Page 142 of The Poison Daughter
HENRY
Ale sloshes from Carter’s mug onto the knotty wood table as he bellows a deep laugh.
Despite the boisterous music and loud conversations around us, Carter’s laughter has heads turning all over the bar.
“Could you two pull it together?” I snap.
Bryce is practically wheezing. He wipes tears from his eyes. “All that and then she slams the door in your face,” he says between gasping laughs. “You must be aching.”
I am. I tried to lure Harlow out with food and wine, but she remained stubbornly locked in her little sanctuary all afternoon, doing Divine know what. I’d imagined the many things she might be doing alone in that room.
When she refused to come out to eat, I finally surrendered. Leaving her with the ever-watchful Gaven Pomeroy posted outside our bedroom door, I immediately went to the Havenwood House recovery room to try to calm down. The quiet helped, as did my breathing exercises. The recovery room has become a sanctuary for the Returned. Sometimes the world here is too loud and overwhelming. Sometimes our sharp senses are too much. The recovery room has been the place where we can find moments of peace.
Once I’d had some time to soothe my nerves, I left the house to blow off some steam.
No doubt my parents will hear about it from the servants and I’ll get an earful tomorrow about upholding traditions and being patient. I know we need Harlow to open up and tell us not just about what kind of magical blessings her siblings have, but also any other secrets that might help us remove her father from power.
But my parents don’t know that Harlow is a Divine-damn serial killer. After the ceremony, my father said that she must be a blessing delivered straight from Kennymyra, but I swear to the Divine she’s a curse from Polm. That woman is all malice.
Never mind that it doesn’t look good that I’ve left my new wife alone the night after we wed. If I spent any more time in that room waiting for her to come out, I would be climbing the walls. At least Harlow is contained for the moment.
My friends finally settle their raucous laughter and eye me with something akin to pity.
“Your girl is fun,” Bryce says. “That ceremony was—” He whistles, and I briefly think about murdering him right here in this pub.
Carter leans forward in his chair and presses a hand to my chest. “Easy, killer. You look like you’re ready to rip his throat out with your teeth.”
This is normal for us. Though the Returned instincts have made many of us more territorial, we’ve also done plenty of sharing. Bleeding woods—I shared Miriam with Bryce last month, and I enjoyed every moment of it almost as much as she did.
I should feel proud that I put on a believable performance, that I made the woman I loathe come so hard that her pleasure broke Kennymyra’s sigil. I can’t blame Bryce for enjoying it.
The sound of Harlow’s scream will be burned into my brain forever. But there’s some part of me that wishes I had it to myself.
I spin my mug in a puddle of condensation, trying to breathe through the territorial feelings.
“You both seemed like you enjoyed yourself despite your differences. You’re a lucky man,” Carter says diplomatically. He looks across the room to where Naima is pulling pints for a couple of men at the bar.
Bryce rolls his eyes. “Enjoyed themselves. The woman broke a century-old magical sigil. I’d say they have Divine-blessed chemistry.”
“It’s not a big deal,” I snap. “And you’ve never been known for being pious.”
“I don’t know. Seeing your wife’s tits might have renewed my devotion,” Bryce says.
I know this is just what Bryce does. Ever since we’ve all returned—and in particular since Carter fell in love and started seeing in color again—Bryce has struggled between being a true believer and making light of the Divine. I don’t know if it’s just a response to the trauma of dying and coming back, but he’s always trying to sell us on how much he enjoys casual flings, when in truth, I think he envies what Carter and Naima have.
I don’t look up from my ale. “Harlow is off-limits.”
Bryce and Carter both freeze. I’ve been with plenty of women over the past few years, and I’ve never once said someone was off-limits to them.
While I’m sure Bryce’s interest is as much to annoy me as it is genuine, Carter isn’t interested in anyone but his wife. I can practically read the thoughts in his head from the way his eyes narrow on me.
“You don’t have to tell me twice, but I thought you said you weren’t at risk of seeing color,” Carter says.
“I’m not. I’m just feeling the normal aftereffects of the ceremony,” I say.
The two of them glance at each other and drink in unison.
I need to talk about anything else. I am under enough scrutiny with my parents. I don’t also need my friends getting in on it.
