Page 143 of Shadowblood Souls
It’s also possible that all of them are.
The patrons swarming the place are doing a good job of imitating dangerous beasts, at least. The streaks of ruddy light that cut through the dimness keep catching on spikes that I mistake for spines or horns for an instant before the full picture becomes clear and I see they’re only embellishments on a jacket, wrist cuff, or choker.
The smell of leather permeates the large, low-ceilinged room, mingling with the sour notes of various alcoholic spirits. The same material’s texture covering so many of the figures gives brief impressions of animalistic hides.
And then there are the tattoos and piercings sinking right into the patrons’ actual skin. Rings and gems and more spikes, flashing in the light. Dark imprints crawling across forearms and necks and even faces, sometimes with clear images but sometimes just abstract patterns.
I scan every one of them, my body tensed for the first sign of anything definitely inhuman. But every pair of eyes I glance into and every form I consider appears normal enough once I’ve studied it.
Those pairs of eyes are studying us in turn. Most with skepticism, mixed with either curiosity or hostility.
We don’t really fit in. I didn’t realize this place would require a uniform.
Andreas, Zian, and I look way too overtly normal in our varying styles of college-guy clothes, no piercings and no tattoos within view. Dominic just looks odd, wading through the crowd in his parka.
Imagine how this bunch of supposed toughs would react to what he’s hiding under that coat.
Riva is the only one who looks like she could belong. She strides along in her combat boots, her hands tucked into the pockets of her dark hoodie, the silver layer of her hair reflecting the lights.
She’s always moved with a certain assurance, the knowledge that she can tackle any physical challenge that comes her way. I remember watching her stride through the arena, her eyes flashing with determination to take on whatever crap the guardians were going to throw at us next.
That confidence has hardened in her over the years we were apart. If before she was fire, now she’s got plenty of steel in her too.
But also a tender underbelly she protects so well, I almost convinced myself it wasn’t there until the truth of it was smacking me in the face.
I stick close to her—as close as I can walk without provoking a flinch. There aren’t a whole lot of women in here in general, and none as pretty as her. Most of the gazes that travel over her body are at least curious if not outright leering.
My hands stay balled at my sides. If we weren’t on a reconnaissance mission where we need to not stick out any more than we already do, I’d jab all their fucking eyes out.
It doesn’t help that Riva is swaying just a bit with the chaotic rhythm of the music blaring from the overhead speakers. Every motion makes her lithe, athletic grace more obvious.
I want to slide my hands down her sides and tug her tight against me. I want to bury my face in her hair and drink in the scent I never let myself appreciate before.
But she’d probably jabmyeyes out if I even tried. I wouldn’t even blame her.
I jerk my gaze away. My nerves jump with the restless energy winding through my limbs that I have no outlet for.
There’s so much emotion churning inside me that I don’t know what to do with. Regret and desire and shame and devotion.
I’ve been so empty of anything other than vengeful rage for so long that the deluge sets me off-balance. Like I’m a ship, and sudden swells of waves keep rocking me in directions I can’t always predict.
I fucked up. I fucked up so utterly and completely.
I put the woman next to me—the woman I spent so much of my life loving—through total agony, both physical and emotional. I did it on purpose.
It’s a fucking miracle she even accepts being in the same room with me.
I have no idea how to heal the damage I did, how to make her feel good in any way that could come close to making up for the awfulness I put her through.
All I can do is be right here to protect her from the slightest threat. Make room for her voice when she has something to say.
Bit by bit, Iwillmake her believe that I treasure her. That I know she’s my equal.
That she never deserved one particle of the shit I threw at her.
And if that’s not enough for her to ever do more than tolerate my presence, well, it’ll be my own damn fault, won’t it?
The thought sends a harsher smack of anguish through my chest. My hands squeeze tighter.
