But I'm not that.
I'm the villain.
I stand frozen as my mum cleans the gash on my collarbone. It seems so motherly—It confuses me.
But her expression, if described in words, would still be meticulous. Elegant. Smooth. "What you did today was only the start," she says, and I listen to her. I always listen. "You are not like everyone else. You are better. One day, it will be your job to weed out betrayals. To finalise loose ends. To make the tough calls.”
I wish I knew my mother better.
I don't. Watching her work on my wound, I lose focus on her hand. Blood seeps into the sponge. The pink water snaking down her fingers taints her perfect white skin.
My temples flare. I don't like the marks on her. Protective over her, I snatch her slender wrist when I see the crimson streams draw lines across her flesh.
She stills with my hand cuffing her. "You don't want my help then?" she asks gently. "Good boy. That's very good, Clay. You're so strong."
My heart burns for reasons I don't understand.That is strength, Clay.I am strong.I didn't want to see blood on her while she wanted me to be strong; whatever brought her in here in the first place, I can't say.
I'm alone in this.
That is what strength looks like.
A leader is always alone.
I stare at her blue eyes and delicate features, confused as to what she wants me to do. She is standing closer than I remember her ever standing, and my body twitches with discomfort. Wanting to recoil. Push her away. Wanting to wrap my arms around her—
Would she let me if I tried?
Would she hold me if I needed it?
What do I know about her?
Only that she is still young. Powerful. Graceful. That much is true. She's in her thirties, having had me young and could easily pass for my older sister, who could easily be in her twenties. Stunning too.
Stunninglike a white and grey marble sculpture you admire but never have the courage to embrace.
I continue to stare, and she smiles, her red lips a slight curve on her face. She pulls her wrist free from my grasp, saying, "I'm very proud of you."
Then she leaves the room.
Leaves my hand hovering in the air, still wanting her close. To clean the blood from her fingers. To have her clean the blood from me… For a moment, for just one fucking moment—I cast my eyes to the ceramic vanity covered in my blood—I think I really needed to be vulnerable with someone.
CHAPTERTWO
fawn
A friendof mine told me that good things come in threes.
Him: number one.
Him…
Clay Butcher—the man sitting at his desk across from our bed with the glacier look of importance, of power portrayed through pursed lips and two pinched dark brows. Blue eyes focus on his laptop screen. His chair is an iron sword and shield away from a throne.
Through the large full-length window, the morning sun sets a soft glow to the room, accenting the curves of muscles across his bare torso with light and shadows.
I'm glad he is still here.
This man is breathtaking. I've always believed in auras; my mum swore she could see colours around living things.