Page 100 of Deviant

And I won’t.

I stare at the glass,my face pressed against the cold surface, watching as the surgeons work away.

She’s laying there, with an oxygen mask on her face, but her expression is pained.

That peaceful look she had when I was carrying her is long gone, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s because of me, because I’m refusing once more to simply let her die.

In my head I can see it like a movie, replaying over and over. How she flung herself at my supposed attacker, how she screamed, how she fought so desperately because she believed I was about to be murdered. My heart slams into my chest, my palms feel sweaty and the bile in my stomach keeps threatening to erupt up into my mouth.

Would I have done it for her? Would I have jumped in front of a bullet if the roles were reversed? Up until recently I would have laughed at the very notion. Scoffed at the fact that any woman could ever have such a hold on me as that, because, did I not learn all those years ago, did I not see what stupid things like love do to a man? How they make you blind, how they make you weak. My dear dead wife proved that fact. She proved how dangerous feelings like love can be.

But as I stare at the bloodied, battered woman on the surgical table I feel like the very earth beneath my feet has crumbled, that my very foundations have shattered, fractured. That I’m not that same man anymore. This woman here has not only challenged me physically, but she’s challenged everything I believe in.

And the fact that she’s willing to die for me, that she’s that damned loyal? That can’t be a weakness, that can’t be anything other than the most precious of gifts.

A loud beep suddenly fills the room. The medics all start scrambling.

I know what it means and yet I’m shouting out all the same, banging my fists on the partition like a madman.

She has to live. She has to fucking live.

“Magnus.”

My brother calls from behind me, but I don’t turn to look, I barely even hear my name because every cell in my body, every part of me is focused on the dying woman in the room beyond.

“Fix her.” I yell. “Fucking save her.”

A nurse rushes from the room and comes back moments later with a fresh bag full of blood. She’s quick to attach it, quick to secure it to the plastic tube running into Liliana’s vein.

But even as the new blood is pumped into her, it can’t replace all the blood she’s losing out of the wound in her stomach.

“She’s bleeding out.” someone yells, like we can’t see all the blood dripping from the table.

My fists slam into the glass again. More fury, more desperation, more pure fucking need drives me to do something. But what can I do? What can I possibly do to change this? I can’t save her, I can’t fix her, I’m fucking helpless in this moment.

I used to think that everything I did was predetermined, that every action, every move was sanctioned by God himself, because he put me where I am, he made me a Blake, a reaper, a Brethren Lord. He granted me honours and privileges that most men could only dream of and why else would he continue to reward me if he wasn’t happy with the way I went about living my life?

But if Liliana dies, what then does that mean? What proof will there be of his favour if he takes her from me now?

I can’t fucking lose her. I can’t.

Is this what love is, is this what it means? To feel powerless, to feel helpless, useless even?

My eyes dart to her face, to where she looks so impossibly pale.

If she’d been a Brethren Lady, if we’d met in entirely different circumstances, if I’d married her instead of my dead wife, would we still have ended up here? Would I have realised how perfect she was if Ihadn’tdone all those things to her? If I hadn’t tortured her, and raped her, and brutalised her body? I guess God only know the answer to that. And yet, I don’t regret what I did. I don’t regret a single scar I put on her flesh, I don’t regret the way I abused her, no, because that too was our destiny, that too was part of our story—even the brand on her chest, that was as predetermined as everything else.

“Clear.”

Her body jolts. More electricity than I’ve ever shocked her with, pulsates through her body and I swear she flies up off the table before landing with a slam.

“Charge to 150.”

“Clear.”

Her body jolts again, right in time to my fist slamming into the glass.

“Wake up.” I order. Wake fucking up and come back to me. Come back to your Master.

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