The water was soothing, with heavy layers of chamomile and jasmine enveloping me in a warm embrace. I could feel the soft caress of the bubbles and the silky touch of the water massaging my muscles as it lapped tenderly against my skin.
Through fluttering eyelids that resisted consciousness, I stared numbly at the bathroom over the edge of the porcelain tub. White candles flickered gently and I watched the tiny flames emit their comforting glow across the deep red and cream brocade wallpaper. An ornately framed mirror decorated the wall above the marble basin and a foggy haze of condensation covered the glass, clouding the room's reflection. In the corner stood a large antique dresser, upon which was an intricately painted vase with a gilded rim, bursting with beautiful cream roses. I recalled touching petals just like them before, relishing the feeling of velvety softness under my fingertips. The memories tugged painfully on my mind and I struggled to banish them from my head, not wanting to remember.
The shadows twisted and danced on the walls and I closed my eyes, fearful of the darkness they created because it evoked nothing but images of pain and blood. Curling up tighter, I pulled my knees towards my chest, leaning into the firm body upon which I rested. He stiffened momentarily, before relaxing, allowing me to seek sanctuary against familiar skin. Fingers tentatively stroked my shoulder, brushing down my arm and I whimpered as they passed over bruised flesh. The whimper turned into a sob and as he pulled me into his embrace, I turned my face into his chest and wept. I wept until my throat hurt. I wept until his heart stopped beating so ferociously and grew calmer in my ear. I wept until I was exhausted from weeping and fell into blissful unconsciousness. And the whole time, he didn't let go and I felt as if I was home again.
*********
I was lost in a world halfway between consciousness and slumber. There was something so easy about this place. It required little effort, like walking languidly through a field of tall grass, feeling the sun on your back and hearing the sound of summer all around you. The low thrum of crickets, the soft song of birds, the rustle of the grass against your clothes. And as you walk, you inhale deeply, digesting the sweet scent of the meadow. You could walk and walk here, and never tire. So very easy.
From somewhere far off, I heard a siren. It cut through like nails on a chalkboard, the sound sharp and grating. I hesitated, the long grass scratching against my thighs, my brow crinkling as I fought to remember why I was here. It was simpler, less painful, to forget and just keep walking. But still the siren howled, getting louder by the second until I clapped my hands over my ears, spinning around as my world grew smaller and the darkness began creeping all around me. I watched as it grew closer and closer. The siren was screaming now, like countless cries for help, a multitude of tortured voices reaching out for me and underneath it all, a smell, like sulphur only more acrid and I knew it. I knew it.
I opened my eyes and found myself staring directly into his.
Brandon smiled, his head resting on the plump white pillow next to mine. With a gasp, I scrambled backwards, getting twisted in the crisp white bed sheets that had been tucked tightly between the mattress and the bedstead and in sheer panic, my gasp quickly turned into a scream. Brandon was upon me before I could free myself, straddling my thighs and grasping my wrists, pinning them above my head. I desperately tried to thrash about underneath him, still shrieking, but he held me expertly with one hand and clapped the other over my mouth. His hair was damp, wet ringlets curling onto his face.
"Sshhh," he hushed. "And quit fighting. I don't want to tie you up, but I will if I have to." His eyes sparkled as they flickered over my face and I stared back at him, horrified and repulsed by the taste of his skin on my mouth. His gaze wandered downwards and I was horribly aware that I was naked and that the covers were now tangled up around my waist. He smiled again, lowering himself until his face was just a couple of inches from mine and I could feel his hips pressing against my own.
"Now," he whispered. "Are we going to play nicely, or not? Because I can cuff you to this bed, in fact, it's definitely looking like an option." His hand moved on my mouth until he was just pressing his fingertips very firmly down upon my lips. "In a minute I'm going to take my hand away. You scream, I'll gag you. You try to bite me and I'll pull those nasty little teeth out with pliers. Don't think I won't, Megs. Okay?"
It wasn't okay. Of course it wasn't okay, but I nodded anyway. Slowly, he lifted his hand off, brushing my bottom lip with his index finger as he did so, making me shudder. I could feel his breath on my face, inhaling and exhaling in heady exhilaration.
"Good girl," he said. "Let's get one thing straight. You do as I say and nothing bad has to happen here, alright? But if you fight this, or start getting ideas above your station, I'll have to put you in your place. I don't want to do that, really I don't. So if I let you go now, you stay put, understand?"
I nodded again.
"Say yes," he said, a hint of a smirk on his lips.
"Y-yes," I croaked. I just wanted him off me. I couldn't bear it.
He studied me for a moment, his dark eyes roving over my face. I hated the scrutiny. I hated the way the fabric of his jeans rubbed against my bare stomach. I hated feeling so damn helpless underneath him. Seemingly satisfied with what he saw, he let go of my wrists and sat up, but remained straddling me, his eyes flitting over my breasts.
Tears stung my eyes as I brought my hands down, wrapping my arms around my chest.
"I-I want my clothes," I stammered, hoarsely.
Brandon chuckled, raising an eyebrow. "Come on, Megs, you don't need to be shy with me. I've seen it all before, remember?"
"I don't care. I want my clothes back." I hated how my voice sounded so high-pitched and squeaky. It was like listening to her. The old Megan. His Megan.
He sniffed in distaste, wrinkling his nose. "I had them destroyed. They were ruined anyway, but seriously Megs, I can't believe you were even wearing that bargain-store shit. You've always had much better taste."
"You always bought my clothes, remember?"
"Exactly," he grinned. "See? This is what happens when you don't have your husband by your side."
"You're not my husband anymore." I glared at him, feeling the tears slip angrily down my cheeks.
His smile faded, the veneer shifting into something cold and dark, something that sent the fear spiking in my gut. "Funny," he snapped. "Because I don't recall ever signing any divorce papers. Which means that technically, you're still mine."
I shrank back into the pillows as his body tensed and he bunched up the bed sheets in clenched fists by his side. And as quickly as the mask had slipped, he shook his head in disgust before slumping back on his heels and rolling off me. Backing away, he perched awkwardly on the end of the bed and I took the opportunity to sit up, feeling the nausea nag me as my muscles screamed in pain. I was healing, but my body still bore the aftershock of the attack. The bruises on my arms were still an angry purple. Cuts were suturing shut of their own accord but I could still feel the dull burn of the worst of the wounds. Pulling my knees into my chest, I tugged the sheets around me, still feeling exposed despite the protection that the bed linen offered.
I glanced nervously around the room, not wanting to take my eyes off him, just in case he decided the end of the bed was too great a distance.
"Where are we?" I asked.
The room was opulent, beautiful even, and it reminded me of a manor house we had stayed in during a spa weekend away in the Cotswolds a couple of years back. This room had similar decor, an eighteenth century baroque vibe, warmly coated in reds and golds. Rococo pattern wallpaper contrasted with the plush burgundy carpet. A thick, embroidered canopy bordered with gold fringing framed the bed on the wall behind where I now sat. Ornately framed paintings covered the walls and the furniture was antique mahogany with beautifully carved details and smooth lines. On the right hand side, there was a door, firmly shut and on the left hand side of the room was a large window, covered by luxurious drapes made from the same fabric as the bed canopy. Directly on the opposing wall was a grand wardrobe that looked like it would need a small army to shift it and next to the wardrobe, slightly ajar, was another door that looked as if it could lead to an adjoining room. I eyed it suspiciously, wondering what lay beyond before turning my attention quickly back to Brandon.
"Is this your new compound?" I winced inwardly as I said it, not wishing to remind him about Gainsborough and what we had done there; what I had done there.
If it bothered him, he didn't show it. "Sort of," he shrugged. "You could call it a safe house, maybe."
I stared at him, aghast. "You call this place safe?"
He smiled, cruelly. "I said it was safe. I never said it was safe for you."
I flinched, bracing my back up against the headboard. "So it's safe for you. From my kind?"
Brandon glared at me, his mouth curling into an ugly sneer. "You really grant the vampires too much credence. As if we need to find a safe place from them!"
"We found the compound before."
"No, you found the compound and they got lucky. And now you're here and they're..." He smiled again, his eyes glinting under dark lashes. "Well, they're not here and there's no chance of any of them coming to find you."
A cold touch crept over my skin, raising goose bumps that prickled intensely. "What do you mean there's no chance of them coming to find me?"
Ignoring my question, Brandon slid off the bed and began walking idly around the room, studying the decor and furnishings. He stopped by a large dresser upon which stood a huge vase of roses and he touched the petals, pulling one free from the flower and rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger. "It's a beautiful room, isn't it?" he mused and I frowned, thrown off guard by his sudden change in demeanour.
"Y-yes," I mumbled. Why did I feel like everything he said was a trap?
He looked over at me and smiled again, a typical Brandon smile, the one that lit up his face and showed me the young Brandon he was when we had first met. "I knew you would love it. I just knew you would. As soon as I saw this place, I knew it would be perfect."
"Perfect for what?" I said. There was no direct threat in what he said, but somehow I felt the tension crank up and the fear coil around me, squeezing the air out of my lungs and making it hard to breathe.
"When I came here with the estate agent, I felt everything click into place," he said. "Finally, I knew that everything was coming together. It was like a sign. You know when your whole world just turns to shit and everyday you wake up and you hope, you hope that something will happen that will show you the way again? This place was it. I could feel it as soon as we stepped through the front door. The way it looked, the way it smelt. I felt as if you were standing right beside me and I knew that if I looked at you, you would nod your head and say yes Bran, this is the place."
"This is your place?" I said, confusion making my head spin like a frantic fairground ride. "So this isn't the clan's new compound?"
He stared at me for a moment, before letting the petal fall from his fingers and float steadily to the floor.
"You have no idea what it was like to see you when you walked back into that rat hole you'd been living in. When we got there, it was like torture. Your scent was all over the place, it was so strong that it felt like you were there. I didn't actually think you would be, I'd hoped of course, but didn't go there expecting to find you. So you can imagine how I felt when in you walked, straight to where I was too. It was as if you were just drawn to me, as if fate had taken your hand and led you right to where I was waiting. And I knew immediately that it was another sign. I mean, first this place, then you? How could I possibly ignore that, Megs?"
He began pacing the floor, his breath quickening and I noticed a small tremor to his hands as he bit anxiously on his nails. I couldn't take my eyes off him. I felt as if someone or something were sucking the air out of the room, the rococo-patterned walls were closing in and my head was pounding with the pressure.
"I tried, though, I swear I did," Brandon continued, still pacing. "I tried so hard to push the thought out of my head." He tapped hard on his skull, his face grimacing as if in pain. "But the harder I tried, the louder it got, until I thought my head would burst from the noise. The more I fought it, the more agonising it became until I knew I had no choice. I had to do something. And I couldn't take you there, of course I couldn't. They would kill you straight out."
"Grayson and Richard don't know that I'm here?" I gasped.
"Even better, they don't even know this place exists," he laughed, but his face quickly clouded over again when he saw my stunned expression. "They wouldn't understand," he explained desperately. "I knew they wouldn't. Hell, for a while, even I didn't understand it. And then that night at the cemetery, I saw their faces, I saw how repulsed they were, how disappointed they were and I knew they would never agree to this. How could they? It's unheard of. It's ...unnatural. I knew I'd never be able to persuade them, they would never understand. But you're my wife. My wife! That means something, right?"
He stopped and looked pointedly at me and I stared right back at him, my mouth open in growing horror.
I shook my head vehemently. "It meant something once. Not now, Bran, everything is different now."
He advanced on me quickly, grabbing hold of my chin and squeezing hard, making me whimper as his fingers dug into my skin. "Don't you dare!" he spat angrily. "You sound like them. If anyone should understand, it's you. You know what we had, what we still have. Don't you make me do this alone, do you hear?" He let go and my head slammed back against the headboard, sending shudders down my spine. Gripping the sheets tighter, I pushed myself up until I was sitting atop the thick nest of pillows, trembling and fearful of what he might do next.
Slumping on the bed by my feet, Brandon put his head in his hands, massaging his temples. When he spoke, his voice was softer, calmer.
"I'm sorry," he said, shooting me a reassuring smile that did anything but reassure me. "I understand, it's not easy to get your head around any of this. Trust me, I know. I've agonised over this for so very long but the moment you stop fighting it, the easier it gets. We were husband and wife, Megs and we are still husband and wife."
"We are Varúlfur and vampire, Bran. That's all there is now. The laws of nature, the laws of our species' tell us that we are nothing but enemies? How can we possibly get over that?"
"We can fight it, I know we can," he insisted. "I felt it down in the catacombs. I should have killed you then, everything I am was literally screaming at me to rip out your guts, but I resisted. Don't you see? I was able to stop myself from killing my enemy. I'm fighting my base instincts every time I'm with you and I'm winning. I bought you up here, I carried you myself, and I tended your wounds. I laid you down in this bed and then I lay right beside you and watched you sleep. Not once did I want to hurt you. And okay, I'm not saying I feel like that all the time, but I truly think we can do this."
"No, Bran, we can't. It's never going to work." I hesitated, knowing that what I was about to say would probably send him into a furious rage. But I had to say it. I had no choice. "I don't want it to work. Too much has happened, I don't want this."
He stared intently at me, but a small smile played on his lips. "Liar," he challenged. Standing up, he held out his hand to me, gesturing for me to take it. "Come on, Megan."
I didn't take his hand, but I stood up, tugging the sheet from the bed and wrapping it around me. He shook his head, chuckling at my futile attempt at modesty but turned and walked towards the door that stood slightly open. Pushing on it, he walked through the doorway and I reluctantly followed, stopping dead as soon as I realised where I was.
The scent of jasmine and chamomile hung heavy in the air. The inside of the bathtub was still wet and remnants of bubbles crowded around the plughole. The rug on the floor by the tub was still damp, the wet imprints of large footprints still visible. Directly ahead, the condensation was clearing on the large ornately-framed mirror, the mist clinging to the edges of the glass but faded enough to show my reflection quite clearly.
I stared at the ghost I saw there. I didn't know this girl. It wasn't me. She stared back, like a memory of who I used to be. Her pale skin bruised and battered. One eye still slightly swollen, cheek still puffy from the break. Raised ragged scars on her arms that clutched the crisp white sheet firmly to her chest. And hair still damp from the bath she had taken with her husband.
Brandon wrapped his arms tightly around me, his lips brushing against my ear as he smiled at our reflection in the mirror.
"I bathed you. I cleaned your wounds. I held you right there in that bathtub. Skin against skin. Varúlfur against vampire. And not once did you say no. You let me do it all. You were fighting what we are, just as I was."
He lowered his head and planted a small soft kiss on my neck.
"Now try telling me that you don't want this."