Page 48 of Cry of Blood and Joy
I’d been wrong. Completely, catastrophically wrong.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Enzo
I dragged my bloody fingers through my hair, the motion sharp and violent, pulling at the dark strands until some came away in my grip.
The scratches on my scalp burned like fire. The metallic scent of my blood filled my nostrils—a stark reminder of how I fucking screwed this up. The physical pain was nothing compared to the self-loathing that crashed over me like a steamroller.
“Goddamn it,” I snarled through clenched teeth. I was cursing myself for losing control, for letting rage cloud my judgment when Joy needed me to think clearly. This was fucking stupid. I was putting Joy more at risk. My hands shook with barely contained fury—at myself, at this situation, at the precious time I’d wasted.
The taste of copper filled my mouth where I’d bitten my tongue, and my chest felt like it was being crushed. “I have to find her.” Cold fury settled in my bones like ice. “I have to find her now.”
Serenity’s blue eyes flickered over me with clinical assessment, taking in my blood-soaked shirt, the tremor in my hands, the wild desperation I knew was written all over my face. Her expression shifted to one of gentle but firm concern—the same look she’d given me countless times.
“Not like this you’re not.” She jabbed her finger into my chest. “You look like you’re going to pass out. You’re bleeding, exhausted, and running on pure adrenaline.” She gestured toward my swaying form. “Pascal, Lorenzo, take him into the living room where I can heal him.”
The room spun slightly around me, and I realized she was right—my vision was starting to blur at the edges, and my legs felt like they might give out at any moment.
I collapsed onto the sofa with more force than grace, the overstuffed leather cushions exhaling with a soft whoosh as they absorbed my weight. The rich burgundy material was butter-soft against my torn and bloodied shirt, a stark contrast to the violence that had just unfolded. My body felt like it had been put through a meat grinder—every muscle ached, every joint screamed in protest. Fresh blood leaked down the fabric where Angelo’s fingernails had found their mark.
The sound of heeled footsteps on polished hardwood announced another presence before I saw her. Gianna walked into the elegant living room with her usual flair. She was petite like Serenity but darker—raven-black hair that cascaded in waves down her back and eyes the color of espresso. Her simple black dress was immaculate, not a thread out of place, which only served to highlight how utterly destroyed I looked in comparison.
The sight of her triggered a memory that made me wince. Dimitri. Christ, in all the chaos and revelations I’d completely forgotten about him. The image flashed through my mind—his body flying through the air, the thunderous slam as he smashedinto the garage door, the way he’d hung there like a broken marionette.
I looked at Serenity, who was already moving toward me with the purposeful stride of someone preparing to work healing magic. “You’d better heal Dimitri before me.”
“Dimitri?” Gianna’s perfectly sculpted eyebrows drew together in confusion, her dark eyes darting between Serenity and me with growing alarm. “Why?”
I sighed deeply, guilt and exhaustion crushing me. The breath rattled in my chest where Angelo had squeezed my throat, blood still staining my tongue. “I put him through the garage door.”
The words hung in the air for a heartbeat before Gianna’s face transformed. Her olive complexion went ashen, then flushed red with fury. “You bastard!” she spat, venom dripping from every syllable. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, and for a moment I thought she might actually attack me herself.
Instead, she spun on her heel and ran toward the door, her heels clicking frantically against the hardwood like machine gun fire. “Oh my god. Angelo!” Her voice echoed through the house, high and panicked, growing fainter as she disappeared into the hallway.
I leaned my head back against the overstuffed leather cushions, feeling them cradle my skull like a supportive hand. The chandelier above cast warm, golden light that should have been comforting but only served to illuminate the destruction we’d caused to this once beautiful room. Shattered glass glinted from the Persian rug, and dark stains—my blood, Angelo’s blood—marred the expensive fabric.
The guilt settled in my stomach like sour milk. Hopefully I hadn’t killed Dimitri. The man had been trying to help, in his own twisted way, and I’d nearly destroyed him becauseI’d misjudged the entire situation. Just like I’d misjudged everything else tonight.
While Joy was out there, suffering, I’d been attacking the wrong people.
I studied Serenity’s face intently, searching for any sign of deception or lingering trauma. Her blue eyes were clear and alert, but there was something haunting lurking in their depths—shadows of whatever hell she’d endured while trapped in that supernatural coma. “When did you wake from the coma?”
Serenity settled into the wingback chair across from me with careful precision, her movements still slightly tentative, as if she wasn’t entirely sure her body would obey her commands. She smoothed her hands over her jean shorts, a nervous gesture that spoke volumes about her state of mind.
She shrugged. “Yesterday.” She held up a palm. “Before you ask, it took me a while to draw on my healing power. It’s hard to heal yourself when you’re unconscious.” Her shaking fingers traced absent patterns on the chair’s upholstered arm.
Something twisted in my chest. There was nothing I could say to that.
“I was in a dream state, and it took me a while to realize it wasn’t real.” Her gaze grew distant, unfocused, as if she were looking at something only she could see. The haunted expression that crossed her features made my stomach clench with protective anger.
I leaned forward slightly, the leather cushions creaking beneath my weight. “How did you know it wasn’t real?”
A bitter smile ghosted across her lips—there and gone so quickly I almost missed it. “One day, my mother was alive and happy.” She had to clear her throat before continuing. “I knew she was dead, and she was rarely happy, especially being married to Freddie. So I knew it was an illusion.”
The mention of her stepfather’s name sent a familiar surge of rage through my system. Freddie—the bastard who’d made Serenity’s childhood a living nightmare of abuse and terror. My hands clenched and unclenched involuntarily.
She had suffered so much as a child—more than anyone should ever have to endure.
