by Lizzy Ford
“No, I am the storm,” I argue.
“No. You’re the only person who can stop it.”
“That’s so much worse!” My throat is so tight, the words come out a squeak, and more tears spill down my cheeks. “I’m not … strong enough.”
“You don’t have to do it alone. It’s why I’m not part of the trials.”
Ben’s confidence and strength pushes back my emotional hurricane. I search his features, wanting to believe what he says but afraid to after all I’ve been through and after learning how deep the suffering of those around me truly runs. I don’t deserve peace of mind or to stand here with the man whose life revolves around breaking the curse. I don’t deserve to be comforted by his warmth and nearness and the way he looks at me as if he has no doubt I can do what no other Kingmaker has been able to.
With the other candidates, my relationships started with magic. They might’ve morphed into something more, but the magic is what drew us together.
Ben doesn’t need magic. His light touch sends sparks of awareness through me that nudge my emotions in a new direction. His direct gaze becomes an anchor and prevents me from spinning out of control and sinking into my mind again. His quiet strength withstands the storm that I am and manages to tame it before I can identify how he does it. I no longer wonder what kind of man the Community needs to lead it. If the other clan leaders’ reliance on Ben isn’t a sign, then standing before him, awestruck by his gentle power, would have convinced me within seconds.
There’s nothing between us but air, no shield for my emotions, no desire for me to try to hide what I’m going through. I can’t recall ever looking at someone and feeling how completely vulnerable I am – and not being afraid or uncomfortable.
The tale told by Tristan and Myca about how they worked as a team to strip away my resistance and to win me over has led me to this moment, where I’m standing, exposed and scared, before the one person who can help me break the curse, if I’m willing to go the distance.
“I don’t know what to do,” I tell Ben.
“Trust me. I do.”
Something within me melts. I’ve been alone my entire life, before the trials forced me into intimacy with strangers through temporary magic. The faint instinct that’s been growing since my first trial is whispering again, telling me that this time, I have to make a choice to trust someone else, to let Ben in, where the magic compelled me to trust the other three candidates.
I release the breath I’m holding.
Sensing my unspoken answer, Ben’s hand drops to his side. He doesn’t move away from me. His heated strength helps me feel stronger, too, and I work on regaining control once again.
He holds my gaze, and we stand in charged silence until it grows too intense for me.
“Four words,” I say lamely. “You’re getting better.”
A smile tips up the corner of his mouth. “Drink?”
“Really?” I ask, eyebrows shooting up.
“One,” he says with a warning note in his voice. “And I’ll pour.”
I shouldn’t want to laugh, but after the tense exchange, I need the relief.
He steps aside for me to leave the bar area. I circle it and sit on a stool at the counter while he pours us both a single shot of vodka.
I wipe my face and focus on steadying my quivering hands. “What do you wolfy kind have against alcohol?” I ask.
“I like to be in control of my mind and senses.”
“I’m trying to escape mine.”
He glances at me. “That’ll change.”
Not in the next four days it won’t and after that, it won’t matter. Trusting him doesn’t mean I don’t have the responsibility of ending this all once and for all.
“To the curse,” I say and raise my shot glass.
“To the Kingmaker who will break it,” he counters and taps the rim of his against mine.
We knock back the shots. The clear liquid burns so good on the way down, and I sigh. “God, I miss this!” I meet Ben’s gaze. “Another round?”
He sweeps up both the shot glasses in response and places them in the sink.
I roll my eyes. There’s no pushing this alpha around. He may choose when and where to exert his power, but he won’t back down either.
“Is Myca still here?” I venture.
“No. I told them to take off.”
I feel guilty being relieved. I don’t know how I’ll look Myca in the eye again knowing he’s going to die. My only solace: we’ll die around the same time.
“How can you be so sure about everything?” I whisper to Ben, distressed by my thoughts.
“Trust me, Leslie. It’s your only real choice.”
I study his handsome features. It’s so easy to believe in him, even if I can’t believe in myself.
“Get some rest,” he says and circles the bar. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“Are you coming up tonight?” I ask. Hearing the question, I silently curse myself once again. I can’t say anything right around him! “Uh … I meant … never mind.”
Ben’s eyes glow with amusement.
I push myself away from the bar and turn my back to him neatly. Marching across the room, I open the door before he answers.
“Yeah.”
My heart leaps in my chest, and I pause in the doorway. “As a wolf or … not?”
“Which do you prefer?”
My mouth goes dry. Why isn’t this question easy? I’m going to die in four days, and I can’t handle any more emotional trauma. The answer should fall out of my mouth as easily as everything else I say to him.
But it doesn’t, and I’m not sure I want it to. I’m also uncertain I want to cross this bridge at all. It doesn’t take reading Ben’s mind to know he plays for keeps in every area of his life. The man who spent a hundred years creating the perfect plan to break the curse isn’t the kind to let anything he wants go easily. Fucking him is a one way trip I’m not prepared for. His brother tore through my life like a tornado, and something tells me the real-Ben experience is going to be much, much worse, even without magic.
The intensity of his look unnerves me. As if sensing the drama of my mind, he smiles to ease the tension.
“Wolf,” he answers for me.
I leave. I’m overheating, close to hyperventilating, and stuck somewhere between disappointment and relief. Exhaustion edges my mind and robs my emotions of their heat. I feel like a shell of myself – but I’m also calmer than I’ve been all day. Something about Ben soothes the insanity inside me. I don’t feel alone, lost or scared when we’re together.
The sense of calm vanishes when I pull out my phone to text Myca.
The tears start immediately.
Chapter Seven
I curl up on my bed and text Myca until I’m weeping and can no longer hold myself upright.
Not Myca. I can’t bear to lose anyone else I care about.
This feels personal again, as if I’m being punished for bearing the curse. I, too, will have to give up so much more than I ever thought possible. Maybe it’s a good thing I’ll soon be dead. I don’t know how I can live with this kind of agony or even if I’d want to.
Ben, in his wolf form, slinks into the room and leaps onto the bed beside me. I twist my face away, not wanting someone so strong to see me when I’m so weak. My pain and sorrow soon grow too powerful for me to bear alone, and I wrap my arms around the massive wolf in the bed beside me and bury my face into his soft fur.
Erish is always quieter when Ben is around, and I eventually succumb to exhaustion and sleepy heavily.
It’s not the restful kind of sleep. I don’t dream, and I don’t feel good when I wake up, either.
My room is bright and sunny when I manage to pry my heavy eyelids apart. My eyes are swollen and lashes gummy from tears, and I feel heavy, wooden. Moving takes effort. I’m tempted to stay here in bed and let my depression keep me company, but I’ve never really been one to stay off my feet long or to want to be alone, even if I�
�ve been emotionally hollowed out.
I feel crushed today in every sense. If the candidates’ goal was to destroy my resistance and wear me down, so their magic could take hold, they’ve succeeded. I hate my life. My only solace is knowing Erish must be miserable, too, if I am.
Sitting up, I check my phone and see messages from Myca. He’s sent me about five cute cat gifs that have nothing to do with anything and make me think he discovered the gif function on his phone without understanding it. His only text message is a long one he sent me once already last night.
I had a choice to do something good with the life I’d otherwise wasted or to stay underground for eternity. Like I said – you wouldn’t have known me before I was put to earth. I had moments of goodness but wasn’t a good person, Leslie. This is my chance for redemption.
It’s followed by another cat gif, this one of a cat leaping straight into the air when it sees a banana.
I start to smile.
I can’t imagine Myca being a monster. Although … recalling how he tortured and murdered the vampire council, and his note to Ben about it feeling good, gives some insight into who he might’ve been at one time.
He’s not that person anymore. He’s good. Sweet. Fun. Erish shows none of Myca’s humility. Erish is evil. Myca may have been lost at some point, but he’s good now.
I want to respond, but I don’t know what to say. I hate my jumbled emotions and the fact I’ve been in pain for two months, since my father’s death.
Tired of wallowing, I sigh then toss the cell onto the covers and climb out of bed. Ben is gone, for which I’m grateful, so he can’t see how swollen my eyes become when I cry.
I take a long, hot shower and try to scrub the emotion off me without much success. The warmth helps my stiff muscles, and I’m starting to feel a little less ready to implode by the time I emerge from the bathroom.
Erish is pacing and agitated. I refuse to acknowledge him, hating him with every ounce of my being. Tugging on one of Ben’s t-shirts, I don’t bother to pull on pants. The shirt reaches mid-thigh, and I’m headed for breakfast, not to leave the house. With any luck, he’s out running or busy managing his empire, so I can relax in peace. I can’t bring myself to care about anything this morning.
“We need to go back to the house,” Erish tells me as I leave the bedroom.
“Fuck you.”
“And if I can save Myca if you do?”
I fucking hate … hate … Erish. “When I break the curse, do you really go to hell?” I snarl in response and quicken my pace.
“Why will you not believe I might have a stake in breaking the curse?”
“Because you’re a lying psychopath.”
He’s quiet. I sense his unhappiness and glance towards him. The tiny instinct that’s right about everything is telling me not to push him too hard, because I haven’t made it to Wednesday yet. I want to strangle that instinct as much as I do Erish. I don’t like playing games at all, and this one is so clearly rigged against me, it’s disgusting.
“How would you save Myca?” I ask anyway, waiting to hear what lie Erish comes up with this time.
“We make this a normal trial instead of the final trials. You both live.”
“Someone still dies.”
“It won’t be him.”
“Try again, Erish. You aren’t hurting any of them on my watch!”
“Maybe I can make an exception this once,” he allows.
“Oh, so you can stick around and torture my child?” I respond.
We reach the kitchen and I survey it quickly to ensure Ben isn’t present to overhear me talking to a creature no one else can see. The kitchen is empty, and there’s a plate wrapped in tinfoil on the stove.
I go to the stove and stare at the plate. Ben’s kindness, after all he’s already done to give me a chance against the curse, is devastating. I don’t feel worthy to eat the food before me, which is stupid. Food is food. If there’s one thing I love about werewolves, it’s their dedication to eating.
“He’s not like us,” Erish murmurs, sensing my emotion.
“He’s what everyone should be like,” I reply. “Is there any part of you able to appreciate what he’s done for your family?” I face the shadow creature. “Truthfully.”
“I see his actions as a threat, Leslie. But yes, I’m capable of acknowledging the extent he’s gone to.”
“It’s incredible, right?”
“It’s extraordinary to be sure. I wouldn’t say incredible.”
I’m almost satisfied with this answer for once. There are moments when Erish and I find common ground.
“Unless you look at it from another point of view,” Erish says.
And moments when I swear to god, I’m going to find a way to bring him back fully from the dead so I can murder him slowly.
“Oh, god. Here we go.” I roll my eyes and snatch the plate of food, unwrapping it as I prepare to hear Erish’s latest attempt to deceive me. If I could shut myself up in a room where he can’t find me, I would. I’m afraid that sometime between now and Wednesday, he’ll say something that makes too much sense, and I’m going to find myself falling into his trap again.
“If he had a spine at all, he would’ve entered the trials himself and taken his chance to beat it from the inside,” Erish says. “Instead he sends his brother, like a coward.”
I almost choke on the sandwich I’ve just taken a bite out of. With some difficulty, I manage to swallow without gagging.
“Did you just call the only person in two thousand years to make a legit plan to beat you, and who seems to have outsmarted you and a curse ten times his age, a coward?” I demand.
“Haven’t I told you, we don’t know if his plan is going to work!” Erish returns. “Without knowing the details, I –”
“No one in their right mind will tell you the plan!”
“You. Aren’t. Listening.”
How does one escape a shadow? I’d like to say by hiding in a dark room, but that won’t work when the shadow is a ghost stuck to my soul.
This has got to be the longest week of my life.
I take the sandwich to a different counter, uselessly trying to put space between Erish and me, and then yank out a knife from the knife block to cut my breakfast in two. I’m not feeling hungry enough to eat the whole thing, which is unusual for me. Stress, or perhaps, distress has been stealing my appetite.
“You’re the coward, Erish,” I mutter. “You’re weak, pathetic, and an asshole. The first two I can live with, but how can you be such a dick when …”
Why isn’t my hand working?
I stare down at the knife I’ve sunk into the sandwich and mentally order my hand to lift it.
Every once in a while, when I feel like I’m on the verge of a psychotic break, the world seems surreal. This is one of those moments. I’m pretty sure I’m awake and pretty sure I’m trying hard to lift the knife without it budging.
So I try to let go.
That doesn’t work either. It’s like I can’t feel or control my own hand, which is ridiculous.
And then it moves the knife up and twists.
“What the hell …”
It’s like watching someone else’s hand, or a dream, because I have absolutely no control over any of this.
Knife squeezed tight, my hand twists the sharp edge towards my chest.
I yelp in surprise. Bewildered, my pulse races and a rushing sound fills my ears.
I snatch my wrist with the hand that is obeying my commands and struggle to pull the knife away. The tip of the weapon grazes the chain the amulet is on, and I awkwardly duck back while simultaneously struggling to control the hand that wants to stab me, or maybe free the amulet blocking Erish.
“Erish!” I shout. “Stop it!”
I strain hard on keeping the knife away from me, to the point it feels like the muscles in my left forearm are tearing from the awkward angle and effort.
Just as suddenly as this weirdness began, my right
hand drops to the counter, not yet under my control but not fighting me, either. I relax reflexively, and the knife leaps into the air again.
This time, it slashes my left forearm and begins stabbing me in the arm.
I give a cry a pain and struggle once more to subdue the possessed hand. Hot pain shoots through me, and blood makes my skin too slippery to hold. Torn between pain and terror, I fight myself while blood splatters everywhere around me.
I don’t register Ben’s presence until his large hand grips the wrist of my knife hand and the other closes around the gash in my forearm that’s gushing blood.
At once, Erish releases me from his twisted demonstration of how dangerous he is.
“Son of a bitch!” Tears of pain are in my eyes, but I’m furious this time rather than sad. I fight Ben, too upset to care he’s trying to help, and wanting so badly to beat the shit out of Erish.
Ben’s grip tightens on my arms.
“Leslie, we need to stop the bleeding.” His low voice is commanding yet calm and pierces my enraged fit.
Blinking away tears, I register his warm frame behind me, trapping me between his muscular body and the counter. He’s holding the largest of my wounds closed, and blood squeezes out between his fingers. With his other hand, he’s disarmed me. I can feel my hand again.
His heat moves through me with the effect of taking a bath, and I find myself relaxing from his touch without consciously trying to.
“I didn’t do this!” I blurt out, my over sensitivity to him returning. “Erish … that dick … he just …” I want to scream out of pain and anger.
“It has a name?” Ben asks.
I take a couple shuddering breaths. Ben isn’t moving, as if he’s waiting for me to calm down first. I rest my head back on his chest and twist my face to see his profile. His heavy features are befitting someone who is more beast than man. The longer I stand, pressed against him, the easier it is to believe I’m safe, even from Erish.
“Yeah,” I reply when I’ve reined in some of my emotion. “God, that hurts!”
“What prompted this?” Ben releases my right hand and grabs a towel. He wraps it around my left forearm and lifts it above my head.
