Sancte Diaboli: Part Two (The Elite King's Club 7)

I move through the day seamlessly. Starting with working out, eating lunch, and then Veronica pulls me aside for two hours to work on strengthening my “skill.” I ask her what this looks like, and she says I will know when I can harness the voices wherever I am and whenever I want. I make it very clear that under no circumstances will I ever want to do that.

She’s adamant.

I pick up the knife and fork on the table during dinner, closing my eyes and breathing in the crisp air. We’re two weeks away from Thanksgiving, so the weather is cooler. Every now and then, snowflakes fall onto the green grass, and it only makes that pit in my belly ache even more. We’re all sitting outside on the patio tonight, with a fire pit burning to the side as dinner begins to be served. Roast chicken, potatoes, salad, and freshly baked bread. The sun is just beginning to set behind the thick forest trees, and even now, sitting here with my coven, there’s an emptiness that throbs in my belly. I miss my family. I miss my home. An invisible fist clenches around my heart when I’m reminded that Brantley won’t want me back. Not now. Not even as a blood relation. Even then, I already know that seeing him again, let alone living with him, would just be a sickening reminder of what we did. We may not have known, and it may not have been our fault, but it had been done. Many times.

I swallow a gulp of Pinot from my goblet to stop the vomit from rising up my throat, swiping my bottom lip with my thumb. I need something to take away the pain. To scrub off the sticky residue that clings to my thoughts. Anything. I’d do anything to wash myself clean of that. My heart thunders in my chest, though I’m sure it will be the last beats it will do. I know what I must do.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

Silence.

I bring my eyes up to the person sitting opposite me at the dinner table, his glass pressed to his lips. His eyes are already on mine, flames and fire licking around the edges. I pick up my goblet and take another large swig.

Another.

Another.

Reaching for the wine decanter, I pour more Pinot into my goblet-style glass until it fills to the brink. Blood. Brantley’s blood. I take four gulps while maintaining eye contact with Sam.

I know what I must do.

I must move on.

Dinner begins to come out in platters—mini roasted chicken, vegetables, and salad bowls for each of us. Veronica and Frankie are talking amongst each other, while Ophelia and Alessi gossip. Ivy is sitting beside me, quiet. Listening. Always silent. The other two men are on either side of Sam, losing themselves in their food.

“So,” I say, trying one simple word, even though I don’t want to say anything at all.

Silence.

“So,” Sam urges, and his tongue drags over his bottom lip. “You feel like dessert tonight?” I don’t know if the table chatter has quietened or if I’m blocking everyone out.

I breathe in and out. Steady. Patient. Silent. “Yes.”

The corners of his mouth turn up as he leans back in his chair. “Impressed.”

I pick up my goblet. “If that’s true, Samael, then you’re too easy for my taste…” I reply in jest, hiding the half-smile behind my glass, but I know deep down it wasn’t entirely a joke. Thankfully, he does.

He laughs loudly, his head tilting back. He doesn’t recollect himself for a couple of seconds and, in my honest opinion, too long to be laughing at something that was an underlying insult. And it wasn’t that funny. “Hmmm, I think you and I are going to get on just fine.”

I smile sweetly at him. “I’m sure we will.” I’ve never felt more like a Hayes than during this encounter.

This is my routine for the next couple of weeks. I work out, eat, work with Veronica, have dinner and throw words back and forth with Sam, and then excuse myself to my bedroom. I bathe, and then Ophelia and Ivy come in and we watch a new movie. At first, it was partially annoying to me. I needed to be alone with my thoughts. With my tears. I didn’t want people to see the pain I felt. I wanted to close my bedroom door and scream into my pillow until my throat bled. Now, I look forward to Ophelia and Ivy’s nightly sleepovers. I think they knew I needed it, too. Ivy is still not chatty, but she has started smiling at me now, and her eyes. Her eyes light up whenever Ophelia and I are talking about something. She wants to engage, I’m just not sure why she doesn’t, and I feel it might be rude to wait this long to bring it up. Sam and I have become comfortable with each other. Him more than me. I know he’s trying to break me open. Maybe learn things about me. He makes an effort to ask enough questions whenever we’re together alone—which isn’t often. I asked Veronica about it one day and she said that Sam showing an interest in anything is something special and that I should be grateful. Apparently, male witches are all aloof and bitter. I can’t imagine why.