Page 51 of The Blood we Crave

I’ve only been able to see this place briefly for fear of being caught snooping, but now that I’ve been invited, I feel like I can really take it all in.

There’s no pool or tennis courts, nothing that screams lavish or mass amounts of wealth.

Only flowers.

The luscious green yard stretches for miles, and it seems that every square inch is smothered with roses. All the way to the tree line, red, pink, yellow, and white petals decorate the space.

Down the center stands sturdy columns that run vertically while a trellis lies across the top. Climbing roses snake around the pillars, crawling up until it creates a bed along the webbing of the lattice.

Tall white arches are wrapped delicately in their vines. There are marble statues dressed in only petals, rows of bright bushes overflowing with vibrant flowers. Near the back sits a fountain, and that too is adorned with the thorny plant.

The scent is so strong it makes me dizzy, and my eyes can’t decide what to focus on first, so meticulously done, even though the sky is tinted gray and the air is mute, void of all colors.

The flower is like breaths of life into a rigid body lacking spirit.

My body moves willfully along the space. I move slowly, taking in the way vines and vines of roses are tethered up the sides of the house. Walking beneath the set of columns, I know this must have taken years to perfect.

I reach forward, grasping a petal between my thumb and forefinger, rubbing against the softness of the flower. I feel the rain soak through my cardigan, but I can’t be bothered by that.My fingertips brush against a thorn, my flesh daring it to prick me.

“You won’t find Thatcher back here.” An elegant voice, smooth like honey, makes me turn around. “Practically avoids this portion of the house altogether.”

An older woman wearing a floppy white hat and gardening gloves stares at me while she adjusts the flowers in her basket. I’m tempted to believe the vampire rumor that swears the Pierson family is immortal when I look at her.

“I was—ugh, your flowers are beautiful,” I stutter, pointing at the flowers behind me. “Sorry, I’m Lyra. I’m a—”

I pause. What exactly am I to Thatcher? Student? Pupil? Definitely not a friend.

“Friend?” she offers, arching one dark eyebrow in my direction with this sort of knowing expression on her face. That makes me wonder just how much she knows about me.

“Yeah, you could say that,” I mutter, licking my suddenly dry bottom lip. “I’m sorry to disturb you. If you’ll just point me towards—”

“Nonsense.” She waves, cutting me off with a flick of her wrist. “It’s been years since another female has willingly come into this house. I’m tired of the testosterone.”

I don’t fight the goosebumps that walk along my skin, the meaning behind her words. Women haven’t been inside this house because they know the history. They know the fate women were forced to meet years ago.

“Are you Thatcher’s mother?”

Laughter, warm and youthful, echoes from her chest. A murder of crows croaks in the distance, soaring across the muted sky. She continues to laugh, a smile on her face.

“No, dear, I’m his grandmother. I’m not sure if you’re just trying to win me over or are nervous, but I’ll accept the compliment either way.”

I don’t think it’s a far stretch to guess she looks younger than her age. The lack of wrinkles and tucked into a low bun are quite deceiving. I suppose the Piersons just age well, as they do most things.

Her warmth helps me relax a bit, knowing she was obviously aware of me showing up today. I feel my shoulders release the tension they’d worked up.

“Your home is beautiful,” I say idly, rubbing my finger across the roses once again. “Have you lived here your entire life?”

With graceful movement, she removes the hat from her head, placing it in the basket that dangles from her arms, and then slowly removes her gloves. The gleam from the hidden sun catches the weighty diamond ring on her finger as she gently massages her hands together.

“Mostly yes,” she breathes, looking around the spacious area as if daydreaming about memories that still live here. “I married Edmond, Thatcher’s grandfather, when I was twenty-one, although he’d reverently asked almost every day since we met at sixteen. But I was strong-willed, wanted to graduate college and make a name for myself. I refused to just be another Pierson wife perched on the ivory pedestal. We moved in once he took over his father’s company, a rite of passage of sorts. All Pierson men follow the same path. College, taking over the family business, moving into the estate. Edmond’s father and mother relocated to France for their retirement, leaving just us here until we had Henry.”

There is a deep sadness etched on the lines of her face, showing her age for the first time in the sorrow that lives inside her bones. I can’t imagine the difficulty of still loving the child you bore but regretting the man you’d created.

All the books and theories argue about nature versus nurture. If psychopathy is really something an individual is born with from birth or if outside influences affect your path to normalcy. For some reason, I can’t see this woman causing harm to Henry severe enough that it would turn him into what he became.

Monsters are created from other monsters, and if they aren’t, is the truth something far scarier?

Sometimes, the most frightening creatures aren’t formed at all. They are simply born that way. And no love or therapy will ever change what they are hardwired to do.

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