Page 26 of The Scars of War
“I didn’t sign a contract.”
“You didn’t have to.” His fingers ghost along my jaw. No touching, just… hovering, like he wants to see if I flinch. I don’t.
“Something’s wrong with me,” I whisper.
“Something’s awakening.”
“Because of you.” He leans in, lips brushing the shell of my ear.
“Because of us.”
My skin tightens. My breath catches. He doesn’t kiss me, but it feels like he did. Like he will. Likehe already has, and it left a bruise somewhere deeper than skin. “The others will feel it now,” he says. “They’ll come.”
“You mean the other Horsemen,” I snap.
“I mean the ones who don’t care if you break in the process.” My heart pounds.
“And you do?” I ask. He tilts his head and smiles with certainty.
“I like you whole. But I’ll still take you shattered.” My mouth is dry. That line,I’ll take you shattered, echoes like it’s carved into my bones. He doesn’t touch me again. He just turns toward the door “Come on,” he says quietly. I follow, not because I’m scared, and definitely not because I trust him, but because something inside me wants to know what happens if I keep choosing this.What happens tome?To us?
The ride to his place is silent but charged with an energy I’m growing fond of. It’s like lightning waiting for a reason to strike. When the gates swing open this time, I feel sure of myself. When the door unlocks itself, I step through like I’ve done before. He gestures down the glass hallway and I walk ahead of him. This time, notlooking at the artifacts because I already know what they mean.
War doesn’t keep trophies; he keeps reminders. It’s the room that stops me. It’s not the office or the guest room, but something in between. Lived-in but untouched. A bed that’s too sharp in its edges. A fireplace still flickering from some other night. His folded shirt lies on the chair, or maybe it’s mine? And on the edge of the desk propped like a message…my old sketchbook. Burnt around the edges and warped from the flame. How is it even intact? Open again, to a page I never drew. A symbol. It’s circular, jagged, veined through like a stone about to crack. “I threw this into the fire,” I murmur, stepping closer. “I watched it burn.”
“And it came back to you.”
“You brought it back.”
“I don’t touch your obsessions, Lux,” Riven says. “I just make sure they don’t get lost.” I turn to him. His gaze is still unreadable, but he’s not standing like a man waiting for permission. He’s standing like he’s already claimed something. And that something is me.
“Why this room?” I ask.
“Because you’re not a guest anymore.”
“Then what am I?”
He steps forward. Stops just in front of me. “Exactly what you were always meant to be.” His hand brushes my cheek with what seems like finality. “Sleep,” he says. And somehow, I do. The fire doesn’t leave the room when I close my eyes. It just curls deeper inside me.
13
A Memory Not Her Own
I wake up standing, which should be the first sign that I’m not awake at all. Something about the room is unsettling. The angles don’t match. The corners stretch like shadows that don’t know when to stop. There’s no ceiling, just light. White and endless and humming. Like a sterile heaven. I blink, and the floor beneath me flickers. It becomes tile. Then dirt. Then something slick like blood. My boots leave no sound.
I start walking. It’s all I know to do. Each door I pass has no handle, just a thin slit of darkness at the edges, like they’ve been sealed shut by something that doesn’t want them open. Or worse, something waiting inside.
I glance behind me. The hallway has changed. It’s not white anymore. It’s stone. Wet and black. The hospital lights crackle overhead, then turn red, like something outof a surgical horror film. The sounds of water dripping echoes like a metronome.
Then I see it. A figure on the floor, slumped, twisted. A body. Its face is smooth. Blank like a mannequin. Blood drips from its chest in slow motion. Thick. Coagulated. Too dark.
I take a step back.
My body won’t move. My voice won’t work. I’m pinned to something slick and cold. I can hear someone breathing—frantic, wet, choked.
“Please…” “I didn’t mean, fuck, I didn’t mean to, please…”
The voice breaks off into a sob. A gasp. A rattle that meanstoo late. I try to look. Try to scream. I see my hands around his throat. Squeezing. Something shifts above me and I feel a presence.
