Chapter 93
Chapter 93
So here’s the thing about being carried bridal style by the man who killed your father, it’s uncomfortable as fuck, and not just because we’re both soaked through like drowned rats.
Maybe this would do. Maybe if I stay optimistic enough as I always do, it would get me out of this pain.
Alaric lifts me like I weigh nothing—which, rude, I definitely weigh something—and starts walking. Just… walking.
Through the rain that’s now doing that annoying drizzle thing where it’s not enough to be dramatic but just enough to make everything worse. His arms are solid bands around me, one under my knees, one supporting my back, and I can feel every breath he takes, every step he takes, every goddamn heartbeat like it’s my own.
I should fight him. Scratch, bite, scream, do literally anything except hang here like a wet towel. But the numbness has its claws in deep now, spreading through my chest like ice, and honestly? I just don’t have the energy to perform basic human resistance.
So I let him carry me. Through the rooftop door, down the emergency stairs—those industrial metal ones that echo with every step and smell like rust and regret.
My head lolls against his shoulder, and distantly I register that his shirt is plastered to his body, outlining every fucking muscle though he’s auditioning for a cologne ad. Even now, even after, my traitorous brain still finds my mate unbelievably gorgeous.
Shut the fuck up,
brain.
We reach the emergency exit and the door swings open before Alaric can even reach for it. Tessa’s there. looking like a drowned cat herself, my bag clutched in her hands like it’s a life preserver.
Her eyes go wide when she sees us–me limp in Alaric’s arms, him looking like he just fought god and barely won–and for a second, just a second, I see something like horror flash across her face.
“Is she-” Tessa starts.
“She’s fine, ” Alaric cuts her off, his voice rough and clipped. He doesn’t slow down, just reaches out and takes my bag from her without breaking stride. The movement jostles me slightly and I feel his grip tighten, like he’s afraid I’ll evaporate if he doesn’t hold on tight enough.
Tessa’s eyes meet mine over his shoulder. They’re full of questions, concern, that particular brand of female worry that says I know something is deeply fucked and I want to help but I also don’t know if you want me to
I’m not seeing Camilla anymore, I think distantly. The thought drifts through my brain bike smoke. That was all I came here for, wasn’t it? To find out what happened to Dad To get the truth.
Well. Mission fucking accomplished, I guess.
Tessa opens her mouth like she wants to say something, but Alarte’s already moving past her, out into the alley behind the club. The bass from inside is still thumping, muttled now, and I can hear people laughing and shouting and living their best drunk lives while Fin having a complete existential breakdown in the ram
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Chapter 93
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“Call me if you need anything,” Tessa says quietly, but we’re already too far away. I watch her figure get smaller as Alaric carries me toward the main street, and then she’s gone, disappeared back into the club like a concerned fairy godmother who showed up too late to actually fix anything.
The street is mostly empty except for a few drunk stragglers and a taxi idling at the corner like a beacon of yellow hope. Alaric makes a beeline for it, and I’m vaguely impressed he can navigate while carrying a whole- ass person. The Alpha King shit must come with some kind of enhanced coordination package.
He sets me down just long enough to open the cab door, and the second my feet touch the ground, I sway. Everything tilts sideways and I’m about to face–plant on the wet pavement when his arm locks around my waist, steadying me.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, and goddess, I hate how good that sounds. How much I want to believe it.
He guides me into the back seat and slides in after me, my bag landing between us like a barrier. The driver twists around, takes one look at our dripping, bedraggled state, and lets loose a stream of what I’m pretty sure is French cursing.
Alaric shrugs off his jacket–which is somehow still relatively dry on the inside, what the fuck, is it magic?— and drapes it over my shoulders. The weight of it settles around me like armor, still warm from his body. smelling like him, sandalwood and rain and something darker, something that makes my stupid hindbrain purr in recognition.
Stop it, I tell my hindbrain. He killed Dad. Remember? The whole reason we’re having this crisis?
My hindbrain, apparently, is a traitorous bitch with terrible taste in men.
‘Or me‘ Eris mutters.
The driver’s still going off in rapid–fire French, gesturing at the seats, at us, at the general wetness situation. I catch maybe every fifth word–my French is rusty as hell–but the gist seems to be, get your soggy asses out of my cab.
Alaric leans forward, and when he speaks, it’s in perfect, fluid French. The kind that sounds like silk and sex and expensive wine. I have no idea what he’s saying, but the driver’s expression shifts from pissed to calculating, and then he shrugs and turns back around.
“What did you say?” I ask. My voice comes out flat, emotionless. Like I’m asking about the weather instead of our current dumpster fire situation.
“I told him I’d pay for the seats,” Alaric says, settling back. His hand finds mine on the seat between us, fingers threading through mine like it’s automatic. “However much he wants. Enough to reupholster the whole damn car if he needs to p>
“Fancy,” I deadpan.
“I have my moments p>
The cab lurches forward and we’re moving, the city sliding past the windows in smears of light and shadow, I should pull my hand away. Should put physical distance between us. Should do literally anything except sit here holding hands with the man who sent my father to die.
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