Page 17 of In Death's Hands
Here I am, barefoot, probably looking like death, in the arms of this big man. People throw me weird looks and one older woman even goes as far as stopping and asking if I’m all right, all while throwing menacing looks at Nathan, who says nothing but protectively tightens his hold on me. Her concern wraps itselfaround my heart like a cocoon and I use its warmth to reassure her that I am fine, that Nathan didn’t hurt me but actually helped me. She doesn’t seem entirely convinced but eventually lets us pass, and quicker than I’d have thought possible, we’re in an elevator taking us back up to Nathan’s penthouse.
The ride is quiet and a little awkward. At least on my side. I actively avoid my reflection, which is hard considering the whole space is made of mirrors or reflecting surfaces. I end up hiding in his neck—the now familiar sent of winter and cedar embers comforting despite everything—and feel him tense for a second before bringing me impossibly closer.
When we step out of the too-small space, I look around to find his front door open and fear for a second that an ambush is waiting for us. He senses my rising panic but misinterprets it because he says, “You’re safe. I won’t let anything happen to you.” He mustn’t have closed the door when he chased after me.
We cross the threshold, and he closes the door behind us with a soft click. He stays rooted to this spot and I’m motionless in his arms. Being back here is so strange, like it was all a dream and I’m about to wake up on that couch where I drifted off while he was pacing in front of me. I wish it were the case for a moment, but before I can dive deeper into that fantasy, Nathan is moving again, crossing the living room in enormous strides to enter his bedroom, and deposits me ever so gently on the edge of his bed.
He’s out of the room before I can form words. What would I even say? What do I even think? Thoughts, memories and fears stumble upon themselves in my head, sticking to one another, melding, until they form an unrecognisable pile of shit. My own inner voice is buried under there, unable to provide helpful feedback.
Before I can find my way out of the maze in my head, Nathan is back with a glass of water that I automatically take from him. When I make no move to drink from it, he softly pushes my hand up to bring the glass to my lips, and I drink, deeply, until I can feel the water sloshing inside my belly.
After taking the glass away and putting it on the bedside table, he crouches down and looks at me. His concern is written all over his face. In the crease between his eyebrows. In the down-turned corners of his mouth. In the shadows swirling inside his eyes.
“Is this shock?” His question is barely above a whisper but somehow manages to tame the wilderness of my thoughts.
Is this shock? I don’t know. My body hurts but that’s nothing new at this point. I see the cloaked man in front of me and my limbs lock up painfully. There was an intensity to him, an anger that still freezes me to my core.
I remember the hands of his lackey on my throat and my own hand travels there on its own. I sense it trembling against my skin.
Nathan’s hand reaches for mine but stops before contact. Instead, his fingers retract and form a shaking fist that he quickly calls back. He disappears from my side only to return with a wet towel that he slowly dabs against my temple.
I refuse to look at the cloth, lest I find it bloody. I don’t think I got hurt that way again, but I’m not sure I could really tell either way. Everything was such a blur.
Nathan releases a shaky breath, and our gazes collide when I turn to him. I see pain in his. But also a loneliness that calls to my own. He seems as lost as I feel and it’s such a relief, such a comfort to not feel so alone, that I smile at him. Which wasprobably not a good idea given his reaction. His frown deepens and everything I think I saw in his eyes just vanishes.
“You need to lie down.” My mouth opens before I can formulate a clear thought, but he cuts me off with a pleading look. “Please. Just… just lie down and rest for a bit.”
I consider denying him. There are a lot of questions he needs to answer. Starting with how he knew about my adoptive parents, because I sure haven’t forgotten that creepy little nugget, and ending with how the fuck he can wield shadows. Does it make sense, in light of all those questions, their magnitude, for me to simply take a nap? No. No, it does not. And yet I cannot for the life of me open my mouth to interrogate him. My body is sluggish, and my head feels like it weighs a million pounds. My thoughts are like a dead weight being dragged through heavy current. The only clear one is the memory of how soft his sheets are.
Before I can form a conscious decision, my head is back on his pillow and my eyes close themselves off, shutting the crazy world out for a much-needed commercial break.
There is no confusion this time when I open my eyes. I know exactly where I am, what happened and which question I will ask first.
There’s a dull ache in my body, but overall, the nap helped. I don’t feel as heavy as before.
Since the city is clearly visible in its morning light beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, I understand why I feel so rested.
I’m moving slowly out of the tangled sheets when a voice stops me. A sharp spear of anxiety flies through my belly andeverything in me focuses on the anger seeping its way into the room from the other side of the door, like a suffocating smoke.
The feeling settles in my stomach, there to stay and fester. I recognise Nathan’s muffled voice, but there’s someone else out there.
Slowing down my breathing, I make my way to the door with what I hope are soundless steps. The voices become clearer with each step forward, until I can clearly hear the words that rush out of hardened lips.
“You cannot keep calling me here!” says a pissed-off yet melodious voice. Clearly a woman.
“I wouldn’t have to if the Order was on track.”
“Who says it isn’t?”
“I say!” The frustration in Nathan’s voice is so palpable I feel my throat tightening in sync.
“How? Have you miraculously found them?” Silence seems to be her only answer. “Didn’t think so! There is no way what you’re saying is right—you would have sensed it.”
“Maybe not.”
“Look, I’m not saying it isn’t strange. But bad luck happens. You know how things are for them. What do you sense about her? When’s her due date?”
A growl sounds close by, nearly making me jump back. What on earth are they talking about? Due date? I’m not pregnant. “I hate when you call it that.”
