by Vic Tyler
“Don’t you get tired of saying that?”
My eyes narrow. “What?”
He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Don’t you get tired of being mad all the time?”
I stare at him incredulously.
“Think about it. All this time you’ve held onto your sister, and you’ve had Adriana.” His gaze bores into me. “Which one of them humanizes you? Which one makes you believe that living isn’t so bad, after all?”
I swallow a hard knot in my throat.
In my mind, the answer was immediate. Obvious.
And my gut roils.
This entire time, I’ve been keeping Elena alive as a ghost. That’s all she’s become for me.
She serves my purpose to fuel my anger, resentment, and self–loathing. As motivation for why I take lives and mar my soul.
But in her life, that wouldn’t have been her.
She would’ve been like Adriana — a breath of fresh air, cleansing the pollution inside and inspiring joy.
All this time, I wasn’t mistaking Adriana for Elena.
I replaced Elena’s brightness with Adriana’s.
Adriana became my angel.
And Elena became the demon I made her out to be.
“Eventually, Adriana’s going to leave,” Jura says as he heads to the door. “And you should hold onto those memories of her dearly. It’ll be what keeps you going when we have to return to the darkness without her.”
My heart sinks with dread.
After she leaves…
Even though I knew it was always going to happen, the thought claws at my heart already.
To always remember the hope she gave me and to live off a memory…
To never be able to indulge in that freedom and happiness again…
That sounds like a death sentence.
It’s better to bury it away before it buries me.
chapter thirty
An excited energy has been vibrating throughout the house the entire day.
In the five years that I’ve been here, there’s never been a formal party in the main part of the mansion, although the deviants regularly hold parties in their own corner of the manor.
As I walk towards the Twelve’s quarter, I can hear the ruckus coming from the barracks, where the deviants reside.
There was one time I went over there because one of the deviants insisted that I needed to experience a ‘real’ party.
Every single room I went into was deafeningly loud, full of people, and smelled of beer and bodily fluids.
There were tons of women — civilian women I’d never seen before. I still have no idea how they snuck in. And the deviants I knew looked so different — red–faced, hollering, laughing, and acting so casual.
I tried to be brave, but I felt like such a kid at fourteen years old when everyone else was so much older, and there were such… adult activities going on, only growing more R– and X–rated the farther into the house I went.
Damien stormed in less than half an hour after I arrived, cursing and demanding to know who invited me before he escorted me all the way back to my deathly silent half of the mansion.
He was so mad — scolding, berating, and making me promise not to go again.
It made me feel like a disobedient kid, but I was a little happy that he cared.
But it did make me feel lonelier on the weekends when I knew that everyone would be having fun over there, and I couldn’t go — very underage and very sheltered.
I ended up spending a lot of those nights in the attic with Jura, who never went to the parties, or with Damien on the nights he claimed he didn’t want to go because it was too boring.
I know he sometimes went after I fell asleep since other people would mention seeing him. But I didn’t say anything because I liked that he stayed back to watch movies with me or to talk late into the night.
I wonder if I’d be allowed to go now.
Even when Damien was gone, I never went back because it really was a little too hectic and raunchy for me as a kid. But now that I’m going to be an adult — officially — maybe I’ll feel differently once I’m there.
When I arrive at the Twelve’s quarter, I freeze right outside the common room.
My eyes flit over all the colorful lace and satin negligees, corsets, lingerie sets, and pieces of fabric that can’t possibly be called ‘underwear.’ They’re covering nearly every inch of the place.
Amazing. How is it even possible to have this many?
Kitty had asked me to come by, saying she needs some advice. Admittedly, I was super curious because what could she possibly need my help for?
But whoa.
Holding up a triangular set of strings in front of her, Kitty glances at me when I enter.
Literally. Strings. That would cover nothing.
“Finally legal,” Kitty purrs, winking. “How does it feel?”
“I’m not officially eighteen until tomorrow,” I say, not bothering to hide my astonishment as I look around.
Why does she need me here? I don’t know anything about seduction or choosing lingerie, and I’m pretty sure she’s mastered it.
The extent of my knowledge is whatever I witness Kitty doing or what Jenny tells me, although some of Jenny’s advice seems questionable. Like brushing each other’s hair during sex. Pretty sure that’s not much of a turn–on for anyone.
Kitty’s request did make sense at the time when she pointed out the only other woman in the Twelve is Isla, and I’m pretty sure Isla’s all about practical undergarments rather than sexy ones.
Not to mention, Kitty doesn’t seem close enough to any of the maids to ask them, if there were any brave enough to go near her to begin with.
I can kind of understand why women are intimidated by her since she’s so openly sexual.
I mean, we’re sitting in the Twelve’s common space, looking at a collection that would put Victoria’s Secret to shame.
“I need ‘innocent.’” She cocks her head as she picks up a bright red set with a garter. “Not exactly virginal, but something that screams, ‘ruin me.’”
Winking at me, she growls seductively.
What the heck does that mean?
Kitty curls her finger, motioning for me to come closer. “How are you going to help me if you’re so far away? My mark is going to get front row seats.”
Heart racing, I jump forward eagerly. Even though I’m supposed to be helping her, I’m pretty sure I’ll learn way more from her.
Kitty lays the pieces she was looking at into my hands.
So soft and thin. Fragile. Silky and smooth. I can’t help stroking the material over and over again.
But this scarlet one doesn’t exactly look virginally innocent, and it doesn’t scream “ruin me.”
I study the collection around us.
White is obviously virginal, red seductive, and black suggestive.
But my eyes float over to a sakura pink bra and panty set.
I pick it up, analyzing it. The bra is low–cut with lacy ruffles that are see–through, but the extra ruffley layer mutes the skin under it, so it’s sexy and suggestive without baring everything. The panties are thin and would cover half the buttcheeks.
“Do you like that one?” Kitty purrs, slinking behind me. Goosebumps litter my skin when I feel her lips ghost over my shoulder. “Mm you smell good.”
“Thanks,” I mumble, resisting the urge to shudder from the tingly touch. “It’s from my honey–and–lilac scented body wash.”
“Ooh, I want it.” Her warm curves push into my back.
Her touch is soft and light, and I can see anyone — man or woman — pressing closer for more.
Yeah, she’ll have no problem with her mark.
“I have an extra bottle I can give you.” I hand the lingerie over to her. “I think this one will work best.”
She shoves it against me, and I jerk back in surprise.
“Hold it,” she commands in a sharp authoritative tone, a
nd my hands immediately keep it in place.
Wow. How does she go from demure to dominatrix so effortlessly?
“It matches your skin tone,” she says delightedly, clapping her hands.
My cheeks warm. I’d be too embarrassed to wear something like this.
Kitty has a figure to die for, so she can easily pull it off.
But I still have scars on my body from the abuse I endured when I was little, even though they’re white and barely visible now. And because my breasts grew out so fast, the skin is marred with stretch marks.
It makes me self–conscious whenever people see my bare body, and I even undress and change in the bathrooms instead of the locker rooms at school.
I’m envious of women who have such flawless skin.
Her gaze flicks over my shoulder, and I follow it to find Damien at the door.
He glances at the lingerie set I’m holding over myself.
And he looks utterly unimpressed.
My hands drop immediately as my face burns.
Oh, my god.
“Doesn’t it suit her?” Kitty coos.
Without responding or giving us a second look, Damien strides into his room and closes the door firmly behind him.
Kitty clucks her tongue. “Spoilsport.” She winks at me before turning to study another piece. “Keep that one. It’s perfect for you.”
I stare down at the lingerie set. It’s beautiful, but…
“I can’t,” I mumble, setting it down. “I don’t have anyone to wear it for.”
She cocks her head. “Why do you need to wear it for someone else?” She purses her lips thoughtfully. “Lingerie may get a man excited, but it makes a woman feel powerful. You should wear it for yourself. A little self–confidence goes a long way.”
She arches her eyebrow suggestively, and when I pick it up again, she doesn’t say anything else, more occupied with sorting through her collection again.
I’m sure my cheeks are flaming red, but I try to keep my expression normal. If this is Kitty’s advice, I’ll take it. “But don’t you need it for your assignment?”
She glances at the set in my hands. “I have an extra.” Her full lips curl into her signature seductive smile as she purrs, “Enjoy that one. And thanks for your help. It suits my mark perfectly. I’m sure he’ll love it.”
Before the big scheduled dinner with everyone, West mentioned he had some free time and asked me to stop by his study.
It’s still a little too early, and there are too many people around for us to disappear into the private den, so I head to his office.
As soon as I knock on the door, the door clicks, and the familiar sound of fire crackling in the fireplace sends nostalgic goosebumps rippling over my skin.
Orange warmth glows over the dark wooden floors with the mahogany and burgundy leather furnishings and ancient books lining the walls.
I didn’t realize how heavy my chest has been feeling lately until some of the burden lifts by simply stepping into this room.
This mansion is home, but this room is the heart. It’s warm, strong, and powerful. Like West.
He really did give me life, not only reviving my heartbeat but also resuscitating my will to live and pumping strength and hope into my veins.
He thinks he’s irredeemable, and maybe St. Peter or whoever mans the gates of heaven will think so as well, but maybe West can be forgiven if he accepts that he is capable of giving love and being loved. That not everything is a cog in the grand scheme and machinations of world domination.
West smiles at me, seated in his large, worn armchair, welcoming me into his study.
I run and throw my arms around him, and he chuckles softly as he embraces me, not even asking about the sudden display of affection.
I can count the number of times he’s enthusiastically hugged me back on both my hands. And this one is the hug that requires the employment of my second hand.
Hopefully he can’t tell how nervous I am, and if he does, he doesn’t say anything about it. Maybe he just wants to enjoy the moment like I do.
Finally pulling away, I sit down in front of him, tugging on his pants leg, not wanting to break the comforting contact when I need all the support I can get right now.
There’s a questioning look in his eyes as he raises his hand to brush some stray strands of hair from my face. His fingers don’t touch my skin, but the movement of my hair tickles it.
The mood feels tense, but the silence is comfortable, like we both know that whatever we have to say is monumental, and we’re basking in the moment of peace before the potential storm.
“Happy birthday, Adriana,” he rumbles softly, his dark eyes twinkling from the reflection of the crackling fire.
A grin tugs at my lips. “It’s not until tomorrow, West.”
He smiles and says nothing in typical West fashion, but I know we likely won’t be able to see each other because of the Cardinal meeting.
He asks a few questions, asking about what I’ve been up to, how school is going, and whether Turan is training me well.
“Have you decided what you’d like to do after you graduate?” he asks.
By the wariness in his eyes, I know he’s preparing for me to ask about joining the organization, but that’s not what I’m here for. Not today.
“I’m going to go to college,” I say definitively. “I’ve already started applying. Maybe to study business… or something.”
When my eyes flicker away and I mumble the last words, his lips press together the tiniest bit.
Because if I can’t work in the organization like one of the Twelve, then maybe I can work with West on one of the businesses that he oversees.
“Have you applied to any schools yet?”
I shake my head, and his chin dips in the tiniest nod.
He doesn’t ask more about it because he doesn’t want to argue right now, and neither do I.
After studying me for a few moments like he’s contemplating something, West finally says, “I have something for you.”
Reaching around his armchair, he brings out a small, worn wooden box and offers it to me.
Excited and curious, I open it to find that it’s an old, weathered chessboard. Really old. Really weathered.
The corners are chipped, and there’s a dark stain covering the top of the wood that fills me with unease. The tiny chess pieces in the compartments are barely black and white, the paint faded after thorough use.
It’s hard to imagine why West would have something that looks like it wouldn’t even fetch $5 at a flea market. But it must’ve been a beloved portable chess set, considering its state.
“Your parents played their last game together on this board.”
My face jerks up as I stare at him, bewildered. “My parents?” I look back down at the battered box in my hands. I didn’t even know they played chess. My eyebrows furrow together, and for the first time, I doubt West. “Then, how did you get this? Why do you have it?”
His fingers rub his chin thoughtfully, and the jewels on his rings sparkle and glint with each movement. “I visited the wreckage shortly after your family home burned down.” He lowers his hand, watching me with an unreadable expression. “Your parents were well–known in our circles, and there was suspicion of foul play. I went to go see for myself.”
I wrack my brain, but I can’t ever remember seeing this anywhere.
But then again, my parents liked to collect a lot of things, so I can’t say for sure that it wasn’t theirs.
I look at the chessboard again. Thinking about how my parents played on this lifts my heart.
Already, I feel an attachment to it, and I’ve never been more glad that West taught me the game.
“Will you play with me?” I ask West, holding it up.
After a few moments, he slowly nods, and we set up our pieces in silence.
“If I win, I have something I want from you,” I declare, keeping my eyes down on the faded checkerboard.
He arches a wh
ite eyebrow, and a small, amused smirk toys at his lips. I’ve never asked him for anything, so I know I’ve made him curious.
“And if you lose?” he asks calmly.
“Then…” My words falter. Huh. I didn’t think about that. Funny how West prepped me to always think about winning. “Then, I’ll have to ask you and maybe even beg for it.”
Now, he’s really curious. And his eyes gleam as his competitive nature begins to surface.
He doesn’t like being cornered in making decisions without fully knowing what all the consequences entail, so he’ll avoid putting himself in a situation where he’s forced to act as opposed to having the choice.
But I don’t want to lose either. I won’t.
I win about half my games with Jura, and he’s incredibly competitive too. I think he’s a little peeved that he can’t beat me every single time like he used to.
But West is different. I’ve yet to win even one game against him. It’s like he’s a chess god, and there have been multiple times over the years I felt like I’d never be able to beat him.
Having familiarized myself with his style over these past five years, I can usually guess where he’ll move and how he’ll attack. West is an aggressive player with little to no holes in his defense, and he’s always thinking at least twenty steps ahead.
But this time, I see it. I see the narrow path I can take to victory.
He realizes too late, but he effectively takes the measures to protect his king. So it’s a long, hard struggle, and it’s almost time for dinner when I finally say it.
“Checkmate.”
West clenches his jaw as he leans back in his armchair, studying the board. I let him stew in his decisions for a few minutes before his attention returns to me.
Considering his dazed vibe, he must be a little flabbergasted, but his smile is genuine. Proud. Of me.
I keep my expression neutral, but inside, I’m screaming and cheering.
I did it! I finally won against West!
And I won my bet.
Although I guess it wasn’t much of a bet if I didn’t put anything on the line.
Opening the bag I brought with me, I take out the folder inside and hand it to him.
There’s a curious mirth in his eyes as he takes it, and my heart is pounding — excited, nervous, scared, hopeful.
