Page 11 of Bitten & Burned

He drew a knife from inside his coat, the blade catching the low lamplight as he lunged.

Cassian moved faster. One massive hand slammed against Quil’s chest, the other catching Anton as he stepped forward—holding both men apart like they were no more trouble than children.

“Enough.” His voice cracked through the room like a thunderclap—low, final, and impossible to ignore.

I blinked, and an arm slipped around my waist. I recognized Vael’s comforting presence, his scent: agarwood and leather-bound books. I relaxed into him, reaching to clasp his other hand.

While Cassian’s command dropped the silence, the air was still humming with the threat of Quil’s violence.

He lowers the knife, still glowering at Anton. The latter smirks over Cassian’s shoulder, as if he’s already bored with the proceedings.

“Rowena stays.” Everyone turned towards the sound. Dmitri stood with his arms crossed, leaning back against a table. The picture of calm and nonchalance. In other words, the opposite of Quil in that moment.

The words felt like a balm or an ointment on an angry wound. Of course, Dmitri always seemed to calm down any heated situation.

“She’s safer here than anywhere else. And we keep her safe. All of us.” He turned to look at Quil, unblinking, “Even if you don’t like it.”

He said it like a statement. As if it had already been decided. That was just how Dmitri was, though. I suppose that for him, the matter was already decided. However, I still hadn’t heard from Cassian yet.

“Thank you, Dmitri. However, we aren’t through discussing this,” Cassian said, his voice steady, but authoritative, brokering no quarter. “Vael’s points were all excellent. And we are grateful that he thought to come to us first before simply going through with his plans.“

Quil grumbled, but with a stern look from Cassian, he was silent. Cassian’s hands dropped. “Vael will no more decide than Dmitri, Anton, myself, or even Quil will. It’s Rowena’s choice, after we’ve discussed it.”

There were nods of approval all around.

“Now, I’ve not spoken my piece. I’ll do that now. Then, we’ll vote. Agreed?”

Again, there were nods. Save Anton, who spoke up. “I haven’t said mine either.”

“You make your point clearly without your pomp, Anton. You wish for her to stay.”

“I do!” he exclaimed. “This is ridiculous to even discuss! This is an enormous estate, Cassian, and we must protect one who is loved by one of our own.”

Loved. There was the word again. The one Vael hadn’t truly said to me, but hung over my head like a nearly ripened fruit, just out of reach.

“Thank you, Anton,” Cassian continued, shooting him another gaze when he opened his mouth again.

“Apologies,” Anton murmured, clasping his hands behind his back and walking over to the fireplace to stare within the flames.

“I’d like to start by saying I enjoy—truly enjoy—Rowena’s company. I can make no declarations for anyone other than myself, but our lively discussions about history, mine or someone else’s, and our chess games bring contentment to my life.”

My heart warmed when he said that. It was as if I were being praised by a king. Earning Cassian’s approval felt so good upon closer inspection.

“I, too, say she stays.”

Quil sighed heavily, sliding his knife into its holster and crossing his arms once more.

“So we vote?” Anton asked.

“Why bother, if she’s just going to be here anyway?” Quil groaned.

I pressed my lips together, my breath coming a bit faster as I tried to push down the urge to cry. I would never let Quil see me react to his words. I had also made my mind up, but I had to wait for them to vote first.

Cassian looked at him. “We vote, that’s what we do.”

Quil threw his hands up as if to say, Fine, carry on, then.

Vael said. “I suppose I’ll go first… obviously, yes, I think Rowena should move in here.”

Anton went next. “Of course. How else will I fatten her up with my pastries?”

I chuckled at that, and he winked in my direction, making my heart flutter just a bit.

Dmitri’s answer was predictably, “Yes.” Just simple, no embellishment.

Cassian’s as well, “Yes.”

All that was left was Quil. “No,” he said. Sharp and barbed.

With that, Cassian looked around the room. “She stays—if she so wishes.”

Quil threw up his hands again, sighing heavily as he stalked from the room, taking his barely simmering rage with him. The room was quiet.

With that, they looked at me. They all expected me to move in. To go along with their democratic vote, but it wasn’t that way for me. For me, I either had all of them or none of them.

I took a deep breath before beginning, “I know you run things as a democracy here. But this isn’t about your comfort. It’s about mine. And I need all five of you to agree—really agree—or I’ll know I’m not welcome by everyone.”

Vael opened his mouth to speak, but I shook my head.

“Cassian said it was my choice. So either it is or it isn’t. I have agency, or I don’t. There’s no half-measure here. Quil doesn’t want me here. That’s that. I’ll leave next week.”

Everyone began protesting.

Anton tried to be funny. “Darling, don’t punish the rest of us because Quil was born with a stick up his ass.”

Vael’s was more pragmatic, as expected. “You’re punishing yourself, not him. You know that, don’t you?”

“Vael. It’s my choice,” I repeated.

Vael turned his head, calling over his shoulder. “Cass—Cassian, talk some sense into her, please.”

Cassian paused for a long moment, choosing his words carefully. “I respect your decision, but I feel I must warn you: danger won’t wait for a vote. The only half measure here would be you leaving because of one person’s opinion.”

Dmitri was the only one who didn’t say anything. He simply watched me try to defend my decision to Vael and Anton, both of them trying (and failing) to convince me to simply not look at Quil.

“We’ll just… have you not go to the areas he frequents. He doesn’t go many places,” offered Anton.

“Sometimes he comes to the library. Should I stay out of there as well? Why don’t you simply lock me in Vael’s room—or better yet: in the attic. I can rattle chains whenever I’m hungry, how about that?”

“Witchling, please, I only want to keep you safe. I don’t want to lock you up,” Vael insisted.

“He said that I stink,” I said definitively.

“You don’t,” both Vael and Anton insisted.

“It’s relative. Apparently, I stink to him—so what you two think isn’t relevant.”

Vael looked beside himself, gripping my hand like he thought I might just float up into the sky and out of his reach.

I felt for him—I didn’t want to do this alone—but I didn’t want someone looking out for me who didn’t want to.

That was worse than being alone, wasn’t it?

True, I wouldn’t be alone with him very often, if at all, but still…

it all felt so childish. If my options were to conceal my presence or leave, I’d leave.

“At least let us try to change his mind,” Anton pleaded, his soft hands clutching mine. “Don’t make a decision until Camday evening, please?”

I sighed, but nodded.

“Okay,” Vael said, looking somewhat relieved, though his face was still pinched. “Come sit. Can I get you something to eat?”

“I made some pain au chocolat earlier,” Anton said, his voice trailing like he was trying to lure me back in.

I laughed. “That sounds lovely… and a—”

“Cup of tea?” Anton supplied. “Earl Grey, with cream and sugar, yes?”

I smiled. “Yes.”

“Sit,” Anton told Vael. “Keep her warm. I’ll be back.”

Cassian sat down across from me, his massive frame making the chair look too small. He leaned forward, bracing his forearms on his knees.

"You’re not wrong to stand your ground," he said quietly. "Just remember—standing alone isn’t always the same as standing strong. If you feel uncertain, you say the word. And I’ll handle Quil."

“Thank you,” I said softly. “But for now, my mind is made up.”

He nodded once. I glanced around the room, not seeing Dmitri anywhere. He must have gone.

I didn’t have long to think about it, though, because Anton had come back from the kitchen. “Your tea is still steeping, but get started on these, and I’ll be back with your tea.”

He left in front of me a tray of pastries that looked so decadent, I couldn’t choose which ones I wanted to eat. “Anton!” I called after him. “Anton, I can’t eat all this!”

“Just eat what you want, and leave the rest.”

“No, you misunderstand, I will try to eat all of this, and I shouldn’t.”

But he was gone. I glanced at the empty doorway, hoping Dmitri would come back in—but he didn’t.

Of course, he didn’t. Dmitri never waited for permission.

Somewhere out there, he was trying to do what I couldn’t.

Trying to find the piece of this that wouldn’t bend—and making it bend.

I slept badly. Not because of pain or discomfort or anything other than the decision they were all expecting me to make. I’d try to sleep, but I’d end up dreaming of knives, flying toward me, and I had to duck, but I couldn’t move.

Didn’t take a dream analyst expert to decipher the meaning of that one, I supposed.

By the time I pulled myself out of bed, it was well past noon, and Fig was meowing impatiently at me, clearly hungry and expecting breakfast.

“Alright, alright,” I acquiesced. I rose and pulled on the robe I’d unpacked the night before. I tied it around my waist as Fig played at my feet.

I made my way to the kitchen mostly by smell. Fresh coffee. Dark, earthy, and tangy enough to make my mouth water. I wasn’t a huge coffee drinker, but I could make an exception, right?

I pushed the swinging door and nearly jumped back.

Quil—looking as if he hadn’t slept in days— was leaning over the counter in the center island. Same clothes as yesterday, except now his long, wild hair was pulled back and tied tightly behind his head. As if that was the only thing tethering him to the world.

Something felt different. He wasn’t the same Quil Ashborne I’d seen the night before. I might not have recognized him if I hadn’t truly looked at him.

His hands weren’t clenched this time. They just lay flat on the counter, palms spread, as if he’d already fought the fight and given up on winning it.

“Sit,” he said without looking at me. I sniffed, wrapping my robe tighter around me as Fig flitted around the floor without a care in the world.

I moved slowly over to the counter, where a bench resided. I was taking my time, not planning to make any sudden movements, when he said it again. “Sit.” He hit the ’t’ a little too hard this time.

“Good morning to you, too,” I quipped.

Nothing. No response. Just the same dead stare into the steaming coffee cup that sat in front of him.

I crossed to the farthest stool away from him, putting the wooden countertop between us. I climbed onto the stool. “Are you waiting for someone?”

For the first time, he turned to look at me. His head tilted, slowly as if it weighed too much to move. His dark eyes flicked over me, from my rumpled hair to my bare feet. No smirk. No hiss. Just that dead stare of his that tended to get me nervous in all the wrong ways.

“You’re staying?” He asked, his tone flat.

“I haven’t decided yet,” I replied.

“No,” he said firmly. “You’re. Staying.”

So not a question. A command. Well fuck that.

“I. Haven’t. Decided. Yet.” I hit the ’t’ a little too hard as well.

He didn’t reply, simply stared at me.

“Is that why you stayed up all night? To make demands?”

“Didn’t sleep. Didn’t want to,” he replied.

I couldn’t help it. My eyebrows rose in mock disbelief. “Quil Ashbourne. Insomniac philosopher. I’d have never guessed.”

He looked as if he wanted to snap at me, but instead, he screwed up his face before softening it again. As soft as he got, anyway.

“I’m not good at this,” he began. His voice was hoarse, as if he hadn’t used it all night. Or had used it too much. “I don’t want you to stay, but I don’t want you gone either.”

“That’s not exactly comforting, you know?” I said, folding my arms in front of me.

He made a noise in his throat, frustrated, helpless. “You do smell. You know? It’s true. Something’s wrong… with…that…” he glanced down at the table, but it almost appeared as if he was staring at my leg where the wound raged.

“What?” I asked.

“It makes me want to… Want to…” he trailed off again, his head dropping in front of him before he continued. “Makes me want to fix it.”

“Fix it?” I echoed, trying not to let the quaver in my voice betray me.

He made a noise in his throat that wasn’t a laugh, but wasn’t not a laugh either.

“Yeah. Fix it. Burn it. Tear it out. Rip it out with my fucking teeth if I have to. It’s rotting you.

From the inside out.” His voice cracked a little at the end.

He wasn’t speaking in metaphor. There was a predator’s panic in his words, the kind that comes when the kill smells spoiled.

A chill ran down my spine, and I wanted to run, but I didn’t. Because of the crack at the end. I could hear… maybe I was imagining things, but I heard something like… sorrow?

He wasn’t warning me. He was warning himself.

I swallowed thickly, and he began pacing.

Back and forth on the other side of the counter.

“And you stand there smelling like sugarplums and death, with your… big eyes and your…” he trailed off here, his eyes dragging down to my lips for a long moment before he looked back up again.

“And you think you’re so brave for making me the bad guy.

So I don’t get to decide. They don’t get to decide.

You do.” He slammed both hands on the countertop.

“So decide, Rowena.” He said my name like it was a curse, spat it out like it tasted bad.

“So what? I decide… what? To stay and make you miserable? Or leave so you can sleep?” I asked, my voice caught right behind my teeth.

“It’s not about sleep,” he argued. “It’s about you. And if you stay here, that’s it. You’re mine… to protect.” He faltered a bit there, and I wondered if I’d heard what I thought I heard. He continued.

“Fine, Theirs. But still mine. To protect.” His voice cracked on the last word, and he turned abruptly, as if looking at me would make him break apart.

“And I can’t...” He began, clenching and unclenching his hands. “I can’t stand the thought of letting you down.”

I took a step closer, words soft on my tongue. “Quil—”

“Don’t.” He cut me off like a blade. His eyes were flint again, shuttered, the softness gone as if it had never existed.

He didn’t look at me. “Just… stay away from me. Don’t sit in my chair.

Don’t follow me around. Don’t—” His jaw tightened, words forced through gritted teeth. “Don’t come near me. ”

It stung worse than I expected. But I nodded anyway. “Okay.”

“You’ll stay?” he asked. This time it was actually a question.

I nodded. “Yeah.”

He didn’t react, just turned and left. Left me standing there with Fig rubbing around my legs expectantly. I couldn’t think about Quil right then. I had to feed Fig.

Feed Fig.

That’s what I had to do.

Stay. And feed Fig.