Crimson Lace

Chapter 43

GORE
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

The liquor burns my throat on the way down, leaving a bottomless warmth in my chest. I shake my head vigorously—glancing in the mirror above my sink as I watch my hair fall over my eyes—trying to coax the intoxicating haze of alcohol into spreading to my mind faster. How many shots do I have to take before I can shake the image of my mother's eyes? Elle's eyes? My eyes? It was hard sitting across from her today. To hear her voice that is so much like my mother's was.

The way my sister looks at me with disgust in her expression. She loathes me. My chest tightens. I thought having her around would erase the scars my parents left behind. Give me someone to hold onto. But alas, my own sibling has dubbed me as one of the villains in her story. Not much of a difference from the way my father viewed me. A burden. His disappointment of a son. If only he could see me now. See how far I've come.

From where my hands are braced on the basin of my sink, I stare up into my reflection. My wavy auburn hair belonging to that of my mother, the eyes . . . her as well. But everything about my face, from my sharp jawline and long lashes to the dimple on my left cheek. It's all Dadda.

I sneer at this face staring back, seeing only the way he used to look at me. The way I remember him. So cold. A sad, sad man. I grab my cane from off the sink counter and slam it into the mirror with a shout. The glass shatters, skidding across the floors.

A twinge echoes down my back and through my legs. "Damn it," I grunt, out of breath from the pain. The way Alec attacked me in the meeting this evening . . . it's been so long since my chronic pain has been this intense. Sudden movements like that can make it worse. And having the Variant prince nearly popping my head off was excruciating.

I grip my cane and make my way to my bed, tossing the covers aside and not bothering to change out of my tan trousers as I lay back into the soft mattress.

I haven't redecorated since Cassia . . . she loved the modern look. I never cared for the style or the lavender comforter, but it all makes it seem like she never left. As if there is still love in this house. Our house.

Breathing heavily, I stare blankly at the ceiling above me and reach for the painkillers on my nightstand. I swallow a few without anything to wash it down. The alcohol has already kicked in a bit, easing the stress of the day. Still, I know that there are a million things I could be doing right now at this hour of night. I could push through this agony, like I have my whole life. But even I know when to rest. A battle is brewing. And unlike the helpless cripple my father thought I would become, I intend to be the warrior leading the fight.

It doesn't matter if I am limping or crawling through the bloodshed, as long as my people have someone to follow. Someone to show them what strength is and to pave the way.

I run a hand through the mess of my auburn curls and tuck an arm behind my head.

It's no secret that tomorrow won't be easy. We'll lose soldiers. My soldiers.

I've watched each of them transform from self-indulgent Noble fools to loyal men and women. Though, none of them see me as their military leader. Or any leader for that matter. To them I am just the one who provides them with what they crave. Their master and the man who removed their tattooed marks and powers of Nobility.

That doesn't make me the villain, does it? Isn't the villain the one behind the cruelty, because I am no more than the villain's pawn. Was Keaton's pawn. But now, I'll make him pay for ever playing chess with my people.

As my head swirls, reviewing the plan over and over, I check for fissures or faults in the plot's foundation. It's nearly impossible not to find them when the whole tactic for tomorrow relies on a big game of chance. The chance that Keaton will take the deal and accept our surrender.