Amara’s POV
The hot water ran crimson initially.
I stood beneath the shower head, forehead pressed against the cold tile wall, letting the scalding stream pound against my neck until my pale skin flushed pink.
I scrubbed my face twice with trembling hands.
The expensive foundation came off in streaks, running in dark rivulets down my throat, between my breasts, swirling down the drain like diluted blood.
I washed my hair with the cheap shampoo we could afford.
Then I washed it again, desperate to rid myself of the lingering scent of that place.
By the time I stepped from the narrow shower stall, the mirror had fogged completely and my fingertips were wrinkled.
I wrapped a thin towel around my body and padded barefoot back to our cramped living space, where the dress lay waiting.
It sprawled across our threadbare couch like a pool of liquid shadow.
The silk gown had cost more than our meager blood allowance could ever justify, and I had knelt in the dirt wearing it while a fellow clan member bled onto its hem.
The memory of Lydia’s claws raking across my ribs made me wince.
I lifted the garment with care I did not feel.
I folded it precisely back into its ornate box, the way it had arrived.
Tissue paper first, each layer smoothed flat.
Then the satin ribbon loops.
Finally the embossed lid.
The box went onto the highest shelf in our closet, hidden behind a stack of old blankets where my human mother could not reach without standing on something.
Professional cleaning would be required.
Pressing.
A receipt kept in an envelope with the return documentation, so no one could accuse me of stealing so much as a thread of clan property.
I thought about what that cleaner’s fee would cost us, and my stomach clenched with familiar anxiety.
I settled onto the couch that served as my bed since we had been relegated to these servant quarters, pulling our worn afghan over my shoulders.
I did not remember my eyes drifting shut.
I woke to the grey pre-dawn light filtering through our single window.
For several heartbeats I remained perfectly still, conducting the mental inventory I had trained myself to perform each morning.
Ribs where Lydia’s claws had raked.
Wrist where she had twisted my arm.
Ankle that had twisted when I fell.
The bruise along my cheekbone where her backhand had connected.
I waited for the familiar ache to radiate through my body.
It never came.
I pushed the afghan aside slowly, sitting up with careful movements.
I pressed my palm against my ribs where the deep purple bruising had been throbbing since the attack in the garden.
Nothing.
No tenderness, no sharp pain when I breathed.
I rotated my ankle in a cautious circle.
Still nothing.
I stood, testing my weight.
I walked across the small room without favoring my left side, without the limp that had plagued me for days.
I approached the small mirror mounted beside our door, studying my reflection in the dim light.
My cheek showed no swelling.
The raised ridge along the bone had vanished entirely.
Only the faintest shadow remained, barely a smudge that could be dismissed as poor lighting.
I touched the spot with two fingers, pressing experimentally.
No pain registered.
I stared at my own pale reflection for a long moment, confusion clouding my thoughts.
Accelerated healing was common among our kind, but not this abnormally rapid.
Not for deep tissue damage like mine had been.
I lacked the mental energy to pursue that troubling thought this morning.
I dressed in what passed for my wardrobe.
A grey sweater, soft from countless washings.
Black fitted pants that had seen better decades.
Thick socks.
Running shoes with soles beginning to separate at the toes.
I pulled my platinum hair back into a simple ponytail.
I stepped out into the cool dawn air and began to run.
The winding paths through our territory lay empty at this hour.
My breath misted in small white clouds as I found my rhythm on the gravel, then on the cracked pavement that marked the boundary between the servants’ quarters and the nobility’s grand estates.
For a precious few minutes, I thought of nothing beyond the steady cadence of my footsteps.
I ran past the darker sections where the servant housing ended and the clan’s magnificent mansions began.
I ran past the line of wrought iron fencing.
I ran along the perimeter of the main estate grounds, where the landscaping turned lush and manicured, tended by paid human staff.
It was early morning when I approached the estate’s main gate, and Deputy Nigel materialized from the shadows.
I skidded to an abrupt halt.
My worn shoes scraped against loose stones as I fought for balance.
He stood with his hands relaxed at his sides, wearing his customary dark coat, his face set in its usual mask of neutral authority.
He did not appear surprised to encounter me.
He had been waiting.
“Deputy,” I said, offering the respectful acknowledgment required of my station.
“Amara.”
“I was running my usual route.”
“Lord Killian requests your presence.”
I wiped perspiration from my upper lip with the back of my wrist, buying time.
“I am occupied.”
“It was not phrased as a request.”
I looked beyond him toward the imposing silhouette of the main estate.
Lights already blazed in the ground floor windows, though dawn had barely broken.
Of course they did.
“Very well.”
He offered neither smile nor frown, simply turned on his heel with vampiric precision.
I followed him up the winding path, along the circular drive, through a side entrance that opened silently at his approach.
Our footsteps echoed against polished marble floors.
He guided me down a corridor I had never been permitted to walk, through a set of heavy oak doors carved with the clan’s ancient symbols.
The private study.
That was what the household staff called it, though it bore little resemblance to any study I had imagined.
A long room paneled in dark wood, with built-in shelves lined with leather-bound volumes and a massive carved desk dominating the center.
It was covered in papers this morning.
Files.
Stacks of documents.
A laptop computer pushed carelessly to one side.
Killian sat behind the desk in his high-backed chair.
He did not rise when I entered.
“Nigel.”
“Lord Killian.”
“Leave us.”
Nigel did not glance in my direction.
He stepped back through the doors, pulling them shut with a soft click, leaving me alone with Killian and that imposing desk and far too much paperwork.
I remained where I stood, just inside the threshold.
His pale green eyes swept over me with calculated assessment.
The worn sweater.
The fitted running pants.
My hair, still damp at the ends from my shower, pulled back severely.
Finally, his gaze lingered on my unmarked cheek. Visit g.com for the full chapter.
“Your face shows no injury.”
“What of it.”
He did not immediately respond.
I waited in the heavy silence.
“Lydia,” he said eventually, his voice carrying that familiar cold authority.
“Explain why she visited your quarters.”
“My servant housing.”
“Amara.”
“Those are servants’ quarters,” I said, ensuring my tone remained level.
“Not personal chambers.
I want clarity about which location you mean.”
He set down his silver pen with deliberate precision.
“Why did she come to your servants’ quarters.”
“Perhaps you should direct that inquiry to her.
You spend considerably more time in her company than I do.”
His jaw tensed almost imperceptibly.
“She attacked a clan member,” he stated.
“I require a detailed account of the incident.”
I laughed.
The sound was short and bitter, hanging awkwardly in the refined atmosphere of his study.
“That is what troubles you this morning.
She attacked a clan member.”
“Indeed.”
“Killian.” I took one measured step closer to his imposing desk, keeping my hands loose at my sides.
“Recently, several clan members cornered another in a darkened alley.
They put their hands on that clan member as well.
Tell me, are they currently confined to the punishment cells?
Has our Lord shown equal righteous concern for that assault on one of his own.”
He offered no response.
“Because if he had,” I continued, “I believe the entire clan would have heard of such justice.
The whole territory would be discussing it.
When a Lord defends the honor of his people, word travels swiftly through our kind.”
Still silence.
“So I will spare you time,” I said.
“I will not provide a report concerning Lydia.
You care nothing that she attacked me.
You care only that her behavior made your leadership appear careless.
Handle your own consort, Killian.
I dealt with mine.”
He studied me with those cold green eyes.
His expression remained granite, though something shifted in his gaze that I could not decipher.
I did not wait for formal dismissal.
I turned toward the door, grasped the ornate handle, and pulled.
No one moved to stop me.
I ran home through the awakening territory.
The sun climbed higher by the time I reached our modest street.
The kitchen light glowed warmly in our small quarters.
I slowed to a walk, caught my breath on the front step, and let myself inside.
I retrieved my abandoned textbooks from the bag beside the couch and settled at our tiny table beneath the window.
Though I no longer attended formal classes, I still had final assignments to complete.
I opened the book and clicked my pen.
My mother’s bedroom door creaked softly.
She emerged slowly, one hand trailing along the wall for support.
She wore her work uniform, her graying hair pinned back with a simple brown clip.
“You rose early.”
“I went for my run.”
She moved toward our small counter to pour coffee from the pot I had started before leaving.
Halfway there, she stopped.
Her eyes fell upon the elegant box resting on our kitchen table.
“What is in that box?” she asked, nodding toward it.
“Wrong address,” I replied easily.
“I need to return it to the correct recipient today.”