‘Why do you care where I sleep at night?’
The scoff he lets out is full of contempt.
‘You could sleep on a pile of pig shit for all I care,’ he spits out, taking three long strides to stand right in front of me. ‘Don’t mistake this as me looking out for you. I simply don’t trust you, and it would take less skin off my back knowing you’re in your room. Then when someone dies around here, I know where to find you.’
My teeth grind together so tightly I feel my temples pulse with pressure. ‘You’re an asshole!’
‘And you’re on my last nerve. Let’s go!’ Sebastian lunges, wrapping his arms around my torso, pinning my arms to my sides as he lifts me off the ground. My mouth barely has time to open and protest before he’s pulling us into the archway, a plume of fire lancing around our bodies to gain us entry.
My voice is ripped away from me for several seconds as the now-familiar pulling sensation of the gate slams into me. But this time, I don’t feel like I’m going to be turned upside down and inside out because there are a pair of firm hands holding me against a hard body. Keeping me still, keeping me grounded. And I hate it.
The second we’re on the other side of the door I push Sebastian off me, separating my body from the scorching heat of his. Stars, he’s like a furnace. He even smells like one. Smoke and embers.
Before I can think my hand rises and slaps him across the face. Hard. His head snaps to the side as the sound of the slap echoes throughoutthe room. ‘Don’t fucking touch me again, Zain!’ I curse, seething that he thinks he can just place his hands on me whenever he sees fit.
Sebastian’s laughter starts in his shoulders. They shake silently until a cold dark chuckle reaches my ears. His slowly turns his head back to face me and his eyes raise a shiver in me. They’re molten. Fiery green, like the flames he sent bursting outward during the ceremony. ‘I remember when you used to look at me likeallyou wanted me to do was touch you.’ His head cocks, tauntingly.
‘And I remember when you weren’t a lying snake. Guess people change,’ I hiss. I won’t deny that I had a crush on him. It would be a waste of my breath trying to cover that up; I’m sure it was blindingly obvious. I just hate how my stomach twists at his words, making me feel like a child with a school-girl crush on someone she knows she could never have.
‘A liar?’ he challenges me. ‘What have I lied about,Ria?’
I stumble back as if I’m the one who was slapped. Ria? Stars, I haven’t heard that name in what feels like such a long time. That name is one he gave to me, one that made me feel cherished each time it fell from his lips. One he used when I was at my lowest and now … now he says it like a curse. Like it tastes bitter on his tongue. My resolve cracks. As does my fight.
The sigh that escapes me is resigned. Tired, as if I just lived through an entire week in a moment. ‘Just stay away from me, Sebastian,’ I breathe. On numb feet I turn, giving him my back because he’s already stabbed a knife in it. What else could he do? He doesn’t stop me or say a thing as I make my way toward the stairs, and I don’t expect him to. I force myself to climb until I reach my room and unlock it with the key that I found alongside my map when cleaning the room. I step inside and find the room untouched - just how I left it. Thank the Stars.
I twist the inside lock on the door and slump against it. Exhaustion weighs heavy on my eyes as they threaten to close. Stars, this entire day has been a multitude of soul-sucking moments, one after the other.
I glance longingly at my bed; even stripped back and bare, my body yearns to curl up in the middle of it and sleep. But I know there’s one thing I need to do before I can let my body finally rest and shut off. Something I haven’t been able to do since I left home.
Shower.
My feet pad through the room toward my dresser, and I pick up the wooden box in the middle of it and open the lid. I unfold the soft cream fabric protecting the several small glass bottles inside; they clink softly against one another. I was surprised to have found them intact after my room was trashed, but also relieved. They fill my room with familiar scents of home, igniting memories of working alongside my mother in the conservatory that overlooks her garden. She would hover over my shoulder, giving me direct and firm instructions on how to make simple healing tonics as I learned the basics of her craft.
I can still feel her disappointment each time she watched me fail. She was always more forgiving than my father, though, who would berate me for it, making me feel small and useless. My mother … she’d just give me a gentle, disappointed pat on the shoulder, then guide me back to her desk where we’d work in silence, bottling healing tonics that her clients had ordered.
My nails tap against the glass as I pick one of the bottles from the middle of the box. The little inscription is in my mother’s writing. It’s my favourite of all the oils she makes: jasmine and blood orange.
I take it with me into the adjoining bathroom that’s only just bigger than a closet. Inside is a small shower stall with a copper shower head hanging from the ceiling. There’s a toilet and basin beside each other with a square mirror the size of a book above it. The space is small, but it’s clean and neat.
I place the glass bottle on the basin near the faucet, then lean forward and turn the shower on, undressing while the water heats up and listening to the pipes rattle as they waken. I make quick work of detangling the braid from my hair, letting the long tresses fall behind me, tickling mylower back, before taking a quick glance in the mirror that’s starting to condensate at its edges.
My grey eyes look dull, not dissimilar to the muted drab colour of the concrete beneath my naked feet. The bags beneath them don’t help. I look awful. Not to mention the bruises littered around my throat. They’ve faded to a dull yellow now. Tilly told me the healers did what they could to minimise the damage, saying it was a lot worse when they first brought me in. Though I’m sure if I bother to look in the aid-box that my mother handed over to me when I left, there will be something in there to help as well.
Steam wafts up to the ceiling, indicating that the water is at temperature. I step into the shower and get to work on washing my hair and body with the soaps I brought from home, reminding me again of my mother. There was something hollow about her eyes when I left home. It’s like Lukas took a piece of her with him when he died, the part of her soul that brought her joy and filled her with life. It was stripped away, leaving her a ghost of herself, relying on muscle memory to get her through each day. I hate that she so readily accepted that he was gone. Convicted and punished before we could even say goodbye.
I couldn’t argue about it with her. I couldn’t even bring up the topic of Lukas around her. Part of me hopes she doesn’t really believe Lukas did it. Part of me hopes she’s resigned, not because she’s coming to terms with her only son committing such heinous acts and blaming herself, but because she’s scared. Scared of knowing he would never do such a thing and discovering someone here is malicious enough to pin him as the villain, and to kill him for it.
The thought of my brother being blamed for something so atrocious and then being burn t for an act he didn’t commit brings heat to my eyes.Did he fight?I wonder. Did he scream or cry? Did he feel alone? Was he scared?
I shove my head beneath the steady stream of water.
Don’t you dare cry in the shower, Aria, I scold myself.You’re stronger than that. It’s just the exhaustion weighing you down, you’re just tired and need sleep!
I finish up in the shower quickly and dry myself. Wrapped in a towel, I step back into the main room and pull a pair of warm sleep pants and thick sweater from my drawers, then I dig around for another sweater. This is a fluffier navy blue one, which I roll into a ball. My wet towel is hung on a hook fixed to the back of the bathroom door, so I grab my only other dry towel from the pile by the sink and take it and my balled-up sweater to the bed.
I use the sweater as a makeshift pillow and place it at the top of the bed, then lay down using the towel as a blanket to cover myself, curling up beneath it. Then, and only then, do I let the image of Lukas, alone and afraid, revisit my mind as I bite my cheeks to prevent myself from crying as I try to fall asleep in his old bed.
TWELVE
