Page 71 of Feathers From the Sky

“I wasn’t gonna let my little brother die like Rose.” And he didn’t. It might have taken him a few months to track him down, but the moment he did, Roman took Remy straight to the compound. He’d tossed him in the same room they had held me in and forced him to get sober. But he didn’t abandon him there either. He’d gotten him a counselor—coercion forced, but still—and he’d been there for his brother. But I don’t think he realizes how close he was to not finding him in the first place. Roman didn’t just work against the addiction, but also Remy’s overwhelming desire to stop living. I don’t think he knows the extent of it. For a moment, I resist the urge to explain, but the insane part of me which has come to care deeply for the man beside me wins.

“You should read the journal, Roman.”

“I plan to. I just don’t know if—”

“I know you already have a lot of guilt over it. And telling you this might not help. Or fuck, maybe it will, I don’t know. But I don’t think he ever planned to use that vial you found on him. Not like you think, anyway.”

He stiffens before sitting up and leaning against the headboard. I’m sure I’ve struck a nerve. This is the source of Roman’s guilt. He found that vial, and he caused Remy’s banishment.

“Gwyn, an addict with a secret stash? What the hell do you mean he wasn’t going to use it?”

“Well, that was a long time ago now, wasn’t it? Four or five years? And Margot says you think he’s been clean ever since, right? After your father exiled him?”

He nods. “We met up over the years, and he always seemed to be sober. I kept trying to get him to just move into my place, but he was trying to make his own way. Until he disappeared hunting you, he’d been doing good on his own.”

I sit up. Despite myself, I take his hands in mine. “When yourightfullyfreaked out on him, and you found that vial of demon blood, I think you took his, uh…Hm, I don’t know what to call it.” I tilt my head, stuck on how to explain something which is so obvious to me but so clearly an inconceivable concept to him. “If Remy never used again after you got him clean, even after you caused his exile, that vial wasn’t what you thought it was.”

“Then what was it, Gwyn?” I can’t tell if he’s annoyed with me, but he slides one hand up my arm, cupping my neck and drawing me closer. He rests his forehead against mine and waits for me to speak. Affection rises in my stomach against my will. Roman has stolen my hatred for him and drawn a line in the sand. It’s not that I’ve crossed it, but the tides of his fierce protectiveness and loyalty have smoothed it away.

“He never outright said it in the journal, but my guess is it-it was tainted. He viewed it as an escape, but I don’t think he meant a temporary one. By the way he wrote about it, it would’ve killed him if he drank it.” Roman is quiet, and I find it desperately important for him to understand exactly what I mean. And yet, I dance around it like I have my whole life. When someone suffers from depression, suicidal ideation is the line people draw. It’s impossible to speak of past thoughts without people worrying about the present, so I prefer not to mention it at all. “Many depressed people have a…a plan on standby. A-an exit plan. In taking it from him, you might have saved his life.” His thumb brushes over my neck, and his breath stutters.

“Fuck.” The whisper is so soft, the exhalation of breath so faint, that it breaks my heart. Roman knew his brother’s afflictions, that much is clear. Like Hale with me, Roman forced his brother to bathe and take care of himself. And while Roman might know the existential sorrow of a heart steeped in guilt and regret, I doubt he understands the burrowing urge to do something about it, no matter the impact. What Roman thought was a token of his brother’s addiction was more likely a hallmark of depression—the insidious yearning for everything to stop. To find out his brother probably had a real, tangible plan to end his life? I’m certain it hurts.

I breathe deep, searching for words to soothe and heal, to ease the ache. But I can’t say the one thing which would help. I can’t tell Roman that Remy is alive, thriving because of his interference. I can’t tell Roman that in the end, everything is okay, and that’s all that matters. This is a heartbreak I cannot fix. And yet the desire to do so is extreme.

“Roman, your brother—”

“Did you?Doyou?” Furious, it’s an accusation. “Doyouhave a plan, Gwyn?” I can feel his anger, but somehow I know it’s not directed at me. It’s a futile hatred of that intrusive self-loathing which has plagued me for as long as I can remember. His hand on my neck grips me firmly, holding me still. I’m stunned into silence by the shift of his thoughts. Moving from realizations about his brother to questions about me is a dizzying jump. That he would ask me something so personal and so sensitive without any restraint shouldn’t surprise me, but it does. Direct, Roman asks me what I’ve told no one, not even a therapist.

“Sorta,” I answer, the candor feeling foreign on my tongue. His other hand slides up and cups my jaw. He cradles my head in his hands, another tender act. No one has ever reacted like this to my mental illness. Being handled with such care almost makes me think I deserve this kind of softness.

Even before my parents died, I had slipped into seasons of sadness with ease. They dealt with it for most of my life, part of why I stayed in their guest house for as long as I did, and they never understood it. Even Sasha never truly grasped it. Finding the professional help I needed, providing me with a safety net when I failed classes—that was the extent of their support. And even that came at a cost. It took far too long for everyone to realize it was my mental health and not laziness or lack of drive which kept me from the success they’d expected of me. And I’d plummeted farther into the abyss of self-hatred and despair when I had thought they were right. When I’d been convinced if I just tried a little harder, things would be better.

Later, once they figured it out, they’d done enough. But no one ever shoved past the discomfort of asking the hard questions, to truly push me into talking about my depression instead of shutting everyone out. Part of me still thinks they believed it was a choice. They never offered more than what I asked them for. Roman so bluntly giving more,demandingmore, when he’s only just understood one of the more horrifying parts of this goddamn disorder, knocks me on ass. He feels no discomfort as he pushes past the invisible boundaries my depression has created around me.

“Yeah. Yeah, I did.” I only realize I’m crying when his thumbs slip beneath my eyes and brush the tears away. “I—I haven’t thought about it in a while, but…Lake Osman…the swamp.” And then I’m talking and words are falling out of my mouth in a rush, and I can’t stop, and I don’t stop until I tell him exactly how and exactly why. The words pour out of me—I tell him more than I ever intended to. I tell him how sometimes I can barely keep those dark thoughts away. Describing the feeling in my gut when I know it’s coming is so much easier when Roman’s touch soothes me. I’m sobbing, and he’s pulling me into his lap, holding me tight. In just a few words, brutal tone cloaking his concern, someone I’d sworn to hate, who has hurt me, who is the face of so much pain, makes me feel seen in ways I’ve never experienced. When his silence isn’t accompanied by horror and repulsion but is instead paired with soothing circles rubbed down my back and soft brushes of his lips to my temple, I am unraveled.

I know, in that moment, the need I feel for him has shifted, has transformed into something bigger than the changes my body has undergone. That when I kiss him, it is not because my body tells me to, not because I only think I want to. When I pull his big body over mine, and my tears don’t stop, I let him think it’s because of the truths I’ve admitted. I don’t tell him I hate him for this and that I’ll never forgive him for making me care for him.

***

A week after becoming a vampire,my body doesn’t look much different. The most remarkable change is that, even though I’ve been through hell the last few days, my skin looks fucking amazing. I don’t look or feel sleep deprived. I don’t need a gallon of coffee to wake up, and concealer doesn’t even cross my mind. It’s a good thing. The trauma I’ve been through would be significantly less bearable if I physically felt its effects or could see them in a mirror.

I know Margot is downstairs, the faint scent of her coconut lotion drifting up to Roman’s walk-in closet. The urge to attack her has eased, but knowing she’s near him makes me feel something I don’t like. The only things keeping me from going down there are the locked door Roman put between us and his command that I stay upstairs. With my vampire strength, I’m sure I could bust the doors down if I wanted, but that wouldn’t matter if I can’t go downstairs.

I’m trapped, biding my time. For what, I don’t know anymore.

I want to call Sasha, but he won’t allow me that.

Returning to my self-assessment in the mirror, I sigh in relief. My pearly stretch marks remain; my soft curved belly and dimpled thighs are unchanged. I’ve done the work to love my body, and I would’ve eventually figured out how to keep loving it through a massive change, but I’m relieved it is still mine when so much else doesn’t feel that way. My hair is shinier, and it looks like I’ve gotten a fresh cut. I’m surprisingly hung up on this, and someone needs to explain it to me. How do vampire split-ends work? Hair is dead and vampires are undead, so will it continue to grow? Roman has mentioned his abilities, thirst, and immortality are the only things which have changed since he Ascended. My stomach rumbles, reinforcing my need for food. It’s confusing, honestly.

I need someone to answer my very specific questions, and I’m eager to be around Margot again when I don’t want to rip her limbs from her body. Roman would probably try to answer, but something tells me he doesn’t give a shit about split-ends. And besides, do I want to talk about such mundane things with him? Do I want to let these feelings for him grow? But some of these questions are important. We’ve already been supremely irresponsible by not using protection when we don’t know if my IUD will work. But between my own fertility “concerns” and the fact his mother is the only vampire to have fallen pregnant in the past fifty years, he seems unbothered. Considering Josh’s impending fatherhood, it all but confirmed what I’d known for a while. But how does Roman know this new body hasn’t healed those parts of me?

I sure as fuck hope not. I’ve never wanted kids, and I’ve already worked through the trauma of society making me feel broken, as if the only acceptable role of a woman is to bear a child. If I was entirely certain they wouldn’t grow back, I’d cut those parts out of me and weather the pain.

I should ask him to buy condoms.

But then I’d have to talk to Roman about something so obscenely normal, and it gives me anxiety. I would think about him adding a box to his grocery order, carrying plastic bags full of our favorite things, insisting he can carry it all in one load. I’d imagine putting things away in his beautiful kitchen. Or daydream about him putting me on the counter, spreading my legs and ripping one of those foil packets open with his teeth, kissing me as he rolls it on.

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