“Say something, little girl,” he whispers, cupping water with his hands and letting it spill over my chest. He doesn’t touch me in a sexual way as he kneels outside the tub. He just wants to nurture my bleeding soul.
I look up with unfocused, glazed eyes. “What do you want me to say?” My voice is flat, devoid of all emotion. There isn’t any more to feel. Just numbness.
Worry is deeply etched in his beautiful face. “Tell me you’re ok.”
I shake my head as the lump in my throat grows larger, causing me to gasp. “I can’t. I can’t say that.”
“Then tell me what to do. Tell me what you need.”
What I need?
“I need my mom to be alive. I need my dad to remember who I am. I need my loved ones to be safe. I need people to stop fucking dying on me—all things that can’t be fixed by you or me or anyone else for that matter.” I look away, ashamed for lashing out at him. His fingers touch my quivering chin and pull me back to face him. I half expect Dorian to be angry, but there is nothing but love and understanding in those crystal blue eyes.
“No, I can’t fix those things. But I can fix you, if you let me. If you’ll have me.” The back of his hand gently caresses my cheek before he tilts my head to meet his gaze. I immediately pull away.
“No, Dorian. I don’t want to forget.”
“You don’t have to, love. But let me give you me. Breathe me. Let me sustain you, baby.”
He extends an arm, offering the inside of his bare wrist. I look down at it, and something in my gut coils with need. I want this. I need this. But I feel so guilty for it. I know this is a part of who we are, but I hate the way my craving invokes desire in every cell in my body.
Just a little to replenish, I tell myself. I’ll just take what I need and go back to mourning my parents. That sounds reasonable. Right?
I take his arm in my trembling hands and stroke the thin, iridescent skin over blue veins. It pulses, calling out for me. Daring me to deny what my body so desperately needs.
With the first intake of Dorian’s magic, I moan, causing him to hiss as he drags his teeth over his bottom lip. My gaze meets his, piercing deep down inside him as I take another draw of his life force. I watch with hooded eyes as his pupils dilate and he sucks in a gulp of air.
“More,” he rasps, his breath coming out in short pants. “More.”
I slide my mouth from Dorian’s wrist to the crook of his elbow, letting euphoria fill me with every lungful. I tingle all over, every cell in my body bursting with bliss. I can feel him living inside me—nourishing my soul. Feeding my darkness. Fucking every nerve ending.
Another intake, and my moans grow louder. Carnal need and desire take over, and I pull Dorian to me by the collar of his shirt, crushing his lips to mine. He kisses me back for just a second before pulling away.
“This isn’t right. You’re hurting. I just want to help you heal.”
The ache of rejection gathers in my chest but I ignore it, looking up at him with desperate eyes. “I need you, Dorian. Please. If you want to help me, help me feel something other than pain. Just for a little while. Please?”
He searches my face, looking for any signs of uncertainty. When there’s none to be found, he’s cupping my face and crushing his lips to mine. My hands slip into his hair and I pull the silken strands, causing him to moan in my mouth. That’s all the motivation I need before I grasp his shoulders and pull his fully clothed body into the tub with me.
Water sloshes around us as our bodies find one other amidst a sea of sin and sorrow. I wrap my legs around him, urging him closer, wishing like hell that I could feel his skin against mine. It’s not enough. I need more of him. I need all of him.
Our lips never part as I rip his soaked shirt from his body and toss it aside, relishing the feel of his slick body moving with mine. When I reach between us to undo his pants, he stops me, pulling my hands between our chests.
Dorian’s lips abandon me, but he stays close —so close that I can feel his cool breath fanning over my face. He looks at me—right into my soul—seeing a million shades of hurt and self-loathing. I can’t hide from those intense eyes. I can’t stow away the panic that overwhelms me every time I think about losing another loved one. He sees it all—every single bit of my ugly.
Eyes still boring into me, he releases my hands to unfasten his pants, quickly unsheathing himself. Then he’s pushing into me, the water adding another level of slick friction.
“Don’t stop,” I beg.
“Never.”
Dorian roughly kisses my lips as he strokes wildly…hungrily. As if he’s searching for something within my quivering walls. I bury my head in the crook of his neck and grasp his ass, trying to pull him in deeper. My body may be full but something inside me is still so empty. Something that may never be filled again.
I hate that I feel this way. Hate that I’m using him to escape myself. But the feel of Dorian nestled inside me, worshipping my body, sexing me beyond sensation, is heaven. And I’m tired of living in hell.
His fingers touch my cheek, and I feel his movements slow to lazy thrusts. “Hey. Come back to me,” Dorian whispers against the side of my head.
I turn to meet his gentle gaze and am derailed by my own reflection in those haunting, blue eyes. I try to jerk away but he grips my face, forcing me to face my fear and loathing.
I didn’t just lose two parents today. I killed someone. Me. I took a human life without a second thought. And I know I wouldn’t hesitate to do it again. I know I will do it again.
There’s something jarring about the very moment you realize that you’re a killer. That the ability to steal a life is right at your fingertips, tingling with the need to feel that overwhelming surge of power again. And every time you give into that craving, you lose a bit of your humanity. You lose a bit of yourself, until you don’t even recognize the person you once were.
“Stop it,” I choke out.
“No. Not until you look at me. Not until you see what I see.”
I’m crying, but it’s not enough for him to let me go or even slow his greedy strokes. Maybe it’s my resistance or my vulnerability, but I swear I feel him stretch deeper. As if he’s trying to fill the emptiness inside me and make me whole again.
I moan through a sob, as my body battles with my emotions. I should be utterly repulsed with myself. With him. I should despise him for doing this to me in my weakest moments. But I won’t stop him. I need this. I need Dorian to take me away from this. Just take it all away.
In the next instant he stands, supporting my backside with his palms to keep my body joined with his. The bathroom blurs into the bedroom and he’s laying me down on the bed, still thrusting, still staring at me like he’s afraid that I’ll slip away into darkness.
“Stay with me,” he breathes, his strokes growing more urgent, more desperate. “Stay, little girl.”
I shudder as the tip of him presses against that hidden place deep inside, begging me to relent. It coaxes the sheer oblivion so close that I can taste it. Still, I shake my head, denying myself. Refusing the pleasure Dorian gives me. I don’t deserve it. And I damn sure don’t deserve him.
“Gabriella,” he groans through clenched teeth. He’s begging. He needs me to come with him. To fly away from all this ugliness and pain together, hand in hand. I’m hurting him with my denial. I know it, yet I can’t help it.
“No.” Tears fall freely, sliding down the sides of my face, escaping the anguish festering inside me.
“Please.”
“I can’t.”
But even as I say the words, I know that I will. My body is his. It always has been. And even though my soul is broken, he’ll always have dominion over the parts of me that quiver and yearn for him. Even if my heart is too shattered to ever function again.
I grip his back as I come, sobbing into the crook of his neck. He bites back his own moans of climax, letting me fall apart in both pain and pleasure. He holds me close, kissing my hair, tell
ing me I’ll be ok. That he’s here, and will always be here. That he’ll never let me go. Being so sweet and so patient and oh-so-fucking-too-good for me.
Dorian Skotos became my savior in that moment, more so than he already was. And part of me—the Dark, ugly, abhorrent side—began to resent him for it.
I’M NOT SURE when I stopped crying. Or when Dorian pulled out of me. I just know that it was suddenly cold, and I felt irrevocably empty.
“I have to go,” he says. He’s lying next to me, his sopping-wet pants still wound around his ankles.
“Where?” I don’t look at him. I don’t want him to see me like this. So…broken. Weak.
“Handle some things. I’ll be back…later.” He brushes a damp lock of hair from my cheek. “Rest. You need to sleep.”
I almost laugh. “Sleep? I can’t sleep. I may never sleep again.”
“At least try. For me.”
I turn my head and look at him. This man, capable of so much love, yet so much evil. He’s hurt people—killed people—yet here he is. Comforting me in my darkest hour.
“How do you do it? How do you stow it all away? All the hurt and abandonment? All the loss? How do you get over it? How do you keep living—keep breathing—even when you feel like you could drown in perpetual mourning?”
Dorian pulls me close, pressing soft lips to my forehead. “You find something—or someone—to live for instead. And every day of your existence is focused on keeping her happy and healthy. And even when you fail at that, you try again. Because she is your life. She is everything.”
His words leave me speechless, looking at him with wondrous, glassy eyes. A soft smile passes his lips before he touches them to my forehead once more. “Don’t answer the door under any circumstances. Alex will be patrolling the area. Try to rest. I’ll be back before you know it.”
Then he’s gone, leaving me shivering with cold and loneliness. I contemplate just wrapping myself in the damp comforter and forcing my eyelids shut, but I can’t fathom being alone. I slip on a worn sweatshirt and some old, ratty flannel pajama bottoms that I stole from Chris years ago. They’re three sizes too big, and I have to roll the waist a few times, but I love them. And now that it’s probably the last little piece that I have of my dad, I couldn’t imagine ever letting them go.
I pad down the hallway and press my ear against Morgan’s bedroom door. Her breathing is steady, but I can sense her mind. She’s just as restless as me.
“Morgan?” I whisper, pushing the door open. Morgan is lying on her side on the bed, her face to the wall. It’s amazing what a little magic can do. A day ago, blood was soaked through to the box spring. Now there doesn’t seem to be even an inkling of her would-be death. Even Dolce is propped on the plush, satin pillow situated in the corner as if the poor pup hadn’t nearly witnessed its beloved owner’s suicide.
Morgan doesn’t turn around, but she hears me. “Yeah?” Her voice is raw, as if she’s been crying. I can’t recall how many times I’ve seen my friend cry. She’s never been one of those overly-emotional types. That’s something we shared in common.
I climb into bed with her, wrapping my arms around her waist. We weren’t really touchy-feely either, but sometimes, when life was especially ugly, she’d crawl into bed with me or I’d crawl into bed with her. And we’d spoon, holding each other together, because nobody else would.
“Can’t sleep?” I ask, resting my head on her pillow. It’s damp with salty tears. I can smell them.
“Would you sleep if you were me? If every time you closed your eyes you saw another face mutilated in the most gruesome death you could ever imagine?”
I hold my breath for half a minute, biting back a horrified gasp. “Sorry.”
“For what?”
“For…all of this. For what’s happening to you.”
“Not your fault, Gabs.”
But we both know it is my fault. Everything…her overdeveloped sight, Donna’s murder, Chris’s detachment…I’m to blame for all of it.
We lay in silence because there’s nothing left to say. Morgan will never know peace again. Even if she learns to control her newfound ability, she’ll still be plagued with remembrance. She’ll never be able to unsee those faces...those deaths. And she doesn’t deserve that. Maybe I do, but not her.
I stroke her hair before letting my fingertips brush her forehead, willing her eyes to close. Praying that somewhere in dreamland she could find peace, if only for a few hours. “Sleep,” I whisper so softly, the word is barely audible even to my ears.
I’d seen Niko do the same to Morgan the day before when she was in a fit of terror, too far gone to listen to reason. I honestly didn’t know if I was capable of invoking the same reaction in her. But as her breath becomes slow and level, and her body sags in slumber, I know I’ve done it. Even if Morgan may never fall asleep again, even if monsters hide behind her eyes, watching, waiting, for exhaustion to take her away, I was able to give her a tiny slice of serenity.
I climb from the bed, bend over to give Dolce a scratch behind the ears, and pad out to the living room. It’s dark…quiet…but not eerily so. I know Alexander is nearby; I can sense him. I can feel the haze of his magic raking over my skin like a sweet caress. I can taste its potency on my tongue, even though he’s been deflecting for Morgan’s sake. Still, he can’t hide from me. None of them can. I can feel them even when they don’t want me to.
I sit at the kitchen bar, wishing someone—anyone—was around. Being alone makes me realize just how truly lonely I am. Yes, I have Dorian, but as dysfunctional and all-around fucked up as they are, he still has his parents. He still has a family, a brother that adores and admires him. He still has a childhood home to escape to when life gets too heavy to bear. Even Morgan can scoop up Dolce, jump in her Mustang, and head back to her parent’s house up North. Sure, I have Alexander, and I know without a doubt that he is my biological father. But as it stands, that’s all he is. I don’t know him. He doesn’t know me. And who’s to say that I can really trust him? How do I know that he’s not just biding his time, waiting for the right moment to strike and pilfer my power for himself?
I tap my fingers against the marble countertop, feeling overwhelmingly agitated and paranoid. That’s what silence will do to you—make your mind concoct all types of silly notions and theories of betrayal. It’s exactly the reason why I’d drank myself to sleep every night when Dorian left me—I’d not been able to stand the quiet of his absence. It had felt too heavy, too thick. Too full of unanswered questions and half-truths.
I hate this version of Gabs. I despise even this line of consciousness. I would always ridicule those heroines in books and movies—the ones that would turn into blithering, pathetic fools in the face of adversity. The ones who became weak just as things got hard. I wasn’t made to break under pressure. Chris and Donna taught me better than that.
But I had.
I am.
And I don’t know how to stop it. I don’t know how to pick up the pieces and press on. To fight for something greater than me when I have nothing else to live for.
I shake the thoughts from my head, refusing to let them take me under. Donna’s death won’t be in vain. I won’t let this kill me. If anything, I’ll let vengeance become my life source. I’ll let it fill my lungs, race through my veins. I’ll eat it, breathe it. And on those rare occasions when I can sleep, I’ll dream of killing the bastard responsible for taking my mother from me. My first kill was merely a knee-jerk reaction. This one will be deliberate, calculated. Goddamn satisfying.
Hopped up on rage and adrenaline, I don’t even realize I’ve opened the cabinet that houses our stash of booze until I’ve poured myself a shot of whiskey. I down it in one gulp, letting the burn stoke the flames of fury inside me. I pour another and another, welcoming that sweet oblivion where there is no shame and guilt. Where the devil inside me dances in a pit of fire, laughing and spitting on my enemies as they kneel before me.
This is the Gabs they wante
d when they sent mere humans to destroy me.
This is the reaction they had hoped to gain when they chose to kill the only mother I knew.
Now they have her. And this room—this apartment—can’t contain her.
I want to go out. I need air. I need space to breathe and scream and be. Morgan is out of commission, and Niko is dealing with Chris (I won’t think about it. I can’t think about it.). So there’s only one person I can think of that will understand me. That may not understand this Gabs, yet love and except her anyway.
“Hello?” His voice is groggy as if he’s been asleep. I look over at the digital display on the microwave. It flashes 12:47am. Shit.
“Hey. Jared. Were you asleep?”
“Gabs? What the…? Are you ok?” His voice is clearer, as if a bucket of ice has been tipped over his head. I hear rustling on the other end, and imagine him sitting up in bed.
“Yeah, I’m fine. I mean, no. I’m not fine, but…I don’t want to talk about it.”
He releases a heavy breath. “Damn, girl. You had me worried. Morgan had been calling all over town trying to find you the other night. And I tried your cell phone, but it went straight to voicemail. Are you sure you’re alright?”
I pour another shot, wishing I could somehow feed it to Jared through the phone. I don’t want him asking questions that I can’t answer. I just want him to be Fun Jared. Easygoing Jared. The Jared that would pick me up and take me to the carnival for a night of carefree fun and junk food when things got too crazy. I missed my friend. Hell, I even missed his easy, uncomplicated love. It was safe, and dammit, I need safe.
But ever since we tried to have some type of relationship, only to have it end badly at Dorian’s engagement party when I was caught dancing with the groom-to-be, things have been more than strained between us. We hadn’t spoken since that night, not even so much as a text. And just when I had finally built up the nerve to go see him and apologize, Xavier, the psychotic, murderous Light Enchanter, completely foiled those plans.
“So…what do you want, Gabs?”