Page 43 of Feathers From the Sky

“Can confirm,” Margot shouts from the door to her apartment, a paper bag of groceries balanced on her hip. Emile turns up his nose at the bag. Sense of taste long gone, food repulses him now. “She tasted like dessert. Those rocket pops you get from the ice cream truck as a kid?”

I snort, moving to help Margot put things away.

“I still can’t believe she let you bite her,” I say, not thinking.

“Letyou?” Emile doesn’t miss a beat, turning his hawk-eyed gaze on me.

“You know Margot asks for consent first.” I grin at him. “I don’t ask though. Don’t worry.”

He sighs, putting his hand on the doorknob to leave. “Put on the pressure, Roman. Björn won’t let you play this game much longer.”

Once he’s gone, Margot pours herself a glass of wine and gives me the fucking look I hate. At least she waited until Emile left.

“You fed from her? When? What do you mean you don’t ask?”

“Relax, Margot.”

She doesn’t push me on it, and I’m glad. It had been a weakness. Gwyn had smelled so goddamn sweet, and I had been craving her since I’d had her that first day. She’s waffled frequently between anger and resignation so consistently that her sudden vulnerability this morning had taken me by surprise. I had to squash it out of her. There was no room for that shit here, not a single fucking ounce of it. I don’t want her to appeal to my compassion. When she forced me to think about Sasha’s pain, I knew I’d fucking do what she asked. That was why I bit her.

I needed to remind her what she was in this situation. Prey.

“If you had asked her like I did, I bet she would have said yes.”

“I didn’t ask her, but she didn’t stop me either.”

Margot gives me that disappointed pursed lipped smile from her seat at the kitchen bar. “Ah yes, Officer, she didn’t say no.” She shakes her head and takes a swig of her wine. “Do you listen to yourself sometimes?”

“It doesn’t fucking matter, Margot. She’s mine to do with as I please.” My friend tilts her head back, looking at the ceiling like she’s making a plea to the heavens. “I wasn’t a monster about it!”

“Well, I suppose there’s no way for her to give proper consent, anyway. Not while you keep her as a prisoner.” She grins from over her glass. “You’ll have to let her go at the end so you can properly have her without being a dick about it. Or, hear me out, youcouldbring your dick into it and you couldhave herhave her, you feel me?” She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively, and I want to throw something at her.

“Not happening.” I roll up the cuffs of my sleeves, glancing at the monitor behind me to see Gwyn has decided to take a nap. “Her blood killed mine. You know I can’t let her go when I’m done.”

“Oh, I know.” Margot puts her headphones in her ears and picks up a book to tell me our conversation is finished. I ignore her fucking tone.

* * *

“The fuck areyou doing here, Hannigan?” The man jumps, squeaking like a rat. I don’t need to ask why he is sniffing the crack in her fucking door, but I do it anyway to watch him squirm.

“I’m just—It smells so good, sir. I can’t help it. I’d give anything for a taste of it.” He groans, rolling his forehead against the door before he takes a step back. Wondering how he can even smell her out here, my questions are answered as I approach. The cloying scent of her blood wafts toward me, and I’m confused. Unless she got her period—a fucking nightmare to think about handling—I don’t know why she’s bleeding. Pushing past the lingering vampire who can’t control his urges, I unlock her room and barge inside, only for Gwyn to not be in there. The door to the bathroom is firmly shut, and I check the time on my watch. She’s usually ready to begin our work by now. Hesitating, I decide it’s in my best interest to check on her.

I smell blood, she’s suffered from depression before, and she’s been kidnapped by a monster. Though I hear the shower running, my mind leaps to a worrying possibility, and I rap my knuckles on the door.

“Gwyn?”

She doesn’t answer, and I think maybe she can’t hear me over the water, so I open the door. I swear, having forgotten that the shower has no door or curtain, but a half-wall instead. When our father had put him in this room, Remy had joked that it was so he couldn’t strangle himself with the shower curtain or cut his arm off with a piece of broken glass. But it’s not Remy I’m watching in the shower, thank fuck.

With eyes closed, she tilts her head back, hair spilling like ink down her back. She’s rinsing shampoo out, and I watch an errant bubble slide from her shoulder, down over her ample breast. Shiny and so round, I want to cup it in my hand. It’s almost like she moves in slow motion, the way she gathers her hair to one shoulder when she’s done rinsing it. She wrings it out, reaching for a bottle of conditioner.

Blinking, I scour her upper body for signs of a wound and find nothing. Satisfied she’s not self-harming in the bathroom, a good man would leave. But I’ve never been that or claimed to be, so I lean against the door frame and continue watching her.

The fluorescent lighting in the bathroom, while harsh, serves its purpose. It allows me to see the shiny silver stretch marks on the sides of her breasts and her hips. Now that her self-tan has worn off, her skin is lighter, but the silver lines on her sides still stand out in this lighting. It reminds me of a type of Japanese art I’d seen while scrolling online. Kintsugi. The acceptance of imperfections, it involves broken pieces of pottery rebuilt with gold to mend the seams, only enhancing its original beauty.

I would guess her heart is the same, a tangled collection of memories and regret, and she’s yet to find that which will mend the broken parts. I can relate.

Even in the warm shower, her nipples are hard as she draws a soapy washcloth across her chest and stomach. The bubbles trace a path over skin I’m desperate to touch. I need to get it out of my fucking system. The cloth slides lower, and as she moves it between her legs, I step forward, adjusting so I can see around the half wall.

My gaze immediately finds the source of the blood, and I lick my lips. She nicked herself shaving, and I’m only momentarily irritated Margot gave her a fucking razor. Confusion swiftly surpasses the irritation as I wonder why she would bother. It takes a moment, but then I remember a text she once sent to Sasha about how body hair makes her brain itch.

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