Page 15 of The Arbiter

After docking with the Britannia, the only ship that was close enough to provide aid, Enoch and I had become better acquainted. It was strange how easy it was for me to talk with him, and dare I say, it had also been nice. I didn’t feel that pit of loneliness around him, and surprisingly, I felt no shame in what had happened between us. My only regret was that it had cost so much life.

Enoch had finally revealed what he truly was, and if what he said was true, then he really was as special as he claimed. A Baellock, the only one of his race of the Damned and one of the only original first turned Damned from the war. No one knew exactly what Cain planned for him when he was created, but many assumed he would be the one who led Cain’s army should he ever find a way to escape his prison. It was all speculation, though.

Weeks passed, which bled into months, then finally years. Through all of that time, Enoch never left my side and had quickly become everything to me. We left no stones uncovered with each other. He always listened with rapture, most times asking me to recount stories more than once. We were in love, and he was all that mattered in my life.

At the time, I found no remorse in the tragedy that was happening around us. The men, women, and children that died hadn’t called to me the way they do now. Some nights, I can still hear the chilling echo of their cries calling for help across the water and the hopeless falling to their death as the boat sank slowly beneath the surface of the icy water. It’s a night that will live on in my memory for the rest of my existence. I honestly wouldn’t blame any Rite striking me down for it should that truth ever surface. However, I’m thankful that I’m no longer the person I was on that ship.

The RMS Titanic or ‘Ship of Dreams’ was rightly named so. That’s all it feels like anymore, a bad dream. One that reminds me every day how much it pisses me off that I couldn’t stop loving a man I wanted nothing more than to hate.

That memory rushes through my mind as Enoch stands there, and I despise him for bringing that back with him. He held the title as the only love of my existence, but also my biggest heartbreak. We spent next to ten years together, and never once did he mention anything about being an Infernal. If I hadn’t been so wrapped up in him, I probably could have figured it out. He had just disappeared one day, with only a note left behind saying that he was moving on. That’s all I was worth to him, a few crummy words on a scrap piece of paper.

One hundred years. That’s how long he’s been gone, and it had taken almost that long to even consider using sex for soul energy again because he had marked my heart so deeply. I threw everything that I had into The Apothecary and built my dream from the ground up, yet here he stands today. Even if for diplomatic reasons, my head understands, but my heart doesn’t. I will play my part of Arbiter while he is here, but I refuse to allow him to have that control over me again.

As their attention is on each other, I take the moment to excuse myself. When I make it to the bar, Jamie is waiting with the largest shot glass we have full of Nightlock whiskey. Oh yeah, this is definitely how tonight is going to go.

I wake up feeling groggy and confused, my head pounding, and my room is darker than even my stellar inhuman vision can see through. The only sound echoing through the headache is the fan that sits a few feet from my bed, humming loudly like the hunk of junk that it is. I try to piece last night together, but everything is fuzzy.

All of the shit last night with Enoch had me stressed to the point I started drinking and didn’t stop until it was too late. Yeah, I’m a stress drinker, fuck you very much. Of course, my choice of alcohol is more than likely what did me in. Human alcohol can affect us, but it takes a very large amount. Damned made alcohol, on the other hand, will have us plastered before we know what hit us. Nightlock whiskey has certainly earned its name for a reason. It’s made with whiskey and an extract pulled from the roots of the Nightlock bush only found in the bowels of Damnation. Only a handful of Damned are brave enough to cross into the realm and risk their very souls in the forests to attain these roots. One single drop of it would kill a human. Needless to say, it’s powerful shit, very expensive, and the bane of my existence at this very moment.

I remember taking the first shot at the bar then walking back over to Monroe and Enoch. Listening to their conversation, they spoke of all the reps from the Infernal but seemed worried the most about Alida, the Imp. She apparently loved mischief and discord, butmybiggest concern was Saul the Lupin. His reputation preceded him and not in a good way. He’s enthralled by violence, and the only person he fears is Enoch, though the jerk refused to explain why.

After all of the delightful talk, my drinking got a little heavier. I knew that any conversation that followed would be strictly social. My main focus was Monroe and Raphael, but Enoch kept butting into the conversations, making me want to punch him in the throat.

As I lay there staring at the ceiling and trying to grab onto even a scrap of memory from that point, a movement to my left jostles me. I jump in surprise, not realizing that anyone has been in bed with me this whole time.

Fucking Nightlock.

To make matters worse, I can feel that I have absolutely no clothes on beneath the sheet covering me.

I try to calm my nerves and take a deep breath as I mutter, “Sweet Damnation. Please no.”

Gently as I can, I lean over the body to my left. The smell that hits my nose makes me realize just how much I’ve missed having a masculine scent greet me when I wake up in my bed. I don’t know whether to be worried or excited about the fact that as I flip the switch to the dim lamp beside my bed. I’m only worried about who the scent belongs to. At least by the smell, I know without a doubt it's not Enoch. Even after all this time, I’d know his scent in a crowded room. The small bit of light confirms that there is in fact a man in my bed. And not just any man; it’s Monroe.

I’m still halfway on top of the bare-chested Strige, who’s sleeping like the dead. Oh, I’ve definitely fucked up this time. Putting my face in my hands, I groan a little louder than I mean to as snippets of last night flash through my brain.

The three of us were drinking, me dancing with Monroe and then for Monroe, then Monroe and I making out in a dark corner…a flash of Enoch’s face cloaked in anger…

Whatever. Fucker had his chance.

Then it was me and Monroe in my bed while I sucked the energy from him. I’d taken control like a woman possessed as I claimed his body and soul.

Oh, sweet Damnation! What the fuck is wrong with me?

Monroe stirs from his sleep, yawning and stretching his arms before opening his eyes. Damn it. He even manages to make that look sexy. As those eyes find mine, a smug grin turns his lips up. “Bonjour, ca va, chere?”

When I don’t answer and just continue to stare at him, he laughs. “Sorry, my dear. I said good morning and how are you?”

“Oh. Sorry, I understood you. But if you want me to be honest, I’m just trying not to freak the fuck out. Did we…”

I bite my bottom lip as my question trails off. I’m not exactly sure how to ask the question that I already know the answer to.

He reads my face like an open book. “Oui. What you think happened, happened.”

I’m sure there’ll be some kind of repercussions for it, but what the fuck ever – what’s done is done. Though, I can’t help but feel this may have just complicated things a bit more. I have a knack for doing that lately.

“I can hear those cogs turning in there, chere,” Monroe consoles me as he runs his knuckles across my cheek. He frames my face with his hands as I try without success to not ogle his beautiful, pale chest. “Everything is more than alright. Whatever repercussion is worth the moment I had with you last night.”

His words chisel away at some of the ice that’s been around my heart for so long. I’ve never had anyone say words like that to me in all my years, even Enoch; he may have his looks going for him, but he has never been a Damned for pretty words.

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