Page 40 of Feathers From the Sky

“Was that the first time you heard his name?”

Filled with suspicion, his words are coated in acid as they crest in a wave over me. “No.” My eyes widen in panic as he stands, and I back away from him, crowding into the corner where the head of the bed meets the wall.

“When was the first time you heard his name? From who?” I’m fighting against answering, hating how his words dig beneath my skin and root around for the truth.

“You. You asked me about him once before. I—I think I forgot, but I remember now.”

He visibly deflates and takes a step back, running a hand through his hair. “You were supposed to forget that. Someone’s hunter blood has come out to play.”

He shakes off the obvious disappointment my answer gave him and walks toward me. Hand outstretched, he chucks my chin as a playful smile crosses his lush lips. “I’ll have to be more intentional with my influence.Get on your hands and knees.”

He wants me to fight against it, to give him a challenge. But I don’t give in to what he wants, doing exactly as he says instead. It’s not a position I want to be in, but I don’t want to play into his games. I want him to see me as a person with wants and dreams and fears. Not as a challenge.

The sound he makes could be disappointment, but I keep my gaze averted. He still hovers over me, and I close my eyes as he gathers my hair into his fist and tilts my head up to look at him. “What happened to that woman who took a metal rod to my head? Who ran screaming from me? Who fought against me at the swamp? Who is this on her hands and knees, ready to suck my cock if I told her to? Is this really you, Gwyn?”

I whimper as he pulls my hair. I want to fight him, to fight his influence, but I don’t think it will help me.

“Is this you giving into the beast, baby?” I don’t know if he’s referring to himself in the third person, like some sort of asshole, or if he means something else. “We can’t have that.” He pulls me up by the hair to a kneeling position. “Fight me.”

I launch myself at him, shoving at his chest. He’s immobile as a wall, hundreds of pounds of muscle and willpower stopping me in my tracks. My nails rake down his chest, not doing any damage because of how far I’d bitten them down last night. He doesn’t move as I try to punch him in the jaw, only barely adjusting as I attempt to knee him in the balls. I don’t have the strength to do anything to him, and I start to cry as his influence washes over me, making me keep fighting even though I’m doing nothing.

“Please, Roman. I can’t fight you. There’s no point.” I slap him, and he doesn’t react at all. It’s like hitting a statue. Finally, he grabs my wrists. Instead of ordering me to stop, he holds onto me even as I buck and kick out against him.

“There’s no point in fighting, but there’s also no point in submitting. I will not take pity on you, Gwyn. I’m not going to let you go just because you bat those pretty eyes at me and do everything I say. So, be fucking real with me.Stop,” he adds as he lets go of my wrists. I fall back onto the bed, catching myself so I don’t slam my head back into the wall.

My breath is heaving as I stare up at him. I don’t know if I believe him. Does he have such little faith in his humanity?

Or is it that he has too much faith in it? Does he see my compliance as a threat to his resolve? Regardless, it won’t be as simple as doing what he says. It’ll be harder to make him care for me than I had thought. Right now, though, he wants my anger. I decide I’m more than happy to give it to him.

“You want real?” I spit out, rubbing my wrists. “I hope my dad did it. If your brother is anything like you, it’s a good thing he’s dead.”

His right eye twitches, almost imperceptibly, and his beautiful, wicked mouth curves into a Cheshire cat smile.

“My brother was just like you, Gwyn. He got swept up in his storm, that twisted mess of self-destruction you both call home, and it got him killed. But sweetheart, there’s chaos in your sky too.”

He stalks out of the room, and I wonder if it’s all that keeps him from tearing me apart.

* * *

When Roman returns,I’m grateful to see he brought Margot. I don’t know why, another vampire’s presence not exactly a calming one, but I think she might help keep his temper in check.

While Roman might be what one would expect from a vampire—dark hair, air of mystery, foreboding presence—Margot is the opposite. I wonder if she was a cheerleader in high school. Her heart-shaped face and blonde hair make her look sweet rather than threatening. She wears a t-shirt dress that hugs her hourglass figure, and her sunny smile is such a contrast to Roman’s grim expression that I can’t help but laugh.

“Have a good walk?” she asks, and I take a moment to understand she’s referring to the endless pacing I’ve done since Roman left. I’ve had so much to think and worry about, it doesn’t surprise me that my feet hurt now.

“Would’ve been better with fresh air.”

Roman grunts, dropping a cardboard box to the ground. It says “Gwyn” on the side, and I know exactly what it contains.

“I’ve been through all that stuff. There’s nothing in there about your brother. It’s just old keepsakes Dad collected over the years.”

Roman opens the box, tipping it and spilling its contents on the floor in a pile. There’s an ache in my chest to see Dad’s things treated with such irreverence. I say nothing, not wanting to set Roman off. I know he wants to see me put up a fight, but I’m still going to choose my battles.

“Oh my God,” Margot breathes as she picks up a padded folder from the ground. “Is this you?” She points at a dance class photograph, one in which I am wearing a horrifying blue baseball costume while carrying a giant plastic bat. Puffy sleeves and tap shoes complete the look, and you can see how thrilled I am about it in the picture.

“Yes.”

I watch Roman as he leans over, looking at what Margot holds in her hand. His expression doesn’t crack, and I feel defeated. For a split second, I had hoped this glimpse into my youth might sway his indifference. When Margot sinks to her knees to go through the pictures, Roman sits on the ground across the room from me, his back to the wall. I don’t move from where I’m perched on the bed. It feels like Margot and the pile of Dad’s things are a middle ground, and I’m afraid to approach.

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