Page 52 of The Blood we Crave

“You wear your thoughts on your face, little girl,” she croons. “You should be mindful of that if you want to continue being friends with my grandson.”

I blink idly, unsure of how to fix my face from showing the emotions that swim beneath.

“Edmond and I moved out once Henry took over, but we moved back in when Thatcher was eight to look after him. We didn’t like the idea of moving his foundation after Henry was arrested. Now the company is being held down by longtime employees, patiently waiting for Thatcher to complete his schooling before he takes over.”

I couldn’t stop the question even if I tried.

“What was Thatcher like? After everything—” I wave my hand around, cringing at my bluntness. “—happened.”

“You mean after my only son was convicted of serial murder?” she says boldly. “You don’t have to tiptoe around me, girl. That town of busybodies does it enough.”

I nod. “I didn’t mean any offense.”

“I know that, dear.” She bends down towards one of the rosebushes, snipping one from the vine. “Thatcher never changed after Henry went away. Still the same intelligent and charismatic boy he’d always been. Still cold to affection and detested the idea of being touched. Doctors told us he was healthy and there were no signs of physical abuse. A therapist told us he might have PTSD, but Thatcher refused to communicate to anyone about his father. Still does. I wish I could say it was the aftermath that had changed him, but I think Henry did that long before he ever went away.”

My heart aches for the boy I’d met, for the young mind that was twisted and polluted with evil thoughts. Thatcher hadn’t just been broken. No, it was much worse.

Henry had molded him from birth, shaped and formed into a hellish piece of clay that was taught only death. I had only experienced one night of Henry’s nightmarish imprint. Years of conditioning turned Thatcher into the sculpted Prince of Blood.

And I, I was the one that had been broken. Shattered glass that was melted down and restored. We were two halves of the same whole, and I think my heart had known that from the moment he walked into my mother’s bedroom that night.

Who would Thatcher have been if he had been raised by May and Edmond from the start? What would he have become? Would my heart still call for him?

“Thatcher isn’t Henry,” I say absentmindedly, looking at the older woman who Briar said the boys were quite fond of.

“We knew that, Edmond and I. I believe even Thatcher knows that himself to be true, but it didn’t stop Edmond from doing everything in his power to protect him from the same fate Henry met.” She gives me a soft smile. “But there are some things our parents shackle us with that are impossible to break free of.”

My alarm goes off in my pocket, vibrating my skin to let me know what time it is. Shit, Thatcher is going to think I’m late, and I doubt I can convince him I was having a chat with his grandmother in the garden.

“Do you mind if I head inside? I don’t want him in a pissy mood ’cause he thinks I’m late for our…” I quickly try and scramble for a word. “Study session?”

It comes out more of a question than a statement, and suddenly, I feel very unprepared for what we are about to do. Can I keep quiet enough to get away with murder? If I’m stumbling over lies in front of an unsuspecting grandmother, how the hell do I plan to talk myself out of police integrations?

My palms begin to sweat, and uneasiness sweeps over me. Can I do this? Did I risk my life for something I’m not even capable of doing?

“Can I give you some advice, Lyra?” May tilts her head, eyeing me, effectively pulling me from my inner downward spiral.

“Yes.”

The wind blows roughly, bringing the heavy scent of roses closer to my nose. While she walks towards me, she runs her fingers along the stem of the rose, tracing along the thorns as she goes, the bright red flower twirling in her grasp.

“Thorns protect their weaker counterpart, nature’s way of reminding us that even the tamest of creatures have sharp teeth. That even when pushed, the most beautiful things in life can still cut you.” She holds the flower outward in my direction, beckoning me to take it.

“I love my grandson, very much, Miss Abbott. But Thatcher’s thorns are very sharp, and his father crushed anything soft about him a long time ago. Be careful how you handle him. He was made to make things bleed.”

Without pause, I take the flower from her hold, giving a gentle nod. A silent understanding passes through us as our fingers brush lightly. I’ve known Thatcher a long time, and I know what being around him means. The pain you’re subjecting yourself to.

But I have survived death. I’ve watched it. I’ve possessed its influence. And I know who Thatch is. Even if I hadn’t seen all of it, I know in my soul who he is.

Nothing about him could ever frighten me to the point of giving up on him.

I watch her retreat towards the house, leaving me to my own thoughts. For a moment, I stay in the garden, trying to regain the confidence I had before this conversation.There are a million questions I want to know, starting with how much does May know about Thatcher and what he does in the dark of the night?

I’m a ghost. No one will ever suspect me of anything, not with my ability to blend in and Thatcher’s technique. I will release the chains attached to the urge I keep locked up and learn to live with it.

I have no other choice.

“What are you doing here?”

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