“Jude Forrester has my parents in captivity; that motherfucker is going to pay. But to do that, we need the upper hand. I'm not going to him for my parents. He's going to have to come to me.”
3
ELODIE
The shower sprays down on me in a failed attempt to wash away my clawing emotions. Thorne insisted it might be good for me, but he’s grasping at straws. Tilting my head to the side, my gaze lands on the vials sitting perfectly on the vanity across the room. They may be out of my reach, but like hell will they be out of my sight. They’re my lifeline right now, and I can’t let go of them completely.
Taking a deep breath, I feel a little more grounded than I did earlier, but not enough to feel like my usual self, and that pisses me off. I brush the droplets of water off my face, slicking my hair away from my eyes as I tilt my face to the water.
I can feel the heaviness of the world on myshoulders while simultaneously feeling weightless, like I'm nothing. I have never felt so out of touch with myself. Like I don’t know who I am at all.
My pulse thrums in my ears, as it has since the moment the vials of blood sat in Thorne’s hands in the exact same color and I realized my life wasn't what I thought. But more than that, my mind is now starting to focus on what my next steps need to be, while also being desperate to hide away from the world.
I’m trapped in a constant back and forth that I can’t escape.
I know I need to draw the rebellion out, but how I’m going to pull that off… I don't know.
Thorne doesn't either. Neither of us had the answers as we sat on the rooftop side by side, entrenched in a moment we couldn’t truly understand. Yet the silence that engulfed us wasn't strained or riddled with despair. It was content, like the promise that dawn will rise with an answer. We just have to wade through the dusk before it settles to reach the first glimpse of the sun.
I use that thought to guide me to the light, to the right answer, but it’s easier said than done. Every time I feel propelled by motivation, my mind tingling on the cusp of a solution that would endthis now, it is quickly snuffed out like a switch, leaving me drowning in darkness, seeking things I can't quite reach.
Taking a deep breath, I squeeze the ends of my hair out, letting the water fall at my feet as a whoosh of air dances around me. Glancing over my shoulder, I'm only half surprised when I find Rion leaning against the door frame.
My skin heats under his gaze as he takes his time looking me over, blessing me with those alluring eyes from head to toe and back again. I take the distraction he offers, soaking him in too.
I'm obsessed with the way his frame fills the doorway, how small he can make me feel. But it's that new gentleness to his eyes, the soft curl to the corner of his mouth, and the way the air changes around him like static energy ready to explode that captures me every time.
His eyes finally meet mine and my cheeks heat.
“Hey, Petal,” he rasps.
There's another reason I’m obsessed with him: that damn nickname.
Clearing my throat, I try to muster the best smile I can. “Hey,” I reply as he lets the door click closed behind him before prowling toward me. “I won't be a minute,” I offer, the heat radiating evenhotter through my limbs as he draws closer, but he shrugs, unfazed.
“Take your time,” he insists, leaning against the vanity.
My lips part, ready to stop him, but when he doesn't block the vials from my view, my lips clamp shut once again.
His eyes turn hooded as he watches me, and I find a tingle of nerves drifting through my body.
“Are you really going to watch me?” I ask as he rakes his teeth over his bottom lip.
Folding his arms over his chest, he smirks. “It would be my honor,” he says, his grin widening, but I quickly wave him off and turn my attention back to the water.
Attempting to go about my routine, I fail miserably under his attention. When I dare to look back at him, it's no surprise to find him still staring at me, but his gaze is not roaming over my body like I expect. His eyes are locked on mine.
I stutter, my instincts prepared for sympathy, but that's not the emotion I see. Yet, I can't quite decide what it is either.
“What's going through your head?” he asks, cutting through the silence, and I gulp.
“What's going throughyourhead?” I retort,already bored of thinking about my worries. The thought of voicing them again makes me want to barf.
His eyes crinkle at the corners and he shakes his head. “So many things,” he murmurs, taking the bait and switch, so I try to reel him closer.
“Tell me,” I push, and he huffs.
“Thorne said he already unloaded his prophecy on you. You don't need my shit as well.” His response is a poor attempt at dodging the question, so I insist.
