Savage Wings: Book Three of The Whitechapel Chronicles

Chapter 30

The counter was ticking down to zero.

It had become so damn loud in my head that it almost drowned out the anguished chorus of the dead. Hell, it had even almost drowned out Amy's colourful bursts of incandescent rage when she screamed that she hated me over and over again, how she wished I was dead, how she wished she could rip my throat to shreds. During her verbally-profuse assaults, the ticking had seemed to grow even louder, as if some monstrous crow was sat on my shoulder, tapping its wicked beak furiously against my skull bone. Tap-tap-TAP. 

Hiding out in the headmaster's office, with the scent of damp books pervading the air and the candlelight dancing shadows off the walls, wasn't going to rid me of the demon bird and its incessant, maddening beat against my skull. It wasn't going to rid me of what waited in that room at the end of the corridor but right now, hiding seemed like the best option, as pathetic and as cowardly as that sounded.

Every day I had tried. Every day I had gone into that room and faced her and every day she had never stopped begging for blood. There had been no break-through, no crack in the clouds, no sobering life-changing moment. It had just been endless hunger, sobbing and spite-filled diatribe and I was running out of time – fast. If nothing had changed by sunrise, then I was going to have to walk in there and kill Amy, destroying not only her life, but also any hope I ever had of winning over the rest of the group.

The past four days had been gruelling, not only because of what I had to endure inside that room but because of the snide comments, the hard, suspicious glares and the stifling air of tension that seemed to follow me wherever I went. Rolling my head on my shoulders, I winced, feeling the burn of tightly coiled muscles that seemed like they hadn't relaxed in days.

Harper ran his hand softly up my spine, his fingertips searching out the ridges of scarred skin, delicately caressing them before wandering down to the hollow of my back where he rubbed the pad of his thumb lightly in small, languid circles.

"If I could have given you more time...."

He was treading carefully, dodging the remnants of eggshells scattered around me, but I was struggling to hold it together and having him be so nice just made me even more anxious. Sometimes I just needed the old Cain, the one he was when he turned me, the one that would tell me to get a fucking grip and just deal with it. If I ever needed to get a grip it was now.

"It's fine," I said, glancing back to look at him, where he was laid out on the mattress, one hand propped under his head. ""Really, it's fine. We've been through this and I totally understand. You can't play favourites." I hugged my knees tighter into my chest.

Sitting up slightly, he leaned forward, pressing his mouth where his fingers had been just moments before. "You do know that you are my favourite though, right?" I felt him smile against my skin and couldn't help but reciprocate, the warmth seeping into my cheek muscles as his lips travelled upwards.

"Really? And there I was thinking it was Fenton."

He exhaled harshly, his breath tickling my shoulder blades. "Fenton is, and always will be, an ass."

"Oh come on, you like him. You might as well admit it."

His teeth grazed the nape of my neck, sending tremors of pleasure rippling down my back. "I admit nothing," he growled. "And if you don't mind, I'd really rather not think of Fenton when I'm naked. It's very off-putting."

He shifted to sit next to me so he could nip along my collarbone, stopping every now and then to suck gently on my skin. I closed my eyes, wishing I could just wrap myself around his body and lose myself in the smell and taste of him.