Savage Wings: Book Three of The Whitechapel Chronicles

Chapter 38

Since my capture, I'd only seen the two Varúlfur from the van, but I knew there were more. I'd heard them in other parts of the house, smelt their foul presence wafting through the gap under the kitchen door and hated that they were here, in the house I'd once adored. The two from the van, who I know knew to be called Lewis and Simon (or Si, for short) were the only ones who'd been allowed access to the kitchen. Lewis, the tall brutish one who'd left me with a very tender bump on the back of my skull, was surprisingly okay about having to be in my company. He'd even spoken to me on a few occasions, no great profound conversations naturally, but he'd at least uttered a few words that hadn't left me feeling cold and afraid. Si, however, well, he couldn't vanquish the disgust he clearly felt for me and the one time I had tried to engage him, he'd walked over to the blinds and stared at me with pure malice as he'd toyed with the adjuster, threatening to flood the room with daylight and stunning me into silence as I'd watched the light desperately trying to creep through the slats. The threat of being burned remained with me for the rest of the day and I almost breathed a sigh of relief when Brandon returned, even though I knew what that meant for me.

On the second night, Brandon had appeared early, not long after the sun had set and the shadows had started to banish the light at the edges of the blinds. I'd watched the last of the evening light retreat and felt my muscles relax only for them to tense again when he burst through the door of the kitchen, relieving Si from his security duties with a dismissive nod. He'd looked agitated which immediately piqued my panic as a hundred different possibilities flooded my mind as to what might have made him so tense, what might have gone wrong. Was Lucius okay? Would I still be allowed to see him? Had Vánagandr decided that Brandon didn't need me after all?

I wasn't ready for him to fall to his knees in front of me, clutching hold of my thighs and resting his head on my lap. I wasn't ready for the anguished moan, so thick and heavy with pain and torment. If it had been before, when I was her and he was just my husband, I would have stroked his head. Probably would have run my fingers through his hair, playing with the thick dark tousled curls that always smelt so good. I would have eased his fears with soft, soothing words. Instead, my hands remained gripping the sides of the chair, my back tense, my breath hitched in my throat as I mentally willed him to get up, to get away from me. To just stop.

"W-what is it?" I stuttered, finally finding my voice. "What's wrong? Has something happened?"

"I just want this to be done," he groaned. "I want this to be over. I'm trying, Megs, I'm really bloody trying..."

I froze. "What do you mean?" I whispered.

"This. Everything. If it doesn't happen soon, I don't know what I'll do." He nuzzled further up my lap, his fingers kneading the tops of my thighs.

He couldn't. Not yet. Not now. 

"I know how much the thought of what has to happen upsets you," he said. "I know it's hard but once it's done, once he's dead...."

Lucius. He was talking about Lucius.

"Once it's over, we can concentrate on us, on this," he continued. "But the wait is killing me." He shifted, forcing my legs apart so he could get closer and I almost did it then, I almost cried out when his fingers found the hem of my shirt, lifting it up to expose my stomach which he then pressed his face against.

"Fuck," he groaned again, smoothing his lips over my skin. He began to fumble with the snap button on my jeans and I knew if he did it, if he carried on, then that would be it. I wouldn't be able to hold back the scream and everything would be over.

"Bran," I whispered, desperately trying to keep my tone as calm as possible. "Not now, not here. Please."

He looked up at me and blinked. "But this is our home, Megs. Where we belong. Together. Why not here?"