Page 95 of The Blood we Crave: Part Two

“I just know Rosemary is so fucking pissed she missed out on Thatcher becoming a decent human being,” Alistair snarks, crossing his arms in front of his chest, his white T-shirt splotched with blood.

“I’m still stuck on the human part,” Rook adds.

“Imagine how May feels knowing you’re always going to be a tool,” I bark.

It’s the first time we’ve all been together to really mourn both of them, sitting in each other’s grief and recognizing what they both meant to each of us.

It’s quiet for only a moment.

“Would you stab me if I said Lyra freaks me out?”

“No.” A sigh leaves me as I look at Rook. “But she might.”

We had seen each other through days so dark it felt like the sun never existed. Our bonds had been forged from hellfire and bloody knuckles. We don’t love each other or care in a way the world would ever understand.

We’d found each other as children, each of us stained with a mark we never wanted, and together, we learned how to own them.

Four bastard sons who found comfort in each other’s chaos.

I watch the sunrise peek over the horizon, tipping above the evergreen pine trees, stabbing through the fog with milky orange rays of light. The cold air I inhale almost feels new.

“To the Styx?” I offer.

“To the Styx,” they echo.

SO, THIS IS LOVE?

TWENTY-SIX

Lyra

The room is dark when I wake up.

My head throbs as my eyes adjust to the darkness. It takes me several minutes to detach myself from the sheets, sitting up and feeling the thin veil of sweat on my body from sleeping.

I feel gross, and my mouth is dry.

How long had I been asleep for?

The days and nights seem to blend as I stand up on shaky knees. I’m so weak, still so tired even though I’d just woken up. Almost as if I’d rested too long. I take my time going to the bathroom, keeping the lights off as I clean myself up.

The steam from the shower clears some of the fog from my mind, and I feel fresh, better than how I did when my eyes first pried themselves open. I finish brushing my teeth and pad back into my room with a little more energy. I slip on a pair of underwear and run my hands along the options of shirts.

After tugging one of Thatcher’s white button-down shirts off the hanger and slipping it over my shoulders, I take my time to fasten the front before burying my nose into the sleeves.

I inhale, once, twice, and on the third time, when I open my eyes, I look down at my hands, and on the tip of my pointer finger is a deep red stain. As if I’d pricked my finger or dipped it into paint.

There’s a switch in my brain that snaps into place, like someone had flicked the electricity on in my brain. Turning, I dash out of my bedroom and to the one next to mine.

The very last thing I remember was reading Godfrey’s journal. Everything after that is blank. There is a thick, black wall inside my mind. I’m standing right in front of it, banging my fist against the hard stone, but it doesn’t budge. Whatever is beyond it wants me to stay out.

Carefully, I open Thatcher’s door, hoping that he’s in there. How did it go with his dad? Is he okay? Did he even make it back home to me? What happened to Conner?

My heart beats faster with every single question. My hazy memory is the sole reason for my panic.

However, when I find Thatch asleep soundly in his own bed, it soothes me enough to take a breath. Moonlight hits his naked torso with harsh streaks, beaming through the blinds and reflecting off his pale skin.

His white hair tumbles in front of his forehead, brushing against his eyelashes, and I’m tempted to touch those messy strands. I wonder if he’d notice?

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