Page 33 of King of the Dawn

When had that happened?

Faint footsteps grew nearer and a throat cleared behind me, announcing their presence. I turned, offering the stranger a smile. My first instinct had been to shy away from the man I didn’t know. But I knew Jericho had security locked down. This man had been allowed through the gates, probably patted down and stripped of any sharp objects that could have been mistaken as a weapon.

“Where would you like these?” He asked as he stood at the doorway, more potted plants in his hand. Thick Alocasia Black Velvet leaves hung overtop of the grecian pot, tempting me with their fullness.

“They’re gorgeous,” I whispered, before pointing to a large raised bed of brand new dirt. The ideal place for my new little babies to grow. “Right over there.”

It was another delivery from Charlie’s Greenhouse. His garden was filled with so many rare and exotic things, and Jericho told me to pick anything I wanted. I admitted that I overindulged a great deal. I wanted so much life in this space. More life meant a fuller existence for all the souls under this roof.

The delivery man hummed as he headed in the direction I’d led him. He set the pot down and whistled while he stepped back. “You’re from Ireland?” he asked, turning toward me.

I nodded. “Aye.”

He settled a hand over his hip. “My grandmom is from Ireland. Never been myself. It’s on my bucket list though.”

“It’s beautiful. You’ll love it.”

My line of sight trailed ahead, remembering the beauty of Portstewart. Or what used to be. My motherland was a distant memory. I longed to return to Ireland during the worst years of my life, and used it as an escape. But this drafty mansion that needed a woman’s touch was my home now. This was where Jericho was. It was where I needed to be and it needed its own scent.

“Well, have a nice day,” the man said, cutting through my thoughts. He tossed a wave my way before seeing himself out, and once again I was alone.

Just as I had been a lot lately.

I fumbled through the fragrance oils, opening each dropper and taking in the different aromas. Nothing felt right. Each one drew up a memory. A hint of bergamot, which reminded me of the bookstore I spent so much time in with Ryan. A splash of lemon that brought me back to the days when my father was alive. He always smelled of the citrusy fruit as he held me in his lap and read me a story of mythical creatures.

I opened the lid of another, warmth instantly flooding over me. Fireside, hazelnut, vanilla. A sweet and pleasant scent that reminded me of just a few weeks ago when I burned a man to death. I dropped an ounce into the melted wax and stirred before pouring the mixture over the molds.

The urge to pour the wax over my hand as I stirred was overwhelming. Just as it had been before. When was the last time I felt pain? The night I had purged before the pyre, and fallen into my husband’s arms? And why was I craving it now? Was I so fucked up that Alastair had made me crave the feeling of pain?

Blood rushed to my cheeks, the urge growing stronger. I reached out, grabbing for the candle, giving into the need. I was numb, and this would make me feel again. If Jericho wouldn’t touch me, then I’d touch myself, I’d give myself something to feel.

A hand reached out, grabbing my wrist. His grip was firm, and the frustrated rumble that left his chest caused me to stiffen. I didn’t need to look up to know it was my husband standing over me. It was the intense anger radiating off him in waves, and his commanding tone that struck me to my core. “And just what do you think you’re doing?”

I forced away the shiver threatening to tickle my spine. Then, I cleared my throat. “There’s too much inside of me,” I said through a cracked whisper. “I’m letting it out.”

He took the candle from me and set it on the table, out of my reach. Then, he grabbed me by the hips and tugged me into his hard chest. “By hurting yourself?” he asked.

And I felt disappointed in his question. Heard the concern so deeply that my bones ached. “Yes.”

“You want to hurt someone?” He brushed the hair from my face. “You hurt me.”

I reared back. “W-what?”

He tugged at the buttons of his dress shirt, and pointed at the spot on his chest I had stabbed months ago. The spot was healed now. Still, his hand rested over the place. “You don’t fucking hurt yourself. Ever. You need to let go of that rage in you? Take it out on me. Here.”

I sucked in a shaky breath, my bottom lip trembling. Then, I pressed my hand over his and shook my head. I could never. I still hated that I’d tried to on our first night together. “No.”

“Yes,” he growled. “Fucking do it, Evie. Or I swear to god, I will never let you out of my sight again. You will not ever be left alone to cause self harm again.”

“Why? Why would you want me to do that?” I shrieked. Though the words didn’t hold the conviction they should have. The more he said it, the more I questioned my own sanity. I shouldn’t want to hurt him, yet something inside of me stirred to life at the prospect.

Hurting myself had been a fleeting thought that I debated giving into. And maybe in small ways, I had done it, when I trickled my fingers too long over a flame.

I didn’t think I would have actually poured the wax over me, as much as the thought of what it would feel like called to me. But hurting him? My core clenched in anticipation, and the heat in my cheeks grew hotter. I groaned, hating how horrible I was for wanting to do it.

“It’s normal,” Jericho cut through my thoughts. “And I’m allowing it, so don’t feel bad about it.”

“Nothing about this is normal.”

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