The Grey Blood #2

The Horror Within

When he wakes it's to the familiar hurt, sapping his strength and dragging lethargy through his bones. He pulls in a breath and tilts his head to the side, wondering if he'll be faced with Katya, reminding him of what he has to do, the sins he must commit.

Instead he meets the eyes of Miriam, a glassy mirror of his own as she watches him from where she sits in the leather chair.

"Her cruelty is as sharp as it's ever been," she murmurs, tilting her chin to rest it in her palm, tiredness tugging at the corners of her mouth and eyes.

"How long have I been out?" Oliver asks gruffly, gaze flicking to the windows to see light beginning to touch the panes.

"A few hours. You needed the rest and I needed to stitch you up again."

Oliver mutters a curse under his breath and tries to sit up, once again clad in only bandages and bloody trousers.

Morning has come, which means he has two nights left.

"Stop," Miriam orders and places a firm hand on his shoulder.

"I need to go."

"Where?"

His nostrils flare and he sends her a narrowed look. "Out. There are things I need to do."

"Just tell me where."

"Miriam."

She pulls back, her hands curling into fists in her lap. "What is she making you do, Oliver?"

"You don't need to know."

Turning her head away from him—tendrils of her dark brown hair escaping her braid to brush against her sharp jaw—Miriam stares out into the world beyond the window. Morning creeps on, the song of birds beginning to stir outside alongside the clatter of horse's hooves and the trundle of wheels on cobble.

Oliver looks at her as she looks away from him, the sorrow etched into her features undoing him thread by thread.

"My brother's sins are legend," she finally speaks, her voice barely a whisper. "Even when you were dead, this family couldn't escape you and the things you'd done."

He drags himself into a sitting position, unable to listen to more of her words without wanting to claw his way out of his own skin.

Oliver is well aware that he's fucked up, but all that's left is for him to try and fix what he can before the Ronavics put a bullet between his eyes like they should have done years ago.

Standing, he finds the clean clothes Miriam has gathered for him and begins dressing as quickly as possible. He needs to get out of this house. He shouldn't have come back. Dying in a gutter on the street would have been a mercy.

"There's something inside you that terrifies me, Oliver," Miriam continues as Oliver fumbles with the buttons of his shirt. "When you shot Alexios, how did you feel?"

The question makes him pause and Oliver flicks his good eye to his sister. She's still not looking at him, caught in some sort of a trance as she continues to gaze out the window.

He remembers that time all too well.

Oliver wasn't a violent man, he'd planned to be a tailor like his father or help his mother oversee their properties, but when the Ronavics devastated Miriam, he'd taken his father's revolver and shot Alexios between the eyes in the same club he'd hurt her in.

"Good," Oliver tells her, shrugging into his waistcoat. "It felt good." It's the only time killing had felt good, justified. But him and his family have been paying the price since because of his act of vengeance.