Page 41 of Avidian (The Demon and the Savior #1)

Chapter Twenty-Three

Pressure on my chest pulls me from sleep, and my eyes snap open. “Time to wake up, demon.” Orin’s voice invades my senses, and I find him standing over me, shaking me awake. Confusion and a spike of horror flood my system as I sit up abruptly.

I’m in Malachi’s bed, but he’s nowhere to be seen. The blinds are drawn, cloaking in a dim, disorienting light. What time is it? What day? Panic claws at my throat. Is Marco here? Did something happen?

My breathing comes too fast, and Orin, ever the opportunist, presses his hands against my shoulders and shoves me back down onto the mattress.

“What are you doing here?” I ask before I can think it through.

He sits down beside me—too close, the mattress dipping under his weight. “I think I’ll be the one asking questions,” he says smoothly.

I bite the inside of my cheek, my gaze darting toward the doorway, my thoughts racing.

Where’s Malachi? What’s going on? I force myself to inhale deeply, willing the panic to subside.

I need to keep my composure. With practiced precision, I arrange my expression into a calm mask, the one I’ve spent years perfecting.

“My father sent me to deliver something he thought you’d find useful,” Orin says, his eyes narrowing on me. “Why he trusts you, I’ll never understand. But I think he’ll find it very interesting how cozy you look in my brother’s bed, barely dressed.”

He tugs at the edge of the blanket, and I clutch it to my chest instinctively. Beneath it, I’m in pajamas—a tank top and shorts. How did I even get into these? The realization adds another layer of confusion, but I push it aside, refusing to give him the reaction he’s fishing for.

I flatten my lips, meeting his stare with unwavering calm. “I think Marco would like you to deliver whatever it is you came here for,” I say evenly, devoid of emotion.

Orin smiles, his eyes lingering a moment too long before he leans back, propping himself on one arm as though he owns the room. “Feisty as ever. You know, I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone as skilled at manipulation as you.”

I glare at him, gripping the blanket tighter around me. “I don’t manipulate, Orin. So, whatever this is, whatever message or object Marco sent you with, deliver it and get out.”

Orin chuckles, a low sound that echoes through the room. With deliberate nonchalance, he reaches into his inner coat pocket and tosses something small at me. Instinctively, I catch it. It’s a plain blue book, unassuming and worn at the edges.

I flip it over in my hands before cracking it open. The pages are filled with handwriting, slanted and rushed in places, careful and neat in others. A jolt of recognition hits me as I glance back up at Orin.

“I did some interrogating of my own while you’ve been off playing house,” he says, flicking some invisible lint off his coat. “It’s Carmen’s journal. One of the servants handed it over after a little...persuading.”

He winks, and I feel a cold dread settle in my stomach. My grip tightens on the journal. “What kind of persuading?”

He waves me off dismissively, leaning back across my legs. “Relax. Nothing too serious.” The implication makes my skin prickle.

“What’s in it?” I ask, flipping through a few pages but finding no immediate answers.

Orin shrugs, already losing interest. “I didn’t bother reading it.

I’m not dying to dive into the inner ramblings of some dumb broad.

” His lips curl in disdain as he adjusts his coat.

“My father thought you might find it useful to close this case. Don’t think anyone’s forgotten—your time is running out. Viktor’s getting restless.”

“Anything else?” I ask, my voice flat, leaving no room for further small talk, I don’t want him to know how worried I am about figuring this case out.

He chuckles again, standing and stretching his arms over his head.

“You know, my father thinks I broke you all those years ago,” Orin says with smug satisfaction.

He grabs my shoulder and tugs me forward, forcing me into a hunched position.

My stomach churns as he brushes my hair aside, his fingers pulling at the corner of my shirt to reveal the brand on my back.

His touch is slow, deliberate, as he traces the scar with his fingers, and the revulsion rising in me is almost unbearable.

I want to punch him in the face, to shove him away, to scream—but instead I stay still, biding my time, my teeth clenched so tight my jaw aches.

“He thinks you’re still his loyal little pet,” Orin continues, his voice sickly sweet. “But that’s why he has me—so he doesn’t have to worry about such things. I hope you don’t need any reminding of who you serve.”

His fingers linger on my skin, the weight of his threat coiling around my chest like a vice, making it harder to breathe.

I shake my head slowly, keeping my expression blank, though the urge to fight against him burns through me.

My mind races, every nerve on edge. First, Marco drags me to see where the Avids are kept with that man—Boris, his twisted reminder of how much worse things could be for me under his rule.

And now Orin, digging his claws in to assert control.

Is it all because Malachi killed Eduard?

Or because of what we did for Aurora and the boy?

Or is there something bigger at play—something I haven’t pieced together yet?

Orin pulls back, his fingers finally leaving my skin.

“Get up. We’re going,” he says abruptly. My stomach twists.

“I thought you were dropping off the journal,” I say, forcing myself to sound calm, though my pulse races.

His mouth twitches, the expression cold and calculating. “I could smell my aunt’s cooking when I snuck past to pay you a visit. I think we should go join her for dinner.”

Dinner with Irina should feel safe, comforting even, but with Orin, nothing is ever as simple as it seems. What awful thing is waiting for me at the table? And where the fuck is Malachi?

I nod stiffly, slipping out of bed, and make my way to the bathroom, needing a moment to gather myself. “Hurry up,” Orin calls as I close the door behind me.

I move quickly, splashing cold water on my face to wake myself up and shaking off the grogginess clinging to me after who knows how long I’ve been asleep.

My reflection stares back at me, the faint shadows under my eyes and the tension etched across my brow revealing more than I’d like. I need to hold it together.

After a quick stop to pee, I pull my hair back into a ponytail, but when I look around for something decent to wear, I realize all my clothes are by the closet—out there with Orin. Peeking through the crack of the door, I see him pacing the bedroom like a predator.

“I need to change,” I say, motioning to my black shorts and tank top.

He stops, turning to me with a dismissive wave. “No, you don’t. Put on your boots and grab a jacket,” he growls, pushing me along without a second thought.

The cold air hits me like a slap to the face as we step outside, the chill biting through my thin layers. I hug my jacket tighter around me, trying to ignore the dread pooling in my stomach.

“About time. I was starting to—” Irina falters mid-sentence as she turns, her eyes landing on Orin standing in the doorway, his arm draped casually over my shoulders.

The brief flash of shock that crosses her face doesn’t go unnoticed by me—or Orin.

She recovers quickly, her expression smoothing into something neutral, but it’s too late. We’ve already seen it.

“Orin,” she says evenly.

“Auntie, it’s been far too long since I graced you with my presence,” Orin says smoothly, stepping further into the kitchen and dragging me along with him like a prop. “I could smell your cooking all the way from the driveway. Thought I’d come see what you’re spoiling my brother with these days.”

Irina doesn’t miss a beat, her smile polite but strained. “You must join me for dinner then. I’d love to hear all about what you’ve been up to,” she says, turning her back to stir whatever is simmering on the stove. “Your brother should be along shortly. He had to run an errand.”

An errand. Malachi isn’t here, and I don’t need him to be. Not for this. If Orin thinks he can get under my skin, he’s in for a surprise.

I pull away from Orin’s hold, stepping into the kitchen ahead of him.

The warmth of the room and the scent of whatever Irina is cooking wrap around me, as I breath in through my nose.

Irina busies herself at the stove, and though she masks it well, I catch the way her shoulders stiffen ever so slightly as Orin moves closer.

“Smells amazing, Irina. What are we having?” I ask, leaning casually against the counter. My demeanor is steady, calm—everything I know Orin isn’t expecting. His little games don’t intimidate me, and I want him to see that.

Irina glances back, her lips curving into a small smile as she sets a stack of bowls on the counter. “A stew. Something hearty for a cold day.”

“Perfect,” I say, grabbing the bowls and moving to set the table before Orin can make a show of offering to help. He watches me, his arms crossing as he leans against the wall, a smug grin forming.

“Always so helpful, aren’t you, Katja?” he says, and I notice the seedy gleam in his eyes—like he’s waiting for me to snap.

“It doesn’t hurt to lend a hand,” I reply, matching his grin with one of my own. “Something you might want to try sometime.”

Irina hides a half-smile behind her hand as she pretends to adjust the flame on the stove. Orin’s icy blue eyes narrow slightly, the first crack in his composed facade. Good.

I move to the chair closest to Irina, deliberately putting the table between Orin and me.