Book Two: The Larkspur's Longing ~ A tale of deep obsession and devotion

Chapter Forty-three: Unraveling

He was still in control of the air within her.

He needed to calm down.

(He hurt her!)

He needed to release control.

(He hurt her!)

But with each passing moment, it became increasingly difficult, his mind engulfed in terror.

A searing agony shot through him as Foster's boot kicked into his wound. "You monster! What are you doing to her?" he spat.

Callidus allowed the pain to rip through him, hoping it would distract him enough to release control. With another forceful kick, Callidus found himself rolling down the stairs, the pain excruciating as he collapsed several steps below, his gaze fixed on the ceiling.

And then, through the haze, he heard Cressida's voice, cutting in like a memory crystal, half-spoken, "-top! Foster, stop! How could you?!"

Callidus craned his neck to look up at her, relieved, impossibly relieved, to hear her scream. If she could scream, she could breathe. If she could breathe, he was no longer in control of her lungs. (But he had hurt her!)

(Now Foster could die.)

But in his pain, all Callidus could manage was a feeble wisp, brushing back the brown strands around Foster's face. Foster seemed oblivious, his attention fixed on Cressida, his arms curling protectively around her.

"Cress, it's alright. You're safe now. Let me help yo-"

Cressida shoved him away, struggling to her feet.

Foster reached out, his arms hovering, "Careful Cress-"

"Foster! What have you done!?"

Foster sighed, cutting through the faint wisps of air. "What needed to be done. He's dangerous."

"You think I don't know that?"

"It's thanks to you, Cress," Foster's voice dropped to a murmur of gratitude, his hands reaching out to steady her. "You distracted him so well."

Burning jealousy flared to life as Foster rubbed his hands down Cressida's shoulders, the mindless action familiar in a way that made Callidus's blood boil.

"I was distracting him so you could escape down the staircase!" she shrieked. "Not so you could stab him!"

A cold sweat broke out, cutting through the pain.

Betrayal.

How much of their intimate moment had been a distraction? A performance for Foster?

Callidus fought to stay alert, his vision swimming. He could feel warm blood seeping into his shirt, pooling beneath him. He knew he needed immediate medical attention, or he would bleed out right there on the stairs.

But his muscles refused to obey.

And his heart ached.

His head flopped back on to the cold, familiar stone.

Memories flooded his mind. The last time he lay on Windridge's stairs, he had been playing hide and seek with his mother. But why hadn't she played with him?

(Callidus played so many games today.)

"You don't understand! He's changing! He's trying...!"

"He's manipulating you. Manipulating your mind like the freak manipulated your breath."

Cressida's voice suddenly took on a melodic quality, a stark contrast to her hoarse screams from seconds ago. Sweet like honey tarts, soothing and persuasive. "Foster...you're better than this. Please. Let me just check his wound. You're too kind to-"