Page 416 of Shadowblood Souls
I can’t tell exactly where our captor lives in the house, but we have a decent idea based on what areas remain shut off to us. I head outside into the thin early morning light and meander through the fading gardens to the outside of the western wing.
The evergreen shrubs give off an invigorating piney scent. I drink more into my lungs as I come to a stop where my impressions become clearest.
Somewhere not far from here, a person is stewing. Frustration and impatience mingle with an unshakable sense of pride.
I’ve never met the man in person, only seen his digital image on a screen, but I can recognize Balthazar’s presence now in an instant. I haven’t met many—maybeany—others like him.
I don’t know what he’s thinking or doing, but it’s possible that what I pick up on of his feelings will give us a clue about how to break free from his hold.
He’s very self-assured. I can tell from comparing his emotional responses to the things he’s said when he’s talked to us that his frustrations are all aimed outward at whatever opponents he believes he faces, not inward at himself.
The impatience speaks of things he wants that he can’t get without assistance, which he doesn’t like at all. I get the impression that he’s sure he could be accomplishing so much more if all the keys were already in his hands.
He has hopes, things that excite him. Every now and then, flickers of delight that’s almost giddy reach me.
Unfortunately, I have no idea what provokes his happiness.
I might not figure much of anything else out until we start to push. Take action and observe how he reacts.
But any kind of action that’s not within his orders is a risk. More blood could be spilled; more lives could be taken.
I want to be able to tell the others how we should handle him, but nothing I’ve felt from him has given me a solid answer. And I’ve made too many mistakes to want to gamble on my instincts now.
As I’m monitoring his inner state, Balthazar must do or receive something that works out well for him. His spirits lift with a mild but clear waft of satisfaction.
I putter around in the yard there for several minutes longer, pretending that I’m simply enjoying the scenery and the brisk autumn breeze. When no more significant shifts in our jailer’s mood hit me and the pretense wears thin, I amble to the villa’s rear door and make my way to the kitchen.
Andreas is already in there—his animated voice carries out into the hall, along with the sizzle of frying eggs. A low laugh that follows his words confirms that Riva’s with him.
When I come in, Drey tips his head to me. They both smile in welcome—the tense smiles we’ve all been making since we figured out what our new prison entails.
“I made enough eggs for everyone if you want some, Griffin,” Andreas says, scraping a bunch onto an already heaping plate. “But no pressure. I’m sure Zian will plow through everything the rest of us leave.”
I’m about to say no, because I’m not particularly fond of scrambled eggs, but my newer mental habits kick in, honed by years of having only practicalities to guide my decisions.
Protein is an important aspect of any meal. We need our minds keen and bodies strong to get through this latest trial.
I smile back, sure my expression looks just as tight as theirs. “Thanks. I’ll have just a little.”
As I pop a couple of slices of bread into the toaster, Riva comes up beside me. She slips her arm around my waist, letting her hand tuck under the hem of my sweater to rest on the bare skin of my waist.
The contact sets off a flare of heat and a swell of affection through me in tandem—two emotional responses that my old conditioning can’t touch. The guardians could never replicate what I’d feel when this woman is near me, so they never burned the feelings her touch stirs up out of me.
I want her, always, with a hunger that radiates through my veins. And I love her even more than I already did for the simple gesture she’s just offered.
She knows that her embrace has done more to wake me up than anything else could come close to. It’s automatic to her, to give me whatever she can of herself to help me return to the man I should be.
The man I owe it to her to be.
“Did you sleep all right?” she asks, leaning her temple against my shoulder.
I kiss the top of her head. “Not too bad.”
I haven’t told any of them about the nightmares. It’s not as if they could do anything to stop them, after all.
Andreas has already gotten an assembly line of toast going. He leaves the frying pan to slather butter on the pieces, and Zian arrives as if on cue to add dollops of jam.
When the toaster dings with my additions, they slide both condiments my way. Riva lets go of me after one last squeeze and pours out glasses of orange juice for all of us.
