Page 150 of Black Bird

Jenkins turned her head around and rested it in his lap while Athan frantically started unchaining her. Wren ran back to the living room and came back with a blanket to cover her up. All Sarah could do was wait in utter fear of her not opening those eyes.

Wake up, Rhaena … wake up … wake up!

She looked at her chest as Athan moved the heavy chains off of her. Her arms dropped limp and lifeless at her sides when Jenkins pulled her further into his lap. Her chest started to rise and fall … deep and strong. Sarah steepled her hands in front of her face. She felt Athan kneel behind her, and Wren pulled the blanket over Rhaena’s body.

“Rhaena …” Brandon whispered, stroking her face and smoothing the wet strands of her hair away from it.

“I’m changing my name …” Rhaena finally whispered, weakly. “You bitches are annoying.”

Wren braced her palms on the floor and started crying. Athan gripped Sarah by the shoulders and leaned down to kiss her neck. He’d never admit it, but she was sure she heard him sniffle. Sarah wept with triumph.

Jenkins pulled her up, wrapping her in the blanket and rocking her back and forth while he kissed her face and held onto her. “Holy shit … you fuckin’ scared me to death,” he whispered.

Rhaena’s eyes peeled open, and she looked over at Sarah. The gratitude in those eyes far surpassed the exhaustion, and Sarah couldn’t stop crying. “It worked …” Rhaena said hoarsely. “Thank you.” Her lip quivered, and she choked back a sob. “Thank you so much.”

She knew she’d made the right decision now. If the blood in that bag could give this to someone else … she’d do this. She’d give that hope to the ones that needed it most. It was the silver lining in this shitstorm that loomed over her life. It would be enough to get her through the magnitude of consequences that sharing this with the world would bring. This … and the vampire that had wrapped his arms around her … making her whole again.

CHAPTER 26

SUNDAY, BLOODY SUNDAY

She had slaughtered so many before him. Killed and tortured in so many sadistic ways, for so many years. Even when they begged for their insignificant lives or had little shame in showing the loathing in their eyes when she ordered them to service her in unspeakable ways … never once had she felt so—hollow. Dahlia had spent the entirety of her Saturday locked in her chambers alone. She’d refused any knocks at her door—after Decclan had left her with the ashes of her mate. The one she’d sacrificed like a lamb for her own gain. It was in the hours that followed that she’d realized, perhaps … she hadn’t needed to murder Patrick to keep the respect of her coven. She could have kept him close by. The way that she’d tighten the leash she would have on Athan Kane when he would come crawling back to her to save the life of the little gold mine that he loved. She could have done the same for Patrick … had them both.

She was starting to realize, however … that she was beginning to hate Athan. She blamed him for being the reason that she had done such a thing, and still didn’t understand why she cared so much after all these impossible years. Humanity was weakness. Love was weakness. She could afford neither. Grief would be no different. She had damned Fate and all he thought he’d orchestrate in her life. Conquered him in the worst way. She should have been happier. The small onyx urn weighed far too heavy in her hands as she leaned against the back of her bed. She would never come out of this room until she felt she could mask the pain that she couldn’t shake from the detachment that left a void in her soul so great, that a part of her undead being … died all over again.

Dahlia had never considered that hanging Fate by the neck, while simple … would be impossible to cut down. Now she would have to stare at it every day, reminded of what she’d done and all the repercussions that would come with it. His screams and burning skin replayed over and over in her mind and she fought it with every tear. The vibration of his fists on the other side of the door—she could still feel them against her back. Over … and over again.

Dahlia … please! I love you … I love you!

She had never said those words to anyone. Not a living soul. Had never meant them, and yet—yet she felt it still … that disease. That yearning. Some small part of her thought that if she snuck off to his room, she’d find him there. She’d never admit that she had made such a grave mistake … and it was far too late to change it. ShewasDeath … and she’d played her own self.

Conrad lingered in the hallway of his mansion, pacing back and forth with his hands shoved into the pockets of his sweater. The door to the library opened, and the doctor came out slowly, waving goodbye to what was left of his wife inside, and closing it gently as he met his attention.

“I’m sorry, Senator.” His face gave no shroud of false hope. He knew what this meant.

Conrad swallowed and stared down at the antique runner that had been in every hallway of Stratford family homes for generations. He thought back to memories of himself as a young boy, running down this very rug in his father’s old home. Recalled how bad he had looked in his final days. “How long?”

“She agreed that it’s time to stop the chemo. The toil on the body during treatment is caused mostly by the treatment itself. Now that she’s taking that card off the table, it should give her a few more weeks, at least. We’ll initiate hospice care and keep her remaining time as comfortable as possible. I can have the paperwork sent here tomorrow.”

“We appreciate that.” Conrad nodded slowly. “Thank you.”

“She’s in good spirits, sir. In my experience, it promotes two very important things. Her quality of life won’t be as taxing. She’ll feel better during these last weeks. The other, is that it makes her departure much easier. On herself, as well as her loved ones. You should try to do what you can to keep those spirits up.”

Conrad’s jaw tightened and he offered the physician a tight smile. “Thanks, again.” He extended his hand, and the doctor shook it kindly, returning his smile before leaving. Conrad stood in front of the door to his wife’s library and loosed a steadying breath before entering. Her nurse was in the process of handing her a cup of hot coffee as he entered.

“Morning, Mr. Stratford,” the nurse said, smiling politely. She straightened his wife’s blanket.

Conrad smiled back at her and then met eyes with Pat. Any good spirits the doctor had seen must have been before he made his presence known. She didn’t so much as smile at him as he stepped toward her. “Morning, Patricia.”

“You look like you’ve forgotten how to eat. Trying to see which one of us can die first, Conrad?” Pat smirked, sipping her coffee in her chair.

“I’ll give you both some privacy. Let me know if I’m needed.” Her nurse hastily left the room, and he inched forward.

“Just a little stressed, dear.”

“Hmm … well? You are a politician, first and forever.” There wasn’t an ounce of endearment in her tone. He supposed he deserved that more than anyone.

“That’s not true. I’m a husband and a father, first.”

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