Page 68 of Heathens
“Yes,“ he answers, his voice low and crisp, his accent making that one word sound provocative. “I've booked you on the same train as us—the same hotel, too. For me. So that I can face what's in store for me there—the horrible things he thinks I'll agree to, and then I can come back to you.“ I want to cry—his words make me feel... important. Vital to his well-being. He continues. “I know it's selfish. The last thing you probably want is to be so close to that man, but... I need you,“ he repeats, his eyes pleading.
“Of course I’ll go,” I whisper, crawling back into his lap. He pulls me close. “I’ll get Rosemary to feed Jekyll.”
“Thank you,” he whispers back, kissing my temple. “I have one last favor, albeit even I don’t like the idea of it.”
Smiling, I raise my eyebrows and look at him expectantly. “Anything for you, Father.”
His eyes darken a bit at that, and I make a mental note that he likes that nickname. “I need you to talk to Benedict.”
I stiffen. “Benedict?” I’d nearly forgotten about him, though he’d been texting me regularly over the last couple of days. “Why?”
Salem sighs and wraps his warm arms around my middle. “Because I think he’s the key to finding Evelyn. And I think he might want to help us.”
“I don’t know, Salem,” I mumble, envisioning that conversation. “Benedict helping me wasn’t a part of my plan. I was going to use him as bait. But now that I know where Auguste works, and the name he now goes by, I don’t need Benedict anymore.” I feel shameful admitting that, but it’s the truth.
“I’m not going to make you play these games, Lily,” he murmurs, nipping my ear with his lips. I groan. And I realize how ironic this all is—himconvincingmeto play games.
I like the games—a lot. I was made to play games. Lilith—savage, cunning, too intense for Adam. But not for Salem. No, Salem and I were cut from the same cloth.
Craning my neck, he sucks on the sensitive spot just below my ear, and I arch my back as his hands find my breasts.
“And what do I tell Benedict?” I ask breathlessly.
“Don’t say another man’s name while I’m doing this,” he replies, his breathing just as ragged—as his fingers twist one of my nipples. I cry out from surprise—but mostly from pleasure.
My voice rumbles with a low laugh. “Okay, fine. But h-how—” I gasp as he twists the other nipple, “how are we going to do this?”
Salem raises his mouth to my ear. “He’s going to find Evelyn while we’re in Monaco distracting Father Monsignor.”
The sound of her name sends a wave of clarity through me, and I pull away. “What? Do you know where she is?”
His face is a contorted mix of unclaimed arousal and worry. “I think he’ll be able to do some investigating once he knows what his father does to those girls. And when we get back, she’ll be waiting for you.”
I swallow. A plan—he’s formed a plan for all of this. Forus.“And what will happen to Father Monsignor?”
Salem grins. “He’s going to think he’s losing his mind, because I like playing with my food before eating it. And then we’ll take him down. Together.”
“That’s very serial killer of you,” I joke.
“I’m serious, mon loup.” His voice is a low murmur, his hands wandering over me with the confidence of a man who knows how to pleasure a woman. My core melts when I think of all the things he’s going to unleash upon me. In a toe-curling mix of anger and lust, I reply.
“I know. I want to burn his empire down.”
As his hands brush my hair away from my neck, and as his lips find the reactive skin there, I gasp and think about something I’d heard a man say one day on the streets of Paris. He looked like a vagrant, but the words he spoke were Godlike. Evelyn used to say some soulswerevoices of God. The postman. The teacher. The vagrant. He was everywhere. Leaning further into Salem, I let those words, and how they made me feel, wash over me as his arms grope my sides. The man spoke loudly—clearly—about finding our truth, embracing our darkness and light equally. To stop playing small and being afraid of burning too passionately. To stop worrying about what we looked like in the eyes of others. “Our fire is not for them. It is for us,” he’d said, yelling into the crowd that had gathered around him. He was blind, and he was using his symbol stick and jabbing it toward each of us, as if he really could see. “We’re not here to be the sacrifice; we’re here to set the world on fire.”
Justice.
It is built into the foundation of every soul, and as children, we’re taught to suppress it. In most cases, it’s probably good advice. Take the high road. Be the bigger person.
But what most people don’t understand is that I don’t wantjusticefor Auguste. I don’t want him to stand in a court and deny the things he did to us.To many.I don’t want others making that decision on my behalf—on Evelyn’s behalf.Thatjustice is an abstract concept of the law. What I want—what my soul needs—is to make sure that Auguste suffers. It’s the only way he’ll know the pain, the terror.
And—I know, deep in my soul, that if Evelyn hadn't been involved, I might've been able to call the police and turn him in. Stop him from hurting anyone else. Turn it over to the professionals. But... he took Evelyn. HehurtEvelyn. My best friend—my soul mate in this life and the next. The only person besides Salem who was ever able to figure me out. Who loves me. Who understands the neglected parts of my black, mixed-up soul. And my love for her burns through me. So much so, that I can’t look the other way. He fucked with her—and now he has to deal with me.
“Mon loup?” I ask, pulling my lower lip into my mouth.
“My wolf,” he answers.
Maybe-Love
