I feel the same about Damon and Hunter. There’s a distance that ebbs between want and distrust. I earned it, but I’ve also paid for it, inside and out.
Before everything blew up, it felt like Damon and I had grown closer. He understood what I wanted–needed–a little comfort in this confusing world–and he was willing to provide it.
There’s no food on the table. Just coffee and juice. My Barons weren’t in their beds when I got home last night, nor were they there this morning. My guess is that we’re waiting for them. A guess, since no one has told me anything.
The silence stretches, and that little voice I try to keep buried in my head threatens to start chattering. “This is your fault, Arianette.You’re nothing but a burden. Useless for anything but a quick fuck.”That voice getslouder and louder and louder–until someone's boots land on the threshold.
I snap my gaze over and see Hunter trudging in first, shoulders still squared but eyes ringed in exhaustion. Damon follows, looking worse—shirt half tucked, hair a mess, the faint scent of sulfur and copper clinging to both of them. They drop into seats at the long table like soldiers returning from a trench.
The King finally folds the paper, but not to look at me–he studies them with the quiet, calculating attention he reserves for things that might break and inconvenience him.
“You’re late,” he says. “And filthy.”
“We ran into some trouble at the pick up.” Hunter reaches for his cup of coffee and takes a long gulp. “It took longer than expected.”
That really gets the King’s attention and mine. I watch them, grateful for the distraction. Their fatigue, their shaken edges—it all shifts the spotlight away from my own private catastrophe.
“What kind of trouble?” the King asks.
Damon mutters, “The kind that follows around a bunch of Scratch junkies paranoid out of their fucking minds.”
The cook pushes open the swinging door that leads to the kitchen and sets out plates—toast, eggs, and fruit mixed together in a cup–in front of each of us. Well, everyone but the King. From my time in thecage, I know his habits and routines. He’s already been up for hours, had a soak in his tub, and drank a smoothie and tea.
He’s not here to eat. He’s here for information.
Glancing down at the food in front of me, my stomach turns. Every nerve in my body feels overused, scraped raw. I keep my gaze down, trying not to exist too loudly. I can’t fuck up again. He told me by the river–no more chances.
“North Side has been in a state of chaos since the bomb took out Lucia,” the King comments, disinterested. “His remaining lieutenants are dropping like flies.”
“It’s not where we were called that’s interesting,” Damon says. “It’swhocalled us.”
Hunter chimes in, “Agent Knight.”
Two words, but even I can tell they have the effect of an explosion when the King asks, “The FBI called you to do a body pick up?”
Damon, chewing on a piece of bacon, nods. “Claims he intercepted the call, thinking it may be one of the missing, but when he found out it was the Counts, he intervened.”
The King rubs his jaw at the edge of his mask. “Any particular reason he felt the need to intervene?”
“One,” Hunter says. “And it’s inked on the inside of his forearm. A fucking serpent.”
A heavy silence fills the room. I understand the words and people. Agent Knight is looking for the missing girls, and he interviewed me when they found me by the river. The Counts are the fifth Royal fraternity in Forsyth, dismantled by an explosion on their territory–their King, Lionel Lucia, presumably blown up with his home. But the connection of the two is startling, even to me.
“Those tattoos are only given to lieutenants,” the King says. “Recruits that Lucia found worthy of managing his trade.”
“He definitely seemed interested in protecting them–on a personal level,” Hunter adds.
“Knight is what?” The King looks between the Barons. “Ten years older than you?”
Damon nods. “Ten or more.”
The three of us wait for the King to respond, but he’s grown quiet–thoughtful, until he finally says, “Good work. This is very useful information. It stays here, at this table,” his eyes flit to each of us, “until I’ve decided how I want to proceed.”
The boys go back to their food, while I pick at mine to keep my hands busy. Everything feels both surreal and serene. Is this the new normal? Casual breakfasts with my body aching from sex, sitting with men who spent the night collecting the dead?
Under the table, a foot brushes against mine, and my eyes jerk up to meet Damon’s. I don’t know if it was an accident or intentional, but our gazes lock for a moment, and that urge for approval–for soothing–whispers across my skin.
The King clears his throat. “This afternoon, after classes, you’ll head to West End. Perilini is expecting you.”
