I dress more slowly, enjoying a couple more seconds before the fire. When I leave the bedroom and walk back into the kitchen, I find Rue pulling things down from the pantry.
Walking around the little countertop and sliding into a seat at the bar, I watch her with amusement. She turns to look at me, pulling a spoon from her mouth. She offers me some of the peanut butter, but I shake my head.
“I needed something to get me going,” she shrugs, turning to the refrigerator. It’s robin’s egg blue, an odd squat shape, and at least half a century old. She leans down, scrutinizing our food options. “Oooh, there are eggs. And sliced turkey… and swiss… oh, and mushrooms!”
She glances back at me. “Are omelettes okay?”
As soon as she asks me for my opinion, she drops her spoon and curses. When she bends down to pick it up, I stand up.
“Come on, trade me. You can sit and eat peanut butter while you watch me cook.”
She shrugs again. “You don’t trust me?”
But even as she says it, she is grabbing the jar of peanut butter and a fresh spoon. I swat her on the ass as we trade places.
“Truth be told, I have no idea if you learned anything at all about cooking at the convent. I do not know much about your upbringing.”
Rue smiles shyly, eating another bite of peanut butter. She has a mouth full and correspondingly, a full minute to think before she responds. I see the gears turning as I pull out the ingredients and get down a large bowl.
Glancing at her over my shoulder, I start to worry. My question was pretty invasive. I do not mean to make her uncomfortable by asking her questions about her time at the convent.
She does not seem too distressed over it, though. She leans forward, her spoon dipping into the jar of peanut butter again. She gathers peanut butter on the spoon as she speaks.
“I suppose I didn’t really learn to cook. No interest in it, I guess. I did learn herb lore, though. Picking herbs at the right times, tending to people’s cut and scrapes. That sort of thing.”
I crack a few eggs, smiling at that. I am thinking how I should respond when Damen suddenly comes through the front door, slamming it shut after himself. He looks at both of us with mild surprise as he saunters over.
“And here I am, thinking that you two will never be done fucking each other’s brains out.” He heaves himself down on the bar stool next to Rue, ignoring the fact that her face has gone red. He looks at her, dead-eyed. “You are very loud, you know that?”
“Hey,” I say, pointing my spatula at him. “Leave her alone.”
He pushes back, rocking the chair precariously. “It is not a judgment, it is simply the truth. And yes, I am hungry. I will have whatever you two are having.”
He raises his eyebrows, daring me to challenge his right to be here. Rolling my eyes, I grab a few extra eggs and crack them into my bowl. Rue gives Damen a sideways glance as if she is still trying to make up her mind about him.
I heat a frying pan and put a little coconut oil in it. It’s weirdly quiet in the kitchen, the silence between us growing awkward. Pouring the eggs into the frying pan, I glance over at Damen while I add the ingredients.
“We need to decide what we are going to do with Derrik.” I pause, cocking my head. “And Rue and I need to decide what our next move should be as well.”
Damen shifts his glance to Rue. “The two will be connected, I imagine.”
Nodding, I hunt down a loaf of thick brown wheat bread. While the eggs cook, I slice the bread and think out loud. “Maybe after we interrogate him, we should put Derrik up for sale as a sex slave. Serves him right, though I cannot imagine who would want him.”
“No!” Rue says, clattering her spoon onto the white marble bar top. I look over at her, a little surprised that she would vote for Derrik to be protected. Her blue eyes already have a sheen of tears as she shakes her head. “I won’t have anything to do with enriching the people that run the auction. Even Father Derrik doesn’t deserve to be treated like a… like a slave.”
Her little fists ball up on the bar top. My feeling of regret for joking about Derrik becoming a slave is immediate. I go over to her, putting my hands on top of her clenched fists and looking her in the eye. “Of course. I am sorry.”
She nods, looking down. I cannot guess where her mind is right now; her expression is unreadable.
“Eggs are burning,” Damen grouses, giving me a sour look.
I hurry back to the eggs, turning them quickly. In another minute, I have plates out, scooping a big pile of perfect eggs out and adding some bread and jam. It’s soothing, in a way, to do this for Rue. I let her down — was it only earlier this week?
Feeding her is a small way that I can make up a very little bit for that colossal mistake.
I set a plate in front of each of them, and remain standing as I eat. Damen shovels the food into his mouth in ten bites and then sits back.
“What do we want to learn from Derrik?” he asks, while my mouth is full. He looks over to Rue, who pauses, thinking.
“I would like to find out more about what he knows. About the Rebel King—”
“The what?” Damen interrupts.
Rue glances at me, her mouth turning down at the corners. “The Rebel King. Declan Stuart. He could have been the heir to any number of royal thrones across Britain and Europe. He was hunted because of it.”
Damen shifts in his seat. “And this guy has to do with us how?”
Rue looks to me for help. I clear my throat, putting my plate down on the countertop.
“He is supposedly Rue’s father. Or at least, Father Derrik thinks so. It is unclear why other than a lot of coincidences. But he has some powerful players backing him, like Prince Henrick of Montenegro.”
Damen steeples his fingers and rocks in his chair again. “And you think that finding out about your roots will help somehow, Rue?”
She shrugs. “At least it will make some sense if it is true. It would give me more insight into why a lot of bad things have happened to me.”
“And then what? After you have your answers, what would you do with him, hmm?” he asks.
She blushes. “Well… I don’t know. I am a Christian, so I don’t believe in ending his life… but he can never have any power over anyone ever again. And… I don’t know how someone goes about defrocking a former member of the Roman Catholic Church, but... I think that would be wise to do as well.”
Rue did not ask me about what I have planned for Derrik, but it is nothing so kind as the future she forces for him. I need his blood to be shed, along with his pain and suffering, to begin to make amends for all that he has done.
I stay silent, though. Damen flicks his gaze to me several times while Rue is talking to encourage me to speak up, but I do not. There are some things that are better left unsaid, and some deeds are better done alone in the dark.
Killing Derrik happens to fall in the latter category.
I clear my throat. “There is also some evidence to suggest that Aurelia’s death had something to do with the Rebel King.” I avoid Rue’s gaze as I tell Damen the whole thing. “I spoke to someone who used to work for Derrik. He said that Aurelia was killed just before she could marry Prince Henrick and ascend to the throne of Montenegro. I think… I think Rue would have come to the same end, had she not run away from the Church.”
I feel a pang in my chest because it has been so long since I have even thought of Aurelia. I promised myself once that I would be sworn to avenge her, but I have let that slip away the last months in favor of attending to Rue.
What a poor avenger I make.
Rue looks confused. “Who is Aurelia?”
Damen gets up rather abruptly, a hint of a smile on his face. “I do not think I am needed for this conversation. Dryas, come find me when you and Rue are done.”
Rue watches him go back out the front door, then turns back to me, bewildered. “I’m sorry, who is Aurelia? What am I missing?”
Taking I deep breath, I am unsu
re of how to even begin.
“She was someone I used to know. Someone who was in your position, I think. Then she died.” I pause, taking another deep breath. “Derrik killed her.”
I can see her trying to read my expression. When she asks, her question is halting. “And she was… your… you… went to bed with her?”
I shake my head. “No. I wanted to, though. And when she died, I was devastated. Wanting Derrik dead is how I started on this path.”
It is a lot for one person to take in, I can see that written clearly across Rue’s face. She gets up slowly, gathering her plate and utensils. I can see the gears still whirling in her mind, so I just step back and let her leave her plate in the sink.
She leaves the room without a word. I follow her with my eyes, not knowing what I should do. It is not as if I can erase the past, even though I see that it hurts her. Soon I hear the bedroom door close softly, and I am alone with a pile of used dishes.
10
Rue
Jealousy is a relatively new emotion for me, filling my heart with a million sharp shards of glass. It scratches me raw so easily until my heart is torn and bleeding. Feeling it for the first time, I find myself inferior in a whole new way, I sob into my pillows helplessly.
Dryas comes into the bedroom a while later quiet feet. I am glad he didn’t see the fit of tears that chased me out of the kitchen. Still, my eyes are red and puffy, my nose still stuffed up. As he approaches the bed, I can’t help but wonder if he compares me to her.
That thought, dark and vicious, seems to gnaw at my soul.
When he sits down beside me, I release a long-suffering sigh. Looking up at him, I’m embarrassed to even be having these emotions, yet incapable of feeling differently. He pins me with that chartreuse gaze, those dark brows drawn low.
“I am sorry,” he begins, surprising me. “I should have told you about Aurelia from the start.”
I push myself upright, sniffling. “I mean, I’m not your girlfriend. This isn’t a relationship we are in, technically. You don’t owe me any explanations.”
He looks a little surprised. “No? What would you call it, then?”
My face heats up, my cheeks growing as red as cherries. I hesitate. “I... I don’t know. We never talked about it. It just sort of… happened. One time turned into two, two times to four…”
I splay my hand on the comforter, picking at a loose thread. Dryas sighs and shifts closer to me.
“Do I mean nothing to you, then?”
He takes my hand, pulling it against his torso. I glance up at him, my heart racing at his words.
“No. Of course not,” I reply, my words soft.
His lips lift in the gentlest smile. He’s devastatingly handsome at that moment, looking down at me with his brilliant yellow-green eyes. “Good. You mean something to me, too.”
He leans across and drops the perfect kiss against my bee-stung lips, gentle but firm, tender yet passionate. I open my mouth to him, my fingers clutching at the sweatshirt covering his chest.
At length, he pulls back, looking down at me. “I think you should tell me a story.”
I frown a little. “A story?”
“Yes.” He shifts again, stretching out on the bed. I settle in against his chest, loving the feeling of the vibration as he speaks. “Tell me your story, little bird. The whole thing, if you can.”
I am taken aback by the request. What a thing for him to ask. “My whole life story?”
“Only if you wish.” He brushes my hair away from my temple, dipping his head low to drop a kiss there. “But I think you will tell me, will you not?”
I swallow, feeling like my throat is made of sand. No one has asked me to tell them my life story before. What if… what if I tell him, and he laughs at me?
Biting my lower lip, I suck in a breath. “On one condition.”
Something akin to amusement flares in his eyes. “Name it.”
Lowering my eyes, my fingers brush a figure eight on the glowing olive skin of his forearm, where his sleeve is pushed up. “Maybe don’t comment on anything until the end?”
He pauses, then nods slowly. “Alright.”
I think for a second, taking my time. “I don’t quite know where to start,” I admit.
He lies back and closes his eyes. He looks so serene like that, where I feel strangely terrified. He blindly pats my hand. “Start in the beginning. As early as you remember.”
I think about that for a minute. “Well… I do remember being a little girl in London. I have a very vivid memory of meeting my little sister for the first time when I was probably about three.”
I expect him to say something, but he doesn’t. In fact, he seems like he’s asleep. I’m about to ask him an indignant question when he cracks one eye open. “Keep going. I am listening. This is me listening.”
I blush. I’m not used to having this kind of platform. Chewing my bottom lip, I try to think of what I should say next.
“Ama and I grew up without anybody watching out for us. I mean, Mum was there sometimes… but she wasn’t there there.” I pause. “Did that make sense?”
Dryas merely folds his hands.
“Err… let’s see. Mum liked to drink and do drugs. Ama and I were basically an inconvenience for her if I’m honest. She would drop me and Ama off with this old guy who lived down the street from us for days and days at a time. He kept eight or ten kids beside us, so there was always someone older there to watch us. Then…”
I take a deep breath and blow it out. Emotions are suddenly running high as I launch into the next part.
“Then Mum overdosed. We were so little, with nowhere to go. Social services placed us a couple of times with two families that already had foster kids. They tried their best, but they had nothing to give me and Ama. So, we ran around London, wild and unfettered, in the scummiest underbellies we could find. And then…”
Allowing myself to pause, I take a breath.
“Then Father Derrik found Ama and me. Or rather, one of the sisters did. She brought us to him…” I let my words trail off.
Dryas doesn’t move. “How would you describe your time at the convent?”
Flushing, I chuckle humorlessly. “It was… hard. We had three hours of daily prayers, a lot of menial chores, and everyone had more status than us. Ama and I were persona non grata, as they say. And the chores… For the first six months, I wept every single night because I did not know how I was supposed to get up and do such hard work again and again.”
His brows knit together. “And then?”
I shrug. “I guess I got used to it. Or at least, it didn’t bother me anymore. I had… other things… on my mind.”
By other things, I clearly mean Father Derrik. Dryas’s mouth twists.
“Do you want to talk about that?”
He says it lightly as if he were asking if I would like a snack later. But I shy away from the topic. There are some things that I would have to relive if I start talking about them. I’d really rather not, all things considered.
Heaving a sigh, I say, “Let’s just say that I got Father Derrik’s attention the second I arrived… and I still had it when I left.”
Some emotion ripples over Dryas’s face. I can tell that he is trying very hard not to react. He opens his eyes but averts his gaze.
“That is… what, eight years?” he calculates. “That is a long time.”
“At least Ama and I were always together. That made it bearable, knowing that I could shield her from most of the bad stuff.”
He squints. “Is it out of the question for me to ask what happened to your back? I notice that you have healed wounds there.”
I cringe. “Mortification of flesh. Or self-flagellation, I’ve heard it called. Everyone in the convent did it regularly. Father Derrik promised us that it was purifying. But looking back on it…”
I wrap my arms around myself, hugging my torso. Dryas turns onto his side, facing me. “I will not ask you for more details today, but
… I might, someday.”
My cheeks glow red. I nod. “Please tell me your story, so I can pretend not to be embarrassed by mine.”
He smiles, finally meeting my eyes again. His eyes crinkle a bit, which I hadn’t noticed before now. It makes my heart skip a beat. “I would do anything to allay your totally normal social fear.”
“Save me from myself!” I declare. “Besides, if you heard my story, I want to hear yours.”
Dryas nods slowly. Sinking onto his back once again, he ruminates for a minute.
“My story starts in Cyprus. Do you know where that is?”
He glances at me. I screw up my face for a second, thinking. “Isn’t that part of the middle east?”
He nods. “Yes. It is a big island just below Turkey, but the culture is very Greek. The capital city is Nicosia, where my brothers and I were born.” A crease forms in his brow as he frowns. “In some ways, my story and your story are the same. Mainly our mothers sound similar. Same issues of addiction, same hard-scrabble upbringing for us. I lost my mother a few years before you did, I think…”
Seeing the turmoil on his face, I reach for his hand. He glances at me and squeezes my hand against his chest.
“When my mother died, we were homeless too. And we had no social services to look after us. As the oldest of the three of us, it was up to me to figure out what to do. So… when I saw that the mafia would take in boys our age and make them useful, I took a chance.”
My eyes narrow. “What do you mean, make them useful?”
He shrugs his shoulders. “Errand boys. Lookouts. Drug runners. And in some special cases… the mafia would teach them to kill. That is how I got started in the Cypriot. Running errands, until one night the Cypriot called on me for more.”
“You were an assassin for them?”
He bobs his head. “Among other things. But yes, they found having a contained unit of killers very useful. So useful that we were sent to London to help them carve out a corner of the market there.” He pauses, hesitating. “I have done a lot of things I should not have done. And that does not even take into account how many bodies we dropped back then…”
Protect: Protect Book 4 Page 6