Page 94 of Decimation

Do I care that I’m sacrificing her, a woman barely old enough to be married by our laws? No, no I don’t give a fuck. I would sacrifice her and every other Brethren daughter if it got me what I wanted.

Antonio has to be contained, Antonio has to be distracted. It’s the only way this works.

The road ahead narrows, trees closing in on either side like sentinels. My chest burns with a fury I can barely contain, my thoughts racing faster than the car. The headlights catch the glint of a signpost and I jerk the wheel to the left, the tyres skidding as I take the turn.

The car fishtails again, and for a moment I feel the weight of it tipping, the world tilting on its axis. I slam my foot on the brake, the screech of tyres echoing in the stillness of the night. The car jerks to a stop, dust swirling in the beams of the headlights.

I sit there for a moment, my hands gripping the wheel, my chest heaving. The silence is deafening, broken only by the ticking of the engine as it cools.

I lean back in the seat, staring out at the road ahead while my mind continues to race, thoughts tumbling over each other in a chaotic storm.

There’s no turning back now. No more delays. No more excuses.

It all has to happen now.

The air changes before I even hear his footsteps, as if the very world melds around this man. I’m sitting at the vanity, brushing my out-of-control hair with slow, mechanical strokes when the door slams open hard enough to crack the plaster.

Lazarus fills the doorway, his face a mask of barely leashed fury. His eyes are wild, pupils blown so wide they’ve nearly swallowed all the colour. His chest heaves. His hands are clenched into white-knuckled fists at his sides, and I can see the tendons in his neck standing out like cords.

I set the brush down. My heart kicks against my ribs, but I keep my voice steady. “What’s wrong?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He stalks into the room, like a predator trying very hard not to tear the furniture apart and stops in front of the fireplace. I watch the way his shoulders bunch, the way his jaw works, grinding words into dust before he can spit them out.

“Lazarus.” I rise from the stool, my silk robe whispering around my ankles. “Tell me, please.”

He turns then, and the full force of his rage hits me. “Konstantine,” he says, “He’s looking for you.”

The bottom drops out of my stomach. He’s, he’s looking for me? Oh god.

I can’t go back. I can’t.

My skin goes cold, then hot, a sick flush of fear that prickles at the nape of my neck. I take an involuntary step back, and my hip bumps the vanity, rattling the little crystal bottles.

“He, he…”| My voice is smaller than I want it to be.

“He doesn’t know where you are.” Lazarus crosses the space between us in three long strides and grips my upper arms, his fingers biting into my flesh with a desperate, bruising pressure. “He’s sniffing around, that’s all, but he doesn’t know. He will never know. You are safe. Do you hear me? You are safe. Ezra is safe.”

I nod, but the fear doesn’t recede. It coils in my belly, a serpent made of old memories. Ezra is Konstantine’s son, isn’t he? Why would he not be safe?

His grip gentles just a fraction, his thumbs stroking over the delicate skin of my inner arms. “I’m doubling the guards. No one will get near the boy. No one will get near you. I swear it.”

I believe him. I believe the ferocity in his voice, the absolute, terrifying certainty. But I can also feel the tremor running through him, the way his control is fraying at the edges like a rope under too much strain.

He’s not just angry. He’s unmoored.

The thought of Konstantine hunting me has cracked something open inside him, and whatever lives in that crack is hungry, dark, and wants to consume.

I know that hunger. I’ve felt it myself, every time I think about the life I left behind, every time I remember the things Ezekiel and Isaac did to me, the things Konstantine did too. And I know there’s only one way to feed a beast like that without letting it destroy everything in its path.

I lift my hands and place them flat against his chest. His heart is pounding in a wild, erratic drumbeat beneath my palms. “Lazarus,” I say, and I let my voice drop, let it become something low and molten. “Look at me.”

He does. I can see the war in his brown eyes; the urge to hunt, to kill, to burn the world down, fighting against the iron will that keeps him tethered to this room, to me. He’s on the verge of losing control completely, and the sight of it sends a dark, answering thrill through my own blood.

I slide my hands up his chest and curl my fingers into the fabric. “You came back to me,” I murmur. “You’re here. I’m here. He can’t touch us.”

A sound rumbles in his chest, something between a growl and a groan. His hands tighten on my arms again, and this time the pain is sharp, exquisite.

“Leandra.”