He’s not smiling now.
“Aurora,” he croaks through gritted teeth. There’s a wistful sadness in his voice, marred by the sound of sandpaper in his throat. “Aurora Bright.”
I can practically feel the surprise of the men around me as they hear my father rasp my real name. Aurora—it’s the name he picked out for me before I was even born. And a name, I’m quick to remind myself, that I haven’t used since. There’s a reason my mother always called me Rory, I realize. Probably a better reason than my reason for pretending my real name doesn’t actually exist.
Aurora fucking Bright sounds like some kind of snobby fairytale princess. Like exactly the kind of woman Xander’s parents would want him to end up with. Like the kind of person Nico’s family would sneer at. The kind of person who couldn’t even make a man like Drew or Ryker give her a second look.
“It’s Rory, actually.” Kind of funny, when you think about it—the first words I say to my father, and here I am correcting him. “That’s what…that’s what she called me.”
My father stares at me for a moment. It’s like he’s memorizing every feature of my face. Making up for years lost, maybe?
But then his eyes land on the emerald around my neck and I see the spark of recognition flash through them.
“So she did,” he rasps.
Maybe not, then.
In pictures, my father’s eyes were always blue. Even more than the absence of his thick black hair—which is now striped a shocking white—and his classically handsome face, half covered in healed-over burn wounds and striped with scars…it’s his eyes that worry me most. They’re pupil-less, dark things ringed in an eerie orange-red that, even all the way across the room seem to glow like the last embers of a smoldering fire.
“Isn’t this nice?” Xander’s mother says casually, holding up her wineglass for the maid to refill. “Family reunions are abound these days, it seems.”
Xander’s father, seated across from her, says nothing. He merely takes a lacquered box out of his jacket pocket and withdraws three cigars from it. The first, he offers to my father. The second, he offers to…
“Not just family reunions,” the Warden sneers, accepting the offered cigar with a smile. “How lovely to see you again, Rory. You’re looking well. And your guardians…ah. They keep multiplying, don’t they? Bed must be awfully full these days.” He chuckles to himself, leaning across the table with the cigar between his teeth for a light. “Have you met my new witch?”
The woman sitting across the table from the Warden touches a long, tanned fingertip to the end of his cigar, sending smoke rising at her touch. Her hair might not be as bright of a shade of pink as it used to be, and her cheeks look hollower and more sunken…but her eyes. I’ll never forget those glimmering amber eyes.
“Abra,” I say softly. “Fuck—Abra, no.”
Abra stiffens at the sound of her own name. She plucks the cigar from the Warden’s mouth and puffs on it a few times, blowing little smoke rings and tapping her ash on the tablecloth—which makes Xander’s mother knit her brows together in disgust.
“Oh, Rory. You were always so silly, weren’t you? Abra yes, I’ll have you know.” She puts the cigar back between the Warden’s waiting lips and leans back in her chair, lifting her jaw haughtily. “It’s called an upgrade, sweetie. If you weren’t so busy collecting men, maybe you’d have learned the notion by now.”
As she brushes a lock of dark pink hair behind her ear, I see the charred black mark in the center of her palm where I recall a little heart used to be. I know she sees me see it, too—because when our eyes meet, she drops the hand to her side immediately. I watch her palm the sleeve of her slinky black dress down over it, covering it from view.
Abra was never particularly nice to me, I’ll admit. She always seemed like the kind of woman with an agenda—maybe several, even.
But being the Warden’s witch…I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. She can pretend all she likes, but I saw that flash of regret in her eyes when she saw me looking at her mark.
She’s been stripped of her guardian. Her soul mate. Same as Dr. Belmont was. And because of me—because I didn’t save her from Aisling when I left, because I didn’t kill the Warden and put his end to his sick little games—now, Abra is on the path to sharing Dr. Belmont’s fate.
“No manners,” Mrs. North scoffs. “Don’t just stand there, Alexander. I believe I raised a gentleman—not a filthy roughneck. You know what they say…” She fixes her own slender white cigarette into a long-necked holder and leans to my father, who lights it for her on his thumb. “The company you keep, dear.”
“I like my company just fine, Mother.” Xander’s voice is an elegant growl. “It’s yours that concerns me.”
Xander’s mother puts on her most offended face, but before she can retaliate, my father holds up a hand to cut her off.
“Enough.” That word is all it takes to make Mrs. North close her bigoted, over-privileged mouth. “Didn’t come here to fucking quip at each other.”
“No,” I agree. “You came to return what was stolen from us.”
Is it too much to hope that he would just hand the sapphires over? Give them up and let us go in peace? “Sorry for missing all twenty-one of your birthdays, Rory. Here’s your shiny time travel rocks to make up for it. Love you lots!”?
As he blinks at me, unmoving, any wishful thinking I was still considering indulging in goes right down the drain.
“Stolen,” he repeats, his words coming out on the back of a thick, acrid cloud of smoke. “That’s a heavy word, Aurora.”
“Rory,” I insist. “She named me Rory.”
“I named you, you ungrateful little slut!” The outburst comes suddenly, without warning. His fist pounds against the tabletop as a punctuation mark, sending little ripples carrying through the surface of every goblet of wine. And just as quickly as the storm rises, it calms again. He clears his throat. Straightens his collar. Blinks twice. “Aurora, I named you,” he says again, softer this time. “You should know your own name, girl. It’s better than what you deserve.”
Hearing my father echo my words like that would have been eerie enough—isn’t that exactly what I told the guys before we came down to this shitshow of a dinner party?—but it’s the way he looks at me while he says it that really sends a shiver running down my spine.
Was he listening the whole time, I wonder? How far do the ears of the Regime really extend?
“I don’t know about that, Mr. Bright.” Drew straightens at my side, pulling at the lapels of his jacket. He’s puffed up. Full of swagger. There’s a glint in those blue eyes of his that says fucking try me, bitch. It almost—not quite, but almost—makes me smile. “I’d say your daughter deserves a whole hell of a lot better than your crusty ass, if you ask me.”
Fuck, Drew. Normally I’m the one who can’t help but talk trash—but Drew isn’t the cautious, over-protective pseudo-control freak that he was when we started this journey, I’m realizing. I’ve known it since that night when the Warden tried to sacrifice Drew’s life to make himself my guardian and me his witch. With no powers and only a hint of magic in his family tree on his mother’s side, Drew sticks out like a sore thumb in this world—and instead of drawing in on himself, he’s fucking revels in the role of the odd man out.
It’s part of why I love him, I realize. One of many reasons.
“A mangy, packless vargr,” my father drawls, staring down the men gathered around me one by one. “An inbred empath. A turncoat traveler, a shifter with no loyalties to anyone but himself…and a shitting roughneck.” He puts his cigar out in a little crystal ashtray placed next to his plate. “These are the men who are fucking my daughter. How disappointing.”
Then…then they laugh. All of them. High and haughty, like what we’re doing here in their dining room is some kind of terrible joke.
There’s something horrible about that. More horrible than if they had physically attacked us or called in a team of my father�
�s guards.
I don’t give a fuck about a single one of these people. My own father least of all. But something about the way they laugh at us…it hurts.
Then make them pay for that hurt, I hear Xander’s voice in my head, feeling his magic flick out at me.
I’m not THAT inbred, Nico complains.
Yeah, well, I ain’t that fucking mangy, Ryker counters. And I’ve got a pack—it’s you five crazy-ass fucks.
It’s okay, Rory, even Killian manages to chime in. His magic still feels new and unusual to me…but there’s something about it that’s nonetheless undeniably right. This will be over soon.
I’m not sure how reassuring that is…but I’ll take it. As Drew looks at me, a confused look on his face, I slip my hand into his.
“Mind-talking without me again?” he mumbles.
“Sorry.” I squeeze his hand, flicking against his palm with my magic. “Be my battery?”
“Be my guest.”
I hold up my hand, listening to the cacophony of laughter bellowing all around us.
For a moment, nothing happens.
The next minute, the Warden’s cigar shoots deeper between his lips and lodges itself in his throat.
He starts choking immediately, coughing and wheezing with his hands scratching at his throat. The laughter dies off a second later, but unsurprisingly, no one moves to give the Warden the Heimlich.
Guess the Regime is about as sink or swim as you’d expect.
“Thank you for your attention,” I say, taking a step forward. “We’re here for the sapphires, thanks. If you’ll be so kind as to hand them over, we’ll be on our way.”
“There you go again. Your sapphires.” My father leans forward as the Warden hacks the cigar up onto the carpet. “I suppose you think that emerald around your neck is yours too, don’t you?”
My fingertips brush against the jewel, which is glowing warm between my collarbones. “She gave it to me,” I tell him simply. “That’s how gifts work, Dad. Or, do you prefer Daddy? Father? Papa?”
I’m baiting him—and it’s working. He rises from his chair at the head of the table, his movements oddly stiff. Slow.
…Dead.
He moves like he’s still dead.
“I know how your mother’s gifts work, girl.” He stands hunched over the table. If he drew himself up to his full height, he’d be nearly as tall as Drew. But like this, it’s almost like he can’t stand up straight anymore.
Old. I think it again—he looks older than he should.
Death does that to a person, I guess.
“And speaking of gifts…” He raises a single pointing finger and levels it at the emerald. “I think I’ll be having that one back.”
There’s a nod, almost imperceptible—until the Warden straightens suddenly and a beam of red light jets out toward us. I barely get my shield up in time, leaving the attack dissipating in the air so close to my cheek that I can still feel its heat.
The attack from Abra is the one I’m not prepared for. Her own spell is bright pink and shoots out like loosed lightning. It’s aimed for me too, but before it can hit me, Ryker shoves me out of the way.
As the spell hits him, his knees buckle immediately. I watch from the ground in horror as he throws his head back, roaring with pain.
“Funny,” Abra comments, examining her nails. “That would have killed most men. Still…Mm. I have to admit, vargr. You look good on your knees. Maybe the empath—”
Abra’s second spell shoots out for Nico. I hold my hand up and send a wave of protection towards him to block it just in time.
Cheers, love. Nico flashes a smile. Night’s too young yet to die.
I can feel a wave of something coming off of him, hot and disorienting. Confusion, I realize.
He’s breeding pure fucking chaos.
That’s when this dinner party really starts to fall apart.
Nico’s move puts us on the offensive—which is something we desperately need right now. Unfortunately, his approach is spread too thin—after the initial shock, everyone seems to shake themselves out and set their heads right.
Too many, Nico calls out to me, adding several fucks as an addendum.
Now, Xander’s mother and father are rising through the haze of the cigarette smoke.
Stop casting shields, Xander tells me, his voice urgent. Start casting spells. NOW.
The words have barely finished echoing in my mind when Xander himself crumples to his knees this time, the veins of his neck bulging dark and blue beneath his skin as his face contorts in agony. At his side, Ryker is on all fours, panting and shaking. At the top of the room, Xander’s mother has captured his gaze with her eyes.
They’re green again. While she tortures him with some kind of unseen magic, she’s staring him down with my fucking eyes.
I lash out, shooting a blast of burning red magic her way. Moments before it hits, Abra holds her hand up and waves it away.
“Oh, please, Rory. A shield and a single attack spell—is that really all you know?” Abra walks forward, blocking another burst of red as I fire it her way. “You really didn’t spend your time at Aisling well, sweetie. Keeping so many men pleased all at once must have some drawbacks after all.”
Behind me, Killian drops to his knees as well. His silver eyes are locked with Xander’s father’s. I don’t know what they’re doing to Killian and Xander, but it sounds like it hurts.
Shit shit shit, I think to myself. They’re suffering, Rory. Stop it, you dumb cunt! Figure something out.
We’re out-manned, love! Nico calls out to me. We brought water pistols to a fucking rocket fight!
He’s splitting his efforts between Mrs. and Mr. North, but his disorientating vibes only offer a brief moment of relief to Xander and Killian, one at a time—and it’s not the kind of thing that lasts.
Drew, meanwhile, seems to have given up on being useful on any magical front.
“Sorry, Rory,” he grunts, picking up one of the North’s beautifully carved dining chairs. As the Warden takes aim at him, Drew doesn’t even need a shield—he just steps forward and brings the chair down on the Warden’s head. “Ah,” he sighs, dropping the shattered chair on top of the slumped Warden. “That’s better. Now—”
At first, I think Drew’s physical approach might be the right one after all. If you can’t join ‘em, beat ‘em, right? But as Killian’s screams slam to a halt and he slumps at my side, Mr. North turns his attention to Drew—and then it’s Drew who’s on his knees, screaming like his heart is being pulled out.
Fuck, I swear to Nico as we cluster tighter together. My shield is still protecting us from Abra’s pink lightning, but as Xander slumps to the ground and Mrs. North retrains her sights on my one remaining guardian, Nico barely has time to give me a little look of apology before he slumps to his knees himself.
My shields can’t protect against that.
That’s how the fight ends. With all of my men on the floor all around me, Nico and Drew’s throaty screams getting fainter by the moment.
Nico! I call out to him, dropping to my knees by his side.
But when my magic reaches out to him, all I feel is pain. Intense, unbridled. The worst pain I’ve ever felt.
When I reach out to Ryker—to Killian, and to Xander, I don’t feel anything. They’re unconscious—and I sense that we’re lucky they’re not outright dead.
As Nico falls too, it’s only Drew that’s left. No matter how hard Xander’s father tries to bring him down, to my disbelief, Drew begins to rise. He’s still bellowing, tense with agony—but he’s not giving up. He’s not going down.
My pet human, they all called him. Roughneck.
But when the chips are down, Drew’s the only one of us still fighting.
If only we had known that we would be so fucking outgunned.
I shoot a beam of red at Xander’s mother, knocking her back before she can set her sights on Drew as well. I shoot another at Xander’s father, which he narrowly dodges�
��but at least it gives Drew a moment to collect himself. He throws himself at Mr. North with everything he’s got, his fists coming down hard—
But then there’s Abra to contend with. Abra who, for whatever reason, has no qualms about hating my fucking guts.
She raises a hand to me, pink lightning shooting from her fingertips while she grins like a madwoman. She looks completely unhinged. It’s almost like she’s getting off on this. Enjoying it. I throw a shield up just in time, but even as I do it, I feel my energy waning. The shield evaporates when Abra’s spell makes contact with it, and when she raises her hand again—
“No,” my father growls at her, holding up a hand. “No killing. Not her.”
I want to point out what a fucking coward he is. How fucking weak. All around him, his minions are fighting for him, and all he’s doing is giving orders and drinking wine.
But I guess he doesn’t need to fight us. Abra sighs, annoyed, and catches me off guard. I feel my hands fly up over my head, trapping my wrists together and slamming me against the wall.
“You’re lucky Daddy’s here to protect you, Bright,” she informs me.
No matter how hard I struggle now, I can’t break free.
Which feels even more awful as I see the Warden rise, shaking broken pieces of chair off himself. He yanks Drew off of Mr. North and, with Abra’s help, pins him up against the wall next to me.
When I see Drew’s face, he’s spitting blood.
“Now,” my father says, finally picking his way across the room. “Let’s end this.”
He steps over my fallen guardians and Killian. It looks like he’s being extra careful not to get any of their lowly blood on the polish of his shoes.
Joke’s on him. As he comes up to Drew, Drew is sure to spit a particularly sizable wad of blood right onto the shiny black leather on my father’s feet.
“Iver,” my father rasps. “Wish I could say I was surprised to find you here. Your mother tried to prevent it, you know…but I suppose your father would be proud. More’s the pity.”
Tried to prevent what? I look over at Drew for answers, but he doesn’t seem to have even noticed.
Emerald Vows: A Reverse Harem Paranormal Romance (Marked Souls Book 3) Page 14