❝𝐃𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬, 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐯𝐞? ❞
❝𝐘𝐞𝐬, 𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬,❞ she huffs, anger in her voice as I infiltrate her walls more than I already have.
❝𝐌𝐦,❞ my disapprov...
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𝐈𝐓'𝐒 𝐖𝐄𝐓.
It's all so wet.
And cold.
It's all so cold.
The color red is a stain on my hands, and on my soul as I kneel in a pool of my own making. It drips off the sides of my palms and dives into the cracks of my fingerprints.
Blame is a game I'm familiar with as the coloring seeps into my skin and sets it alight.
Eden.
Blaine.
Esme.
Jaque.
I left them alone.
I left them where I thought they were safer because I was focused on protecting one instead of all five. I drop my hands to my knees and clutch at the fabric. My grief, and my mourning, are mixing with a hatred and putrid fire that burns hotter than the ring that burns before me.
My senses are dulled.
My expectations are shot.
One second.
Two seconds.
Three.
I use each to breathe in and out. To exhale and inhale. To find some type of balance within my weakness because I know the second I am standing, the second I am trapped high within this puddle of spilled blood, when I rise in the wake of my family's deaths, I will not be me.
I will be the creature created out of me.
My hands sink into the inches of freezing red. I level myself as I turn my chin up, as I allow my eyes to crawl past the bodies of the ones I love, and to delve into the one I detest more than I've ever loathed anyone or anything.
Aemon fucking Petrov smiles at me while I glare.
He winks at me as I push against my own weight and climb to my feet.
As soon as I reach all six feet, three inches, I feel a bullet to the chest. Aemon cackles as I grunt and lean over, sensing the metal burrow deep into my bullet-proof vest.
I hadn't known he'd been carrying a gun, but it doesn't surprise me in the slightest that our exchange will not be made with our fists alone.
I punch my gut and feel the bullet pop out.
It rattles to the ground as Aemon catches his breath.
"Wow!" he exclaims, clapping, "You stayed standing! I applaud you, really! Most men would have doubled-over and gave in, but no ... not you, Mr. Beau Torres," he abruptly stops making noise, his grin vanishing as he glares over his shoulder into the fire, "You picked a good man to make your husband after all, didn't you, Aeron?"
