Page 50 of Carnival

Rose

T he first shower I took after the explosion was divine. A full-on body scrub, detailed hair wash, and even getting to shave after such a long time felt liberating. I was careful not to put my feet in hot water, because it would’ve hurt like a bitch.

The leather couch beneath me is cold, a shiver running down my spine as I take a seat. My damp hair is being held up with a big claw clip, a few strands of my curtain bangs falling over my eyes.

Freya’s on her knees in front of me, much to her displeasure — and she made sure to voice it out. Her skillful hands work on my wounds, and even the bitchy, stoic woman winces when the old bandages come undone.

“Jesus,’’ she whistles. “Have your feet gone to war?”

“More or less,’’ I snort. “Will this be painful?”

“Oh, yeah,’’ she says, with a little too much enthusiasm for my liking. “But it needs to be done. If you chicken out, who knows the damage you’ll suffer long-term.’’

I nod. “Alright, do whatever you need to do.’’

She opens the small, metal briefcase before putting her glasses on. Her eyepatch is in a pink color that I’m struggling not to ask questions about. Apparently, Freya’s wife has been nagging her to start wearing more colors, and that includes her eyepatch.

Freya puts on a pair of blue latex gloves, snapping them into place. The first, and the most painful thing, is to clean the wounds. She’s not being gentle, either. She puts a lot of disinfectant on the cotton swab, rubbing it all over my wounds.

A low hiss comes from me, eyes squeezing shut. The intensity makes me shudder, the stinging sensation lingering even after she removes the cotton from my feet. Once she cleans both, and a lot of bloody and dirty swabs later, she leans back, just inspecting them.

“Your nail is chipped, but it should grow normally. If you feel any pain or discomfort in that specific spot within the next week, I’ll need to remove it.’’

My eyes widen, almost dropping out of their sockets. “Remove it?! My nail?”

“No, your finger,’’ she says, voice dry. “Yes, the fucking nail.’’

A groan comes from me, and I slump on the couch, grabbing one of Noelle’s decorative pillows, putting it on my lap, and resting my hands on it. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.’’

“Let’s hope it does,’’ the sadistic bitch mumbles, then puts my feet down.

She takes off the gloves, replacing them with new ones.

If I’ve learned one thing about her, it’s that she’s immaculate when it comes to cleanliness and hygiene.

“Now, no stitches needed. But you’ll need to be on bedrest for a while, until the bottom of your feet heal enough not to start bleeding again. ’’

I straighten up. “How long?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know, two weeks tops.’’

Relief floods over me. “Thank God. My exams will start soon.’’

She blinks. “That’s what you’re worried about? Exams?”

I hum in response, glancing down at my feet. The sight makes me grimace. They’re so ugly. Red, bruised, with opened wounds and burst blisters, and in some spots, skin started peeling off, too.

Freya starts applying some cream on them, coating them entirely, before wrapping them in bandages. It’s done better than the doctor at Vivian’s manor, with Freya making sure not a single inch of my flesh is showing, and it’s coated well in the cream.

“There,’’ she says, taking her gloves and glasses off. She packs up everything back into the metal briefcase, snapping it shut. “I’ll come by tomorrow to change them.’’

“You don’t have to do that. I’ll do it myself.’’

“It’s not like I’m doing it out of the goodness of my heart. Hudson’s paying me extra for home service.’’

“Of course he does,’’ I mumble.

Freya leaves without so much as a word of goodbye. Her heels click on the marble floors until she’s out of sight. The front door opens, then closes behind her, and I close my eyes for a moment, making myself comfortable on the couch.

The living room remains empty, with only me inside. The TV is playing a movie I’m not paying attention to; the volume is lowered. I’m alone with my thoughts, my hands involuntarily clenching around the soft pillow on my lap.

Luckily, Noelle managed to find Vivian. She’s in the basement, and I don’t want to know the state she’s in. Noelle, being Noelle, gave her a good beating before grabbing her and bringing her here.

Unfortunately, four men with bombs are dead. Vivian managed to detonate them just as Noelle was about to grab her, and it resulted in a tragedy. Four men lost their lives. They didn’t get a chance to say goodbye to their loved ones; they didn’t choose this.

Hudson did a little bit of digging, and the men they rescued were more than willing to write it all out. All the men with bombs were looking for a way out of Vivian’s business. She saw it as the biggest form of betrayal and took their tongues for merely suggesting to leave.

They’re dead because they tried leaving.

Sixteen people were injured in the blast; two of them are in the ICU. The rest only have burns because they weren’t directly in the line of the blast. That thought is comforting, because it could’ve been much more severe. It doesn’t lessen the guilt I’m feeling, though.

It’s eating me alive, my stomach constantly churning. It’s starting to get too painful, and no meds I’ve taken are helping it. Yet, I can’t find it in myself to cry. I’ve cried out all my tears, and I’m too numb.

Or, at least, that’s what I tell myself to cope with this.

I open my eyes, looking at the TV. I can sense him before I see him, my heart fluttering in my chest. A wave of calm washes over me, and his scent slowly drifts to my nose, my shoulders rolling off the tension.

“James,’’ I call out. “You can come in.’’

James steps inside, my eyes turning to the entrance of the living room. He’s dressed in casual clothes, a pair of grey sweatpants, and an oversized, white, cotton shirt. His wrist is in a cast, but it will heal with no problems.

Freya was worried — as worried as Freya gets, anyway — about the stabbing wounds on his body.

The biggest concern was that they were untreated and that they could get septic.

So, because James protested going to an actual hospital, Freya poisoned him — again.

She used the same one she used on him before, paralyzing him enough for Arlo and Hudson to force him to a hospital.

Not that he didn’t protest, though. He did and made sure we all knew just how much he hated the thought.

Thankfully, it will all heal eventually.

He strolls toward me, sits on the empty spot next to me, and pulls my feet onto his lap. I take the invitation, lying down, enjoying the feeling of his hand massaging my thighs. He doesn’t speak, the perfect, stoic mask on his face while he looks at me.

“How are you feeling?”

It takes me a moment to respond, trying to gather my thoughts. Instead of worrying him further, I give him a small smile. “I’m okay.’’

“Bullshit,’’ he says quickly. “You know you can’t lie to me, Rose.’’

“I’m… trying to deal with everything as best as I can. I’ll need to speak to my therapist, though.’’

“That’s smart,’’ he nods. “I don’t want you bottling everything up.’’

“How are you feeling, though?” My eyes fall on his cast.

“I’m fine,’’ he scoffs. “Do I look like a weakling to you?”

I raise an amused brow. “Definitely not. But you’ve had it worse than me. I don’t want you to strain yourself.’’

“I’ve had worse, trust me.’’

I roll my eyes. “Alright, alright.’’

A beat of comfortable silence falls on us. He’s playing with my thigh, massaging it gently, eyes locked on mine. I can see myself in those chocolate brown eyes, my reflection shimmering. Gently, I put my hand over his, giving it a small squeeze.

“I love you, James,’’ the words fall from my lips.

James tenses up, his hand gripping my thigh harshly. He’s silent for a couple of moments, staring at me, trying to find any sign of dishonesty or deception. When he sees none, he breathes out a small sigh, though his body remains rigid.

“Say it again,’’ he demands, in that damned low tone of his.

“I love you,’’ I repeat, confidence in my words. “I love you so much, James. So much.’’

He doesn’t waste a second more. He grabs my wrist and pulls me upward, and I immediately assume my position, straddling his lap, hands on his shoulders. He looks up at me, eyes dipping to my lips momentarily.

“Four years, hellion,’’ he whispers. “I’ve been waiting to hear those words for four years.’’

I cup his cheeks, planting my lips on his. For the first time, the kiss is tender and gentle, and I don’t hesitate to pour all of my feelings into the kiss. His soft lips move against mine in perfect sync, as if they were made to be kissed by me.

His hand reaches to the back of my head, removes the claw clip, and then discards it to the floor, making a small noise as it hits the marble floors. His hand tangles with my hair, and he tilts my head upward, deepening the kiss.

James doesn’t know how to express his feelings. He barely has any. But those that he has, he feels with his whole being. I don’t doubt that he loves me, too. The way his hand grips my hair, ever so slightly, just enough to make sure that I’m real and that I’m not leaving, is enough for me.

He pulls back, lips swollen. His breath fans over my mouth, and I can’t look away from him.

I can see my entire life in his eyes, and it’s beautiful. It’s all I’ve ever wanted and more.

“I love you, hellion,’’ he says, and my heart skips a beat. “You’re my entire life. There’s no life for me if you’re not in it. I can’t imagine a single day without you,’’ he puts his forehead to rest against mine. “My perfect little love.’’

◆◆◆

The basement is dark, with a couple of wall lamps scattered around, providing a little light.

The basement is separated into two — one is used as a gym and a practice room for Noelle.

A space big enough where she can throw her knives with ease.

The other part is the torture chamber, as I like to call it.

Hudson is standing right next to me, eyes glued to the door in front of us. The stench of old blood hits my nose, and I try my best not to focus on it. With a shaky exhale, I turn to Hudson.

“She’s inside?”

He nods. “She’s been asking for you.’’

Gently, he takes me by my forearm, leading me to the left. We approach a glass window, and I instantly know it’s one-way. She can’t see me, but I sure as fuck can see her.

“What did she want?”

“Mainly to see you,’’ he responds, but I can barely focus on the words coming from his mouth.

Vivian’s state shocks me. The usually composed, nicely dressed woman, with clothes that are worth more than a lot of people’s monthly wage and with makeup so excessive that it’s been getting ridiculous to watch, is now in a state of disarray.

A few strands of her hair are matted, looking as if they were glued together. Her face, though, is what manages to render me speechless. Her nose is broken, with a lot of bruises decorating her face. Most of them are old, and I can’t help but wonder who got the satisfaction of knocking her down.

Her clothes are dirty, one of her heels is broken, and there are a few places on her pants that are ripped open, her knees bloody. Noelle definitely got a couple of solid hits in, and a satisfied smile tugs on my lips.

Vivian’s eyes, though, tell a different tale.

It’s the look of a trapped mouse, desperately seeking a way out.

It’s rather funny, really. The longer I’m standing here, just watching her in silence, the more hope starts to dim from her expression.

She’s finally witnessing first hand everything that she did to me, what she did to James, and God knows how many other people.

“I know you’re there,’’ Vivian grits out, struggling against the metal chains around her body. She’s tied to a chair, tightly, with enough room for her to breathe. Struggling is useless, and she’ll come to realize it soon. “Come and face me, Rosalie.’’

“You don’t have to,’’ Hudson reassures me. “She can’t see you, or hear us.’’

“And I won’t,’’ I respond, taking a small step back.

“Then, what do you want me to do with her?”

My eyes shift to look at him. “You’re asking me?”

Hudson smiles. “It’s your decision. I’d like nothing more than to make an example out of her, but ultimately, the decision is yours.’’

I pause to think, returning my attention to my grandmother.

Hudson could definitely come up with a creative way for her to die. One that would put her in an incredible amount of pain until she’s screaming and begging for mercy. Mercy that he would never grant her.

But that wouldn’t make me much better than her. It’d mean that I’d enjoy watching her be tortured, and that’s not who I am or who I want to be.

“I want her in prison for the rest of her life,’’ I say. “No trial — just like James had no trial. I want the best, yet the worst prison. Somewhere she won’t have an easy time but will be protected enough so she cannot escape, ever.’’

“Are you sure?” Disappointment coats his tongue, shoulders slumping.

“I’m sure,’’ I smile. “Trust me, a lifetime in prison is the worst imaginable punishment for her.’’