I tried to argue my way into going with her, but it would be suicide. I cannot provide the distraction Ambrose will provide. He is a true oddity, and familiar with Nikolaos’s coven.
His strangeness will be his protection.
Watching Ambrose and Chloe reach the chosen spot, I want to close my eyes, but I don’t dare.
I drink in the sight of Chloe standing in front of Ambrose, staring at him, before she finally offers her hand. I burn the image of her into my very retinas, needing her visage to keep me grounded in the present.
Ambrose seems to hesitate, unwilling to take Chloe’s hand at first, and words are spoken.
A low growl slips past my lips in irritation. What are they saying?
About to take a step closer, as if that would help me hear from this distance, I stop when Ambrose finally takes Chloe’s hand.
Not long after the two disappear.
To any human watching, they’d probably see the two of them simply vanishing into nothing, but my eyes note a dark mist surrounding them before dissipating.
Caden sends off a text.
It’s almost time to move, we just need to wait for the signal from Dav.
An explosion about two miles east of the bowling sends a rippling wave of power towards us.
That would be the gas station we wired to blow. Explosions like that will keep the humans busy and distracted.
“Let’s move,” I hiss from my position, and motion for the rest of my children to follow me.
Twenty-Eight
Chloe
Staring into Ambrose’s blood-red eyes, I try to prepare myself for what’s to come. We’re about to teleport into the middle of a viper’s nest. We have no clue where we’ll end up or who we’ll face when we arrive.
I don’t have any true control or mastery over my powers. Everything is still very new to me. I feel like a newborn fawn just finding her legs. I’m simply going with my gut and following my instincts.
Instincts that might be completely wrong. This could all be futile and for naught…
Yet the most pressing thing on my mind is how I’m going to survive touching Ambrose without losing my shit.
Sensing my distress, Ambrose stiffens and his gaze fills with remorse when I hold my hand out to him. “I’m sorry, Mother. If you’d prefer not to do this, I’m sure we can think of another way.”
It’s tempting, so very tempting, to admit that I can’t do this. Not because I lack the capability, but because I loathe his nearness.
If anything, as I’ve come to better know Ambrose, the pain I feel in his presence has grown worse. Out of all of Asher’s children, he feels the most. He seems far from lucid the majority of the time, but he’s actually quite grounded.
He sees easily what others overlook.
He feels what others cannot.
His wisdom and perception know no equal, going beyond the boundaries of the here and now.
The others might not be fully aware of it, seeing only their worst nightmare in the flesh, but Asher subconsciously recognizes his worth. Often turning to Ambrose for advice.
All because half of Ambrose’s soul was murdered.
He should be dead.
At the very least, he should be trapped inside a mental prison of rage and madness for eternity.
But he’s standing patiently in front of me, willing to risk what life he has left to protect me and help save Raphael’s Marked.
Over the past couple of days, I’ve come to understand Ambrose almost as much as I understand Asher. I don’t know if it’s because I’m able to feel everyone’s emotions and sense the direction of their thoughts, but we have developed a strong connection.
A connection almost as strong as the bond.
At times, I truly wish I could soothe all his hurts.
I wish I could pull him into my arms and hug his broken pieces back together.
I wish I could give him back his mate.
But there’s no fixing what’s been done. Dead is dead when it comes to humans. There is no coming back. His Marked is lost forever.
And I’m wasting time getting melancholy over it. Raphael’s Marked is still very much alive and she needs us.
Shaking my head to clear my thoughts, I shove my arm out more, willing Ambrose to take it.
I can do this.
If he can live every day in misery, I can survive a few measly seconds.
Ambrose looks at my hand in surprise. “Mother? Are you sure? I know my touch pains you.”
My heart breaks just a little bit more for him but I force a smile. “I’m sure.”
When he still hesitates to touch me, every fractured shard of his broken soul revolting at the thought of causing me distress, I make a grab for his hand.
The second our skin touches a cold, electric bolt of sensation shoots up my arm, radiating through my shoulder.
The pain is what I imagine the start of a heart attack might feel like.