Page 14 of Blood & Bedlam

Fuck, what an ending.

I brace for impact, but it does nothing to stop the pain that ricochets up my back and bones. The hard ground expels all the air from my lungs in an agonizing whoosh, stealing any breath I might have used to scream. I sputter, groaning, and I turn over. There’s something hot and wet leaking from my temple, but the adrenaline flooding my system lends me a little courage. I come up on wobbling feet, disoriented, and take three steps when a blur skids to a stop in front of me, displaced air blowing my hair around.

He towers above me, the phantom of my dreams made real, with a scowl on that perfect face. A face that’s currently swimming in and out of focus, but I’m fucked if I don’t move now. I’m scrappy, and maybe it’s the adrenaline or my fight-or-flight reflex kicking in, but I’m ready. I drop my leg back and throw all my weight into the punch. Pain sluices up my arm as my knuckles connect with his nose, skin splitting over my bones as something darker than blood spurts from where I’ve struck him.

He looks stunned, his head snapping back, but it’s just enough time for me to run. I cry out in pain at the weight on what’s likely a twisted ankle, but I don’t get far before he’s in front of me again, blocking my path to freedom. I dodge, feinting left then right, but it’s useless. He doesn’t touch me, just steps in front of me at every turn. Dark, crimson blood flows like a river down his face, down his broad chest.

“Please, stop,” he says through bloodied lips. The sunlight dances over the highlights in his dark hair, catching on the flecks of silver at his temple. So much for the myths about sun and vampires.

“Let me out of here, and I promise not to go to the cops. Just let me go, please.” My voice shakes, my bravado fading from the pain. He winces as though I’ve struck him again.

“I’m afraid I can’t let you leave the grounds.”

Well, shit. Defeated, I rest my hands on my hips, sucking in a lungful of air as the pain of the fall reverberates through my entire body. The adrenaline fades fast when it becomes clear I’m not escaping, but he’s not acting like I expect a kidnapper would. He’s anxious maybe, a little impatient, but hasn’t reached for me at all. It’s irrational, but I don’t think he’s going to kill me. My vision tunnels and I bend over, chest tight, attempting to catch my breath and make my brain work at the same time.

“W-why the fuck not?” I gasp, and it’s punctuated by a coughing fit that nearly sends me into orbit. At this, he does step closer, brows furrowed in concern, but I hold my hand up defensively. He pauses, just out of reach.

“I’m afraid that you’ve ended up in the middle of something very dangerous. As long as you remain here, no harm will come to you. Outside of these walls, I can’t guarantee your safety.” His voice is beautiful. Deep and warm and lovely and oh—my body sways toward him. It sounds different than I imagined it would, not that I had any reason to expect the man who’s haunted my dreams my entire life could be real in the first place, but it’s nearly like music.

How many times had I wished I could hear him speak?

“Why do you care?” I ask instead, forcing my body upright, spinning as I try to overcorrect. The momentum nearly topples me and then he’s there, sculpted body pressed against mine, that same cologne from the pillow washing over me. He looks down, and those eyes.

Fuck.

How many times had I drawn them from memory? Compared to reality, every single rendering confirms I’m a shit artist, because nothing I ever created did them any kind of justice. The rational part of my brain screams in protest as I melt against him, but my skin buzzes pleasantly. He’s a monster. A killer. I should be running away from him, not leaning in.

I’ve really stepped off the deep end.

His head lowers, blocking out the sun on my face. Carefully, he tilts my chin up with two fingers, the pad of his thumb tracing over my jaw, and, fuck, does it feel good.

“My reasons are my own. I need to ensure that the threat is neutralized before we can have that conversation,” he replies. It’s not what I want to hear, but I can’t look away from his gaze. I’m trapped there, but not in the way I’d been under the others. No, this feels like … magnetism. Feels downright goddamned inevitable.

“And when there’s no threat? Will you let me go then?” I swallow, my body lighting up at every point of contact. He blows out a harsh breath, and it lands against my cheeks like an embrace.

“A better man would.” His voice is softer as he speaks, pale blue eyes searching mine. He holds me against him, the touch intimate, something reserved for lovers. I wonder if the impossible familiarity I feel is only one-sided.

“Who are you?”

A small, shy smile tugs at his lips. “You once called me the devil.”

We’re so close, his touch comforting and thrilling even as my mind yells at me to step away and run. That I need to get the hell out of here and tell someone about Makenna. She’s like me—no family, no steady boyfriend. We only have each other. Had. She’s somewhere, all alone. Just another statistic of the Quarter. It’s a stunningly painful reminder that pierces through me, the stab to my chest as heavy and debilitating as the throb in my ankle. It’s grief and rage at the injustice of it all, insurmountable and overwhelming, seizing my lungs.

“Reine?”

I double over, panic clawing through my body as my ankle gives out, all my weight falling onto him. I drown under wave after wave of loss that batters against me, the air I so desperately need never quite filling my lungs. Darkness blots at the edges of my vision, but I fight to stay alert, to stay here. I’m vaguely aware that the pain on my ankle relents when he scoops me up, carrying me as though I weigh nothing. It feels inexplicably safe here, cradled in his arms. My fingers curl against the fabric of his black shirt, and though I know I should be kicking and screaming that he’s taking me back inside, the well of shock and pain has my nails slicing into him, grounding myself to reality. By the time we cross the threshold to the house, I’ve drawn blood. It blooms in wet splotches staining his shirt, but he makes no comment as he continues his path up a large banister.

The steady stroke of his thumb across my skin threatens to undo me.

When he carries us into the bedroom I’d woken up in, I expect him to toss me on the bed and leave. Instead, he climbs up gracefully, knees digging into the mattress. He turns, settles his back against the headboard, whispers words I can’t make out as he adjusts my body across his chest. Silence falls between us, but I can’t bring myself to speak on the overwhelming feeling of safety I have now, when my mind knows that I’m very much not safe. My muscles burn, head pounds, but the press of his body against mine feels like a balm, and when his hand comes up to thread his fingers through my hair, I melt into him.

We sit in silence for a long while, with only the sound of the birds singing in the early morning light wafting around us. His touch is lighter now—tracing over my arms, my shoulders, almost cataloging each part of me methodically, as though making sure every part of me he can reach is real. My gaze stays locked on his face, on the deep pools of gray I can’t believe are real. I’ve tried to capture them in one medium or another, never coming close. A heavy feeling stirs within me, a deep, sorrowful reconciliation that I can’t explain or understand … but the way he’s watching me? Memorizing me? It tells me he knows.

There’s a whole world beneath the surface of mine, one I’ve been drawn into whether I believe it or not.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” I ask.

“Like what?” His slight accent bleeds through his words, the vibrations of his deep voice a comforting rumble.