Verum

by Courtney Cole

  He’s staring at me like he wants to eat me, and I am once again reminded that he’s a wolf.

  “So give me a loaded answer,” I suggest, and my words surprise me and Dare.

  What am I doing?

  What am I doing?

  His eyes widen, then narrow.

  Dare practically growls as he yanks me to him, and he’s hard against my body. I sigh into his mouth and he groans.

  Sensations blur and conscious thought ceases.

  Consequences be damned.

  Sweet Lord.

  Dare’s tongue plunders my own and I’ve never felt so sexily invaded in my life. God, I’ve missed this. I’ve missed him.

  So much,

  So much,

  So much.

  It’s like every nerve ending in my entire body has exploded, like I’m standing on fire, like I’m fire itself. I’m ore, I’m magma, I’m lava. I’m melted, I’m the sun.

  He’s ignited me.

  His hands clutch me, big and strong and splayed against my back, and I somehow feel like I’m balanced in his hands, like he’s holding me steady.

  Maybe he is.

  Maybe he always has.

  My head falls back and he slides his lips along my neck, grazing the soft skin, inhaling my scent.

  “You smell like apples,” he tells me again, his voice husky in my ear. I feel urgent and rushed and desperate, yet his voice is even, controlled. I don’t know how he’s managing.

  I pull back to ask, my hand on his rock hard chest, and suddenly the world spins.

  Fragments, scents, sounds… so many things swirl together in my head and I’m not living in the present anymore.

  I’m in the past,

  And the past is a prison.

  My eyes flutter closed because I can’t take the overwhelming sensations, and even though I hear Dare’s voice, asking me if I’m ok, I can’t respond.

  Because I see him.

  Not in front of me in the moonlight, but in my head.

  He’s real, and he’s familiar, and he’s mine.

  His face is twisted in pain, and he’s trying to tell me something, but I don’t want to listen. He’s bloody, he’s dark, he’s broken.

  He wasn’t supposed to be there.

  My memories are wrong.

  But I can’t find the right ones.

  “Calla, are you ok?” he asks with bloody lips and his teeth are red.

  I can’t move,

  I can’t think.

  He grabs me to him and screams,

  And the scream builds into a roar,

  And the roar is the ocean.

  “Help!” Dare shouts, but I think it might’ve been me.

  I close my heart, and he opens his lips, and words fall out, and I shake my head.

  Because Finn is on the beach and he’s dead.

  And Dare has done something, something, something.

  The fear grows and builds and takes me over, covering me up in shadows.

  That boy will be your ruin, Sabine whispers. He’ll breakyoubreakyoubreakyou.

  In my head, blood spatters and someone screams and I yank away from Dare now, gasping for breath.

  He’s here,

  and he’s fine.

  He’s fine.

  He stares at me, nervous, hesitant to approach.

  “Are you all right, Calla?” his British words are clipped, and his eyes are concerned. He holds his hand out like he’s soothing a disturbed filly, and I’m disturbed. That’s the only thing to describe me.

  Because none of that happened.

  None of that is real.

  Except for the fact that my brother is dead.

  The nausea hits suddenly, in a frightening wave.

  I whirl around so he can’t see, and I retch into the bushes.

  Humiliation swells in me, but not so much as the sickness.

  Over and over, my stomach rebels, and I feel him behind me, trying to soothe me.

  “Go,” I tell him over my shoulder, utterly embarrassed.

  “No,” he answers firmly. “Maybe you have food poisoning. We should go see Sabine.”

  His answer for everything.

  But somehow, I feel like she’s causing this. I never felt this way until I met her. These things never happened to me before.

  “No, not Sabine,” I rasp, wiping my mouth and backing away. “I’m fine. I promise.”

  I’m lying. I’m not fine.

  But he can’t know that.

  I spin around and flee, running for the house, running away from Dare. He lets me go, surprisingly. I glance over my shoulder when I’m bounding out the garden gates and he’s standing limply, watching me with a strange expression.

  I don’t slow down until I reach the house.

  I creep into my room and when I do, I imagine Finn waiting for me in the chair by the window, sitting in the dark.

  Because that’s what he would do if he were here.

  He turns on the lamp.

  If he were real.

  “Where have you been?” he asks me quietly, judgment in his pale blue eyes.

  “Out,” I tell him. “I don’t feel well.”

  “Did something happen?” he asks, cocking his head. “Did he do something to you?”

  Annoyance fills me up. “Why would you assume he did something?” I demand, yanking my nightgown out of a dresser drawer. “You’re imagining things. I just don’t feel well.”

  He stares at me doubtfully. “I’m imagining things? Cal, this is getting dangerous. I don’t know what you’re up to, but it’s not good.”

  I exhale a shaky breath, hating the way my lungs feel sick.

  “I don’t want you here tonight,” I answer. And he’s instantly gone, the chair vacant and dark, and I’m alone.

  I turn my back, heading straight to the bathroom to change.

  I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

  All I know is, something is going on with me, something I don’t understand. Something I don’t want.

  I run the water for a long time, splashing my face, cooling me down.

  It doesn’t help, and my dreams don’t either.

  I toss and turn in my bed, unable to wake even though I want to. My breathing quickens and I feel like I’m right on the cusp of…something.

  Dare whispers. “Keep going. You’re almost there. You can do this.”

  I don’t know if I can.

  I’m floating in an ocean of insanity. It’s just ahead of me, so close I can touch it. But even though it shines and glimmers, it has glistening fangs and I know it will shred me.

  “I’m scared,” I whisper, gripping Dare’s hands.

  “You should be,” he answers and his words impale me. “But it’s ok. I’m here. You’re not alone, Cal.”

  But I feel like it.

  I’m alone.

  I’m bobbing in a dark ocean and the lies surround me.

  “Help!” I scream out, but no one is there, not even Dare.

  “Finn!” I shout. “Please!”

  No one answers.

  No one comes.

  I’ve been cast away, and I’ll never be found.

  Chapter 17

  “We must host an event at the end of the week for Savage Inc. I want you to be there. I think being among people might be good for you.” Eleanor looks down her nose at me, and I squirm under her gaze. “That is all.”

  I nod and scramble to my feet, heading for the door.

  “Oh, and one more thing.”

  We wait.

  “Dress appropriately. The event will be formal.”

  Oh, perfect.

  I hurry out and when I’m down the hall, Finn is waiting for me.

  “I’m sorry about last night. It’s not my business what you do.”

  But his eyes are still hurt and it makes me feel awful.

  “No, I’m sorry,” I tell him. “You were just being nice and I was being a bitch. I wasn’t feeling well, but that’s no excuse. I’m sorry, Finn.”

&n
bsp; He nods and all is forgiven, because he forgives me too easily. “Are you feeling better now?”

  I nod. Because I am and I have no idea what was wrong with me last night.

  “I was, until I heard we have to attend some formal party with the wicked witch.”

  “Ahem.”

  We whirl around to find Eleanor behind us. Her face is impassive despite the fact that she heard me call her a witch.

  “I wanted to tell you that Jones will take you to London to be fitted for a gown. Who are you talking to, Calla?”

  Her eyes meet mine, and for the briefest of moments, there’s something almost human in hers. Something… concerned, maybe even hurt. But then she blinks and it’s gone, and I must’ve imagined it.

  “No one,” I stammer. “Just myself.”

  She’s unconvinced, I can tell. But she hesitates before walking away.

  “You look very much like your mother, Calla.”

  She leaves now, her spine stiff and her posture completely rigid.

  “Do you think Jones puts that rod up her ass every morning, or does she do it herself?” Finn snorts and I laugh at him, and the weird mood is broken.

  I don’t tell him that I have to stop thinking about him soon.

  Thinking about him isn’t helping me, it’s pulling me into the past. It’s something I know, even though I don’t like it. I’m here at Whitley to get better, not regress.

  But I’ll address that a different day.

  There’s no reason to ruin today.

  After breakfast, Jones takes me into London.

  As we pull through the crowded city streets, I lean forward. “Do you have any suggestions on where to buy formal clothes, Jones?”

  I’m thinking of my bank account nervously. The last I checked, it only had $237.26 in it.

  Jones meets my gaze in the rearview mirror.

  “I have orders from Mrs. Savage about where to take you, Miss Price. She’s got it all arranged and has an account in the store.”

  Well, that’s a relief.

  I settle back into the seat.

  “I’ve never had a tux before,” Finn muses. Grief slams into me, because I know he hasn’t. And now he’ll never have the chance.

  “You’d look amazing,” I assure him. “Everyone looks stunning in a tuxedo.”

  The limo glides to a stop on the curb, and Jones is opening the door for me, his hand extended to help me out.

  “Here you are,” he says politely, motioning toward the door of a glitzy shop. “I’ll be waiting for you.”

  I nod, and I’m greeted at the door by women in black uniform dresses and perfect red lipstick.

  “Welcome, Miss Price,” they tell me. “We’ve been expecting you.”

  It’s a bit overwhelming as they usher us in and press warm drinks into our hands. One of them pulls me over to a tufted velvet sofa and settles me onto it.

  “My name is Ginger,” she tells me. “I’ll bring out the gown Mrs. Savage ordered for you.”

  She turns on her high heel and disappears into a room, and I’m astounded. Eleanor ordered me a custom dress? When the heck had she done that? When we arrived?

  Ginger returns after a mere moment with a demure pink silk gown draped in her hands.

  She holds it up and I eye it.

  It’s long, with a sweetheart neckline and delicate hem, the palest of pinks.

  I shrug. “Can I try it on?”

  I’m not overly impressed and Ginger seems surprised.

  “Of course, miss,” she tells me, and leads me into a dressing room. She begins to undress me and I freeze.

  “I can do this myself,” I dismiss her.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’ve been doing it all my life,” I assure her. Do rich people really let people dress and un-dress them? Holy cow. This isn’t what I thought I was signing up for.

  I pull the whisper-soft fabric on, and it drapes against me, fitting like only something expensive can. It’s an innocent dress and it’s beautiful, but to me, it washes my coloring out.

  “I… um.”

  “Can I help?” Ginger calls over the door. I turn the handle and step out.

  She eyes me.

  “It fits you perfectly.”

  I can’t argue with that. But it also does nothing for me. It’s a dress for a twelve-year old, and it doesn’t complement my coloring.

  As I’m turning in the mirror, trying to like it, a swatch of crimson red catches my eye, and I gravitate it like the earth toward the sun.

  Ginger trails behind, and I run the red satin beneath my fingers.

  “This one,” I say uncertainly. “It’s beautiful. May I try it on?”

  Ginger’s hesitant. “This gown… it was made for someone else,” she says slowly, but when I’m so obviously disappointed, she quickly adds, “But of course you can try it. We can always create another for Miss Aimes. I don’t want to upset Mrs. Savage.”

  I don’t correct her… I don’t tell her that I would never say something bad about her to Eleanor, because she’s so quick to try and keep me happy and I don’t want to make her uncomfortable. It’s clear that she’s very intimidated by my grandmother.

  She helps me out of the pale pink gown, and hangs it up while I put on the red.

  As I turn around, she sucks in her breath. “Miss Price, you look stunning.”

  And I do. I examine myself in the mirror in surprise, because there is a stranger looking back. A woman with perfect curves and flushed cheeks, sparkling eyes and a stunning gown. The gown is strapless and although the top is just a smidgeon big, everywhere else hugs me just exactly right.

  I am a woman in this dress.

  If Dare could see me in this dress….

  He has to see me in this dress.

  “I wouldn’t have thought the color would work with your hair,” Ginger tells me. “But it’s perfect.”

  “Can I have this one?” I ask hopefully, and Ginger nods.

  “Of course. We’ll create something new for Miss Aimes. This gown was clearly meant for you. We’ll take in the bust about a half-inch, and it will fit you like a glove.”

  We pick out shoes and jewelry, and Finn is waiting for me in the car.

  “I like being fancy,” he decides, and he says it in a British accent. I giggle and start to reply, but I see something that gives me pause, a little café on a corner.

  A dark-haired man sits in the café window.

  Dare.

  His face is intense, focused, and he’s staring at the man across the table from him. He’s not happy, far from it, in fact.

  I can’t see the other man, not clearly, even though I crane my neck. I can only partially see his face, the rest of him is hidden.

  But he’s firmly middle-aged, maybe fifty-something? Dark haired, and the one cheek that I can see looks flushed, a scarlet red flash of color.

  Why are they upset?

  Dare must feel me staring at him, and he turns, his dark eyes meeting mine. There is surprise in his, then dismay. I see it, I feel it, and then he looks away.

  He’s trying to pretend I didn’t see him, and I wonder if I should do the same?

  But he doesn’t give me the chance.

  After dinner, while Eleanor and Sabine are engaged in a quiet conversation in the library, Dare approaches me with his black slacks and his light cashmere sweater.

  He’s overwhelmingly handsome, and I struggle to pretend like he’s not.

  “Forget you saw me earlier,” he tells me, and his voice is a little bit hard.

  “What?” I ask in confusion, staring into his face, ignoring his chiseled jaw. He gazes down at me, so easily able to fluster me.

  “You didn’t see me in town.” It’s a directive and he means it.

  I nod, not sure what else to do. Why is this so important?

  “Ok,” I agree. “I didn’t see you. What were you doing that’s such a secret?”

  He glares at me now and I almost regret asking, but I don’t. What wa
s he doing?

  “You can’t know right now,” he snaps, his lips lush and his tone ugly. “Trust me, you can’t know yet.”

  “Why?”

  He pauses, then looks at me, his eyes sincere and open and mine. “Because you would be lost.”

  As he walks away with the millions of hidden things in his eyes, I wonder if I already am.

  * * *

  I’m reading a book alone in the library when Sabine finds me, a cup of steaming hot chocolate in her hand. She sets it next to me, then sits in the adjacent chair.

  “Dare is worried about you,” she tells me.

  “He told you that?” I ask doubtfully, because he was so annoyed with me earlier. She shakes her head.

  “No. But I can see it.”

  I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “Don’t worry about it. If he’s truly concerned, he’ll tell me.”

  Maybe.

  But maybe I don’t know anymore.

  “I don’t know that he would,” Sabine answers. “You’ve pushed him away. He has no idea how to reach you now.”

  My chest hurts at that, because I know it’s true.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,’ I answer stiffly.

  She nods and changes the subject.

  “Your grandmother knows you changed your gown.”

  “Was it a secret?” I ask in surprise. “I didn’t like the one she picked, it looked terrible on me. I chose a better color.”

  Sabine stares at me, humor in her old eyes. “She’s not pleased,” she tells me, but somehow, I feel like Sabine might be.

  “You remind me of your mother,” she adds.

  “Everyone keeps saying that. Is it a bad thing?” I ask hesitantly.

  She smiles. “No. It’s a good thing. So curious and kind. I hope Whitley doesn’t change you.”

  “It won’t,” I reply stoutly.

  Sabine cocks her head, but doesn’t answer. She stares out the window across the hall, and makes no motion to leave. I stare at her over the top of my book.

  “Was there something else?”

  I don’t want to be rude, but I really want a minute alone, and something about this woman puts me on edge. She knows things better than I do… she knows Dare better, and she might even know me better. It’s unsettling.

  She turns her gaze to me, wise and old, and I fight the urge to flinch.

  “We should read your cards again,” she suggests. I do flinch now, and she chuckles.