That, he felt in his chest like a knife. He set his glass on the table and leaned back, stretching his legs to fill the space she’d left. The cushions were still warm from her body. They probably smelled like her, even now. He nearly shuddered at the thought.
“Go to your room, Nadine. And if you have any sense, lock your doors.”
“Fuck you,” she spat at him. “You monster! You sickfuck!”
Cal sighed as she fled from the library, her muffled sobs following in her wake. Then his fingers tightened and he threw his glass, watching it shatter with a sound that was quickly swallowed up by thunder. Casting his eyes about the room forsomething else to throw, Cal noticed a dark, glossy stain on the jacquard cushions, highlighting the individual threads that made up the faded floral design.
Frowning, he touched two fingers to the mark; they came back red.
She had bled. He licked his fingers thoughtfully, letting the copper tang of her innocence linger, until it was all he could taste over the residual acridity of the alcohol. Sparrow blood: sweet—and just a little bitter.
He laughed harshly as he lowered his hand to his lap, where it clenched into a fist.
Just like a true Cullraven bride.
C H A P T E R
T H I R T E E N
no other paths remained
Cal was unsurprised to find her door closed and locked to him. After all, he had suggested locking it himself and Nadine was nothing if not—he closed his eyes briefly—acquiescent.
A night of restlessness turned into dissatisfaction with the dawn. He didn’t remember sleeping but must have sunken into a passable imitation of slumber because, for a blissful few blinks into waking, he could not remember the cause of his malaise. Then it slammed into him like the bolt of a crossbow—Nadine arching beneath him—the stumble of her awkward fingers at his nape—the recriminations—the tears—her panicked flight that still had him wanting to give chase—
She knew him at last for the monster he was, fleeing the moment his teeth were bared.
Now it would be her throat under the blade.
On his way to the kitchen, he ran into Holly, who moved immediately to sidestep him. In her pale, hollow face, her eyes looked overly large and protuberant. It made the whiteness of the sclera particularly noticeable when she averted her gaze.
“See to Nadine,” he ordered, before she could scamper off. “Inform me if she—” Cal paused, weighing his words carefully “—requires anything.”
“Yes, sir.” She bobbed her head and ducked back towards the stairs while he watched with ill-concealed impatience, the disrespect cutting deeper than it usually did.
He could force her to admit him. He knew where his father kept the master key and there was no door in this house that didn’t fit its lock. But given her response to him last night, he could not take the risk that he might spur her to flight and rouse the hunting instincts of his family.
The door to the cellar seemed to loom larger, like a single spot of blight.
That was when he noticed the note affixed to the refrigerator. He recognized his sister’s handwriting with its many loops and flourishes:Goin’ hunting.
Odessa didn’t like to hunt alone so this was practically an invitation and likely just as performative after her earlier warning. Cal, deciding to ignore the note, turned towards the coffee machine and shoveled in more of the dark roast that he favored, but the maid returned before the cup could brew.
“She says she’s unwell.”
“How so?” Cal asked.
“She didn’t say, sir.”
“I’ll see to it.” He pushed his cup aside. “Thank you.”
The maid backed from the room as he headed grimly for the stairs, where portraits of his ancestors ascended with the wainscotting. This time, he didn’t bother knocking. The time for civility had died out with last night’s fires and he had had a long and restless evening.
“Holly says you aren’t feeling well. Open the door so I can have a look at you.”
“Leave me alone.” It sounded like she was standing near the door.So close. Like a taunt. “I don’t want to seeyou.”
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said levelly with a glance at Ben’s door.
