Page 35
“Your stitches—” She goes to check, and I jerk back as far as the car seat will allow.
“It’s fine. Let’s go inside,” I snap. “Go.”
Silence frowns but climbs out. I bite my fist, trying not to shout out in pain as I heave myself out of the car. The front door of the manor is open, a dim light glowing from inside, but the darkness is too thick to see the perimeter of the property. It’s unnerving, as if anything could emerge from the shadows.
The foyer is a direct contrast to the white exterior. The walls and floors are black, threads of gold weaving their way through the marble. Ahead of us is a wide staircase that splits at the top, leading to the two wings of the house, and endless bedrooms. A small, battery-powered lantern has been placed at the bottom of the stairs, but other than that, there’s no light, and by the way our breath fogs, no fucking heat, either.
“Holy fucking liar,” I say as Zayden closes the door behind us. “It’s freezing, you fucker.”
“I’ve lit a fire in the main bedroom,” he says. “We’ll all sleep in there tonight until we can get the heat running.”
Great. We get to stay in the creepiest building in North America with no heat or light. “And this is better than getting murdered?”
Silence is clinging to Zayden’s waist and glares at me. “Not funny.”
We take the stairs, and I tip my head back to admire the unlit chandelier hanging above us, the clear crystal heavy with dust.
“This is a place of nightmares,” Silence whispers.
I grunt. “That is something we agree on.”
As run-down as it looks, the previous owner had the place torn hollowed out and upgraded. Beyond the dirtied walls and dusty walkways, the manor hides the latest in security and resources to lock yourself away for years. It has a small medical wing, cinema, library, eight bedrooms, nine bathrooms, a tennis court, a wine cellar separate from the basement, a bar, and for some strange reason, a disco room, kitted out with DJ equipment, complete with a rotating dance floor.
The guy was a criminal, but he clearly knew how to party.
The feature that sealed the deal was the state-of-the-art security system within the home and along the grounds. If anything bigger than a rabbit sets foot on our land, it sets off a silent alarm that links to an office in a large panic room. Once you’re in that room and the door is shut, no one is getting in unless you let them.
Zayden tells all this to Silence, but she seems unconvinced, especially when a mouse scurries past us as we reach our room for the night.
The main bedroom is enormous, a large, covered bed set against a far wall and not much else. Yale is tearing open packaging to new, thick duvet sets, along with pillows, all items kept in storage for emergency situations like this. More battery lanterns are set up, and the fire is burning brightly on the opposite side of the room, the soft crack of dried wood filling the quiet. Zayden was right: it’s far warmer in here, especially with the heavy drapes covering the windows.
Silence wraps her arms around herself. “Bathroom?”
“Over there.” Zayden nods to the far side of the room, and Silence goes to it, disappearing inside the bathroom and closing the door behind her.
“Shit, X. You’re bleeding,” Yale says, searching through one of the carry-all bags by the bed. He produces a first aid kit, and Zayden takes over making the bed. It can easily fit ten people, so maybe the Pakhan didn’t restrict the parties to the disco room.
“Do you need help with that?” Yale asks, handing me the kit. “Silence could—”
“No. I can do it myself.”
The en suite door opens and Silence appears. She throws her thumb over her shoulder. “There’s something living in the shower, but I figure if we name it, it might not kill us in our sleep.”
“I’ll go introduce myself then,” I say, edging by her and into the bathroom. Once the door is closed, I lean against the sink, unbutton my jeans, and peel them back. The blood is sticky, but it isn’t weeping heavily, so that’s a good sign. Tearing open a wipe with my teeth, I clean myself up.
“Motherfucking fuck,” I grit out. After going through a few wipes, I examine the stitches. They still look in place, so I must have just yanked the fuck out of one, but that doesn’t mean it won’t get infected. Taking the small bottle of alcohol out of the kit, I take a deep breath.
“Just fuckin’ do it,” I whisper to myself, then pour it over the wound.
Somehow, I don’t shout, but I bite the hell out of my bicep, breathing heavily through my nose. Once the stinging subsides, I dry it off, and my attention is drawn on the tattoo almost lost among the inked thorns across my hip.
The small Q.
Closing my eyes, I breathe through my annoyance that I even got it. I assumed Silence would never see that part of me, but if this wound doesn’t heal, she might. And it isn’t like I can pass it off as anything else; it’s the same style as the ones we all got, because I was drunk and decided that a romantic gesture for my brother’s wife was a stellar fucking idea.
For what reason? I don’t fucking know.
I tape a fresh bandage over the wound and wash my face with cold water. Hopefully the heat will be back on tomorrow, because I’d kill for a shower. I smell like a vodka-doused hospital ward.
