bath.”

My scolding from him and the sight of the flowers offered only a temporary distraction from the growing panic in my body.

Gaven steps up beside me, and I let him lead me up the back stairwell to my room.

He posts himself beside the door and gives me a hard look. “Don’t sneak out again.”

I know he thinks it wasn’t worth the risk, but he always thinks that. Besides, I learned something valuable.

When I push through the door into my bedroom, Cora, my maid from the wedding ceremony, is waiting for me. She quickly fetches water to fill the bath—not well water like below the manor, just fresh water from a nearby river channeled through a network of pipes in the fort. She places heated sunstones in the tub.

I begin to wash the blood from my hair, face, and hands in a bucket of warm water she brought separately, so that I can keep the bath from getting bloody.

“I can help you with the bath, miss. I don’t mind,” she says, clearly noticing the way I’m struggling to move with my broken ribs.

But I can’t bear one more person touching me today.

I dump an unnecessarily wasteful amount of soap into the tub and the room fills with the soft lilac scent of it as I peel the last bit of sticky silk and lace from my body.

The bubbly water is divine on my sore muscles as I step into the bath. The ache of last night is still alive in my hamstrings, inner thighs, and even inside me in a pleasant way that I feel when I twist. But the ache from the fight is more present. My forearm stings where the fresh cut is red and angry, and the growing pain in my ribs makes it hard to really relax.

I resign myself to quickly wash my hair and scrub the day from my skin. I lean my head back, lifting my hair over the lip of the tub and resting my neck.

Now that I’m safe—or at least as safe as I have ever been—it all hits me.

The adrenaline is like being struck by lightning. One moment, I am functional, and the next, my body is trembling like I’m electrified by delayed fear.

I try to suck in great gulps of air, but it’s like my lungs can only hold a mouthful. The air wheezes in and out quickly. My heart is so thunderous, pumping so loudly, it’s all I can hear. Tears burn in my eyes and I’m afraid I will drown here, not in this tub but in whatever this torrent is.

It feels like dying—or at least what I imagine dying feels like.

Though it always passes, I wish so badly I could feel nothing at all. That I could be the woman I am in the tense moments when I can think clearly and strategize. I don’t want to be someone who breaks, and I definitely don’t want to think about that moment of blind rage.

The anxiety builds to an all-consuming peak, and at the center of the storm, I try to call up Aidia’s soothing voice—how she would tell me to look for something in the room to ground me.

“My heart,” I rasp between desperate gasps of breath.

But there is no one to say, “My bones.”

And it feels wrong to say “Our blood” when I’m alone. I’m so miserable that I let myself miss her—feel frightened for her—desperately wishing she were here.

I sink under the water and allow myself one good sobbing scream even though it sends a fierce shock of pain through my ribs.

When I come up for air, my chest is burning and my vision is spotty, but it’s like the scream let something loose, and the tension begins to unwind.

I’m homesick. This feeling is nothing new—the instinct to go home, but not to my home. Maybe it’s just the fleeting human impulse to seek shelter, to endlessly search for comfort even if you’ve never really known what it was to begin with.

I’ve been hit enough to know that pain is not a home, but it felt like all I deserved. Over time, I started to believe it.

Some old base instinct clings to the possibility of something better—the myth of it alive inside me, the way a story sinks into bones and becomes as real as the ache in your ribs when you watch two lovers kiss.

My breathing slows and the very real ache in my ribs returns. I splash water on my face and sigh, batting a mound of bubbles onto the carpet.

The bathroom door flies open, and Henry storms in so fast I don’t even have time to reach for the dagger I left on the shelf next to the tub.

“Get out,” I snap.

His dark hair is damp, and he’s changed into linen pajamas. There’s something about the contrast of seeing him with a feral look in his eyes while wearing matching navy pajama separates that makes me want to laugh.

He sniffs the air and narrows his eyes at the bubbles like an assailant might be hiding beneath them in the giant tub. “I wanted to make sure you were actually in here.”

I stand. The bubbles slide down my body and my skin tingles as his gaze follows their path. “Leave.”

He arches a brow. “Is that what you want? After playing games with me? After touching yourself where I couldn’t get to you and making me watch? After going upstairs in a boarding room with another man? After trying to kiss Stefan?”

A slow smile tugs at my mouth. I didn’t think any part of this assignment would be fun, but driving this man out of his mind is so easy.

“First of all, there’s nothing wrong with a woman practicing a little self-care alone in her safe room.”

He huffs a laugh. “Self-care.”

“Second, I went upstairs with that idiot to get information about a dangerous situation within the fort. I’m miles from home and surrounded by strangers, and I think I deserve to know about the very real threats to my safety.”

His hand flexes at his side. “You are the greatest threat to your safety.”

“Thank you for the vote of confidence. I’m inclined to agree with you now that the deadly evolved vampire is gone.”

Henry glares at me.

I step out of the tub onto the plush carpet and grab the soft white towel from the hook beside the bath. Wisdom tells me not to test him, but I haven’t had nearly enough fun tonight.

Instead of wrapping it around me, I slowly begin patting myself dry—starting with my neck, then my breasts, then sliding it between my legs.

Henry tracks my progress with interest before he snaps out of his daze. “I should heal your ribs.”

The vanity counter is cold against my ass, and I shift back to lean on my hands. I intentionally leave my thighs spread. I don’t actually want him to fuck me, but I like knowing that he’s thinking about it.

Henry drinks me in for a long moment, like he’s saving this view in his mind for later. He mutters a curse and places his hand over the cut on my forearm.

My skin tingles pleasantly, then itches horribly. When he lifts his hand, there’s no trace of the wound. It stuns me every time. I wish I could place his hand over my mind and erase whatever ails me.

He gently moves his palm to my left ribs, prodding tenderly with his finger until I wince. “Two broken. You’ve felt it before. Bones are one of the most uncomfortable things to heal.”

I hum in agreement, closing my eyes.

The tingling healing sensation sinks through my skin, a cooling balm against the angry, heated pain in my side. Goosebumps rise on my skin, my nipples tighten, and I shiver. Then, the wretched itching sensation in my bones returns.

Henry senses it. “Distract yourself. Talk to me about something.”

I can’t look at him when I ask, so I just keep my eyes closed and head tipped back. “What happened when you died?”

I feel Henry still for a moment, and the itching seems to halt with that stillness, but it’s so quick I doubt myself.

“That’s too personal,” I say, swallowing the lump in my throat. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

Even though my eyes are closed, I swear I can feel him looking at me.

“I won’t let anyone hurt you, Harlow.”

It may as well be a door slammed closed in my face. Stupid of me to ask. Now I’ve tipped my hand and let him know he has something I want.

The itching in my ribs is almost unbearable.

“You didn’t have to agree to take the blame,” Henry says.

I sigh. “Of course I did. I can’t help Aidia if I can’t help you.”

“I’ll keep you safe,” he says, his thumb brushing lightly back and forth over my skin.

The itching finally ebbs as I blink my eyes open. “You can’t promise that.”

He looks at me like I’ve insulted him, which I suppose, by their cultural standards, I have, but the day I rely on a man to protect me will be my last. Even Gaven, who has literally saved me from the Drained and men alike on multiple occasions, can’t be fully trusted.

Henry steps back as if realizing that I’ve closed the door to any intimacy between us.

“You’ll sleep in my bed tonight.” He says it with a truly astonishing certainty for a man whose death I spent hours planning this morning.

“And be imprisoned by your snuggling again? No, I don’t think so. It’s been a long day and I need rest.”

His aura is wild, swirling around both of us. It’s always been unique in both color and opacity, but now it’s blown out wide, filling the whole space. It’s such a deep, warm purple, as if he’s so angry, even his aura is smoldering with it.

He stands over me, all menace and desire and a cocky self-assurance. “You kissed me.”

“To shut you up,” I counter.

“You could have covered my mouth with your hand,” he says.

“My hands were bloody.”

“I think you like kissing me, Harlow.”

I glare at him. “I think you want me to say I like it so you don’t have to think about the fact that I have nothing to compare it to.”

There’s a scratching sound at the door that leads to my closet. Henry crosses the bathroom and opens the door. Kyrin struts into the bathroom, nuzzling his head against my hip. I run a hand over his fur, and he yawns and nods his head toward my bedroom.

I turn to follow him as he trots into my room, casting a glance over my shoulder at my husband. “Sorry, Henry. This bed is only big enough for one wolf, and that spot has been claimed.”

I take pleasure in slamming the door in his face for the second time in a day.

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34HENRY

Iwake from a nightmare, panting. The linen sheets are plastered to my skin with sweat. My bad dreams are frequent, but they’re always of the night of the attack. They’re always Holly’s determined face as she turns away from my broken body to face the Drained.

But not tonight. The Divine must want to torture me because I dreamed of Harlow, blood-soaked and facing off with that Breeder.

If she wasn’t such a Divine-damned pain in my ass, I could look at her beside me in bed and know she’s safe—that the future of the fort is safe. Instead, she’s locked in her bedroom, probably sleeping soundly.

Fierce, driving rain pounds against the windows, the wind howling through the old panes.

Faint scratching sounds from the washroom that connects my room to Harlow’s have me up and out of bed in seconds.

I pause, straining to hear over the storm. Kyrin whines on the other side of her bedroom door, and the scratching returns.

I try the handle, but it’s locked. Pressing my ear to the door, I try to calm my breathing. The storm sounds louder in her room. Like the windows are open or—the balcony doors.

I draw back and jam my heel into the spot right above the doorknob. It rattles and groans but doesn’t open. It takes three more tries before the door finally flies open and splinters fly in all directions.

The balcony doors are thrown open and the wind batters them against the wall. The rain-soaked curtains snap in the wind.

Harlow isn’t in her bed.

All the panic I felt upon waking returns in a stifling wave.

I race out onto the balcony.

Harlow stands precariously poised on the railing, staring down at the stone patio below. Her nightdress is plastered to her skin, her hair hanging in soaking clumps down her back.

Calling her name might startle her, so I approach her carefully from behind. She remains frozen in place despite the battering rain and wind.

Finally, I’m close enough to reach her. I wrap an arm around her waist and yank her back, and she instantly goes rigid. She struggles until she tips her head up and looks at me.

“Henry?” She blinks rapidly, looking from me to the sky, and then around the balcony. “How⁠—”

I swipe an arm under her legs, lift her, and carry her inside.

I place her on her feet inside the room and close the doors. My hands are shaking so badly that I fumble to latch them closed. Then I stay there with my hands on the glass for an extra moment, trying to compose myself.

Finally, I turn to face her. “What were you doing?”

“I was asleep,” she says flatly.

“You were standing on the railing like you were going to jump.”

The confusion on her face transforms into irritation. “Bleeding woods! I’m not suicidal, Henry. Being married to you isn’t that bad. I just had a bad dream.”

“About tonight?”

A crease forms in her brow. “I don’t remember. I just know I felt stuck there.”

She wraps her arms around herself and shivers. She needs to get warm and get in my bed.

It’s a testament to how rattled she is that she lets me guide her into the washroom. I peel the soaking silk from her skin and wrap her in a towel. By the grace of the Divine, she lets me. I grab another towel and pat her hair.

Her skin is covered in goosebumps. I leave to rifle through my closet until I find a sweater. She doesn’t even say anything snarky about it being mine. She just lifts her arms and lets me slide it on her.

I tilt her chin up so she has to meet my eyes. “Now get in my bed.”

She grumbles something under her breath, but she trudges into my room and climbs into the bed, pulling the cover up to her chin.

Kyrin makes to follow her until I whistle. He whines but retreats to his place by the fire.

I stoke the fire with an iron poker and try to calm my thundering heart.

Finally, I climb into bed beside my wife. She’s curled on her side, facing me.

“No more fighting me about sleeping in here,” I say.

She purses her full lips. “If I can’t fight, how else will I turn you on, my wolf?”

I take her hand in mine. Her pale skin is so soft, her fingers delicate and thin, like a musician’s. She tries to pull her hand away, but I grip it tighter.

“Don’t fucking fight me. It’s this or I will tie you to the headboard. Just go to sleep.”

She looks at my hand in hers like my touch is causing her physical pain. Then she huffs and closes her eyes.

We lie there for a few long minutes, listening to the roar of the storm and the crackling fire.

“Harlow?”

She blinks her eyes open.

“You would say it if you needed a break, right?”

She frowns. “Say what?”

“It’s not just for sex. If you need to quit—if you were breaking—you would say Stars, right?”

Her eyes narrow. “I never quit and I won’t break.”

She’s certain in the way only someone divorced from any real tragedy can be. I spent my youth certain I was unbreakable. No one thinks they will break until they meet the thing that shatters them.

I don’t fall asleep again for hours—until she’s sleeping fitfully, her breathing soft and even, her hand still in mine. As I drift off, I think about how comforting it is to feel her hand in mine.

But when I wake up at first light, her side of the bed is cold. She’s gone, and so is the sense of any ground gained. Whatever vulnerability could exist in the dark can’t endure in the light of day.

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