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Thirty-Nine

ALEC

As an immortal, emotions have become easy to ignore. The finicky things that mortals trouble themselves with no longer hold the same meaning, whether it be feelings, laws, or beliefs.

As a human, I was forbidden from feeling things like empathy towards my sister’s cause to be with Cedric or anything beyond my father’s approved list of behaviours. “You are a prince, act like it,” he’d often recite. As an immortal, I’d forgotten what it is like to feel at all.

As a human, prince or not, laws were followed. The laws of men, of life. Laws limiting how we should act, where was right to go or not. While the world was different, and being a man gave me a sense of immortality, in truth, I was far away from where I am now. I was still governed by my own morals, what’s perceived as right and wrong. As an immortal, human laws no longer direct me. I can steal whatever I want, break into anywhere, murder anyone without fault.

As a human in the old world, Christianity was the prominent belief system in my part of the world. God ruled us, decided which laws were to be followed and how we should serve Him. God was the purpose behind the wars my father initiated to conquer land, though we all knew that was bullshit. God gave a “reason” behind people’s actions, an excuse. Now, being an immortal, I’m aware Celestials—God and the devil, angels and demons—are real, but it doesn’t mean I follow any particular deity. Or that they give two fucks what we all do.

Which is why I can’t understand Harlow’s feelings on the level I wish I could. An empathetic level, in which walking through her childhood home where parents she has no memory of were murdered would mean more than nothing to me.

Correction: It means a lot, because it means something to her, but I don’t understand the emotions pouring from her to me through the bond.

It’s a stomach-clenching discomfort caught between need and denial. A feeling of intense sorrow and contentment. It’s confusing, reminding me how difficult it was to be human and saddled with such emotions.

It’s the same feeling she sometimes gets ever since the night of discovering she is my Bride.

My hand is wrapped around hers in a hold more intimate than I’ve ever given another being, but there’s a sense of rightness to it. As I lead her away from the wall of pictures—that intensified the ache so harshly, it felt like bile was coming up my throat—I keep looking at our hands twined together. The bond doesn’t instantly strike feelings or even make us like one another, and I haven’t quite decided what to feel about Miss Sinclair. What I do know is how her emotions, tonight in particular, strike a deeply rooted pain in me.

I enjoy the feeling of her touching me so innocently. Her hold is strengthened by her growing trust, the support she’s allowing me to provide. Even that I don’t mind.

I pause by the staircase, inspecting her blank, desolate expression, wondering how much more she’ll be able to take before making the decision for her and tugging her towards the stairs.

She nearly trips on the bottom one when realizing where we’re headed. It’s the second when her grip turns cold.

“I, I don’t know about this.”

“Nothing will hurt you,” I reassure her. “Not even your own emotions.” Because I won’t allow them to.

For once, the bond isn’t sensing danger and a need to rescue her, but I do. And I don’t fucking like it.

I walk her slowly up the stairs, scanning the house that’s been modernized over the centuries. Before the coven was smart enough to put a barrier around the town, I had access to the Sinclair house and have been inside on the odd occasion. The walls weren’t finished back then, and the floors were an old, stained carpet. The windows couldn’t open and were often frosted. Heat inside was limited to whatever the fireplace provided.

The landing is now covered in a soft carpet our shoes track dirt over. The railing is a glass that overlooks the downstairs, melding into the white wall that carries into a stretch of hallway with three doors.

We stop by the first, the pink comforter on the bed catching my attention. A doll’s house, nearly as tall as Harlow, consumes one wall, and a bookshelf filled with picture books is beside it. A dresser on the other side, its drawers partially open with clothing spilling out. The scent of Harlow is faint— extremely faint—in the air.

“Oh my Goddess,” she breathes and steps by me, releasing my hand to tread inside the room. I remain in the doorway, ready to catch her should she fall victim to her own emotions again.

She walks around the room slowly, brushing her hand over every surface; along the books’ spines, the roof of the dollhouse, the bed’s headboard, along the edge of the mattress, the windowsill, and finally the top of the dresser. She completes a full circle before she looks at me, her eyes rimmed red.

“I, I don’t…I don’t remember any of this.”

And then she sits—crumples, more like it—her knees digging into the soft carpet. I’m right there, grabbing and positioning her beside me. Her side presses into mine, her skin hotter than usual, and she seems to have no control over her limbs, letting me move her how I want to.

I take her hands between mine and sit, waiting for her to speak first. Her breath hitches with every inhale before it’s harshly blown out between her teeth, like breathing is physically painful. Through the bond, there is no more sadness. No more grief. Only confusion.

“I hoped by coming in here, it would spark something. A memory— something . I mean, I lived here. Slept. Played. Why can’t I remember?” Her teeth slide together, the grinding sound making me wince.

“The mortal mind is delicate, or so I’ve heard. The enchantment the Hartmans used, combined with your body protecting itself, is likely why.”

She twists her head until it’s on my shoulder and she’s looking at me. “Insightful for a being who hasn’t been human in how long again?”

“A while.”

She doesn’t move away, and I find myself shifting my body to make her more comfortable. My arm curls her into my side while my free hand strokes through her red strands, satin gliding through my fingers.

“Bet when you took me you never thought you’d be sitting in my childhood bedroom, of all places.”

“No,” I agree, keeping my voice soft for her, “this wasn’t in the plans.”

“Life’s funny. From what Morgan’s told me, it sounds like everything was on track for me to have a normal life…until it wasn’t.”

I press my fingers just a bit harder into her skull, mimicking a massage while trying not to think about how she was robbed of everything she deserves and how I’d love nothing more to end the lives of the Hartmans if they weren’t already dead. “Life is unique,” I correct. “It’s one thing I’ve learned over my time. It continues to evolve. Sometimes for the better, and sometimes not.”

“Do you enjoy your life more now than you did as a human?”

“Yes.” It’s not even a question. The only thing that gave my mortal life a slight edge was my sister being alive.

“Do you enjoy your life more now than say…one hundred years ago?”

One hundred years ago, I was ruling from my castle, waiting for the living Sinclair to be bred, and passing time with whatever came along that sparked my amusement. I was bored and not thriving. A century ago, I never imagined having a Sinclair in my arms, let alone wanting her to be there.

Time passed quickly then. The world was modernizing. Cars were becoming mainstream. It was the time between World War I and II, and the world was coming out of what was referred to as the Great Depression. Mortals were so wrapped up in each other as even the cities grew from small villages with lots of farmland to massive cities of buildings that strove to reach the clouds.

I remained at home for most of it, missing the world that once was while dreading what was to come. Cedric was in New Orleans at the time, fucking and drinking everything that moved in one of his mindless rampages that he’ll go on every few decades when he realizes how long Cora has been gone from our lives.

There was nothing to do. Nothing to live for. No one to obsess over.

Until the witch in my arms came to be.

“Life is immensely more enjoyable than it was back then.”

“Which means you’re definitely older than one hundred years, which means you saw everything my history books would have taught me. Plenty of wars, the Roaring Twenties, the Titanic—were you on it?”

“The concept of being stuck on a ship in the middle of an ocean sounds horrendous.”

She freezes before whipping me with her hair when twisting towards me. “Are you afraid of water?” Her lips spread in a slow smile, like she’s figured out all my secrets.

I stare at the space she’s created between our bodies like it, too, is another secret I can’t decipher. While temperature doesn’t bother me, she was warm. A kind of warmth I did feel…and I want to again.

So as I talk, I tug her back, and she resettles without comment. “Vampires are not cats, so no, I’m not afraid of water. Had I been on the Titanic, I would have lived no matter if I made it into a lifeboat or not. But I’ve always preferred having the land beneath my feet and not restricting myself to ships, or even air transportation.”

She leans her head against my shoulder and laughs. “You know, you’re not so bad, vampire. I still don’t like you, and I still think you should go home and forget all this Bride stuff…but you’re not so bad either. When you’re not out to murder me, that is.”

“You’re not so bad either, Sinclair.” It’s disturbing that I mean it. Before Harlow twists back around, I drop a kiss onto her forehead, resting my lips against her warm skin for a moment and drinking in all she is. It’s a touch more tender than I’ve ever given another being, but it feels like I need to. Maybe it’s the location, her feelings that have gone from upset to calm, or maybe it’s my own craving to be close to her.

I do know it isn’t the bond.

She melts under my touch, and I can’t help but stroke the skin beside her eyes, murmuring, “Once I would have killed anyone with eyes like yours. Now, I find myself enthralled by them.”

“Nice try. You’re pulling out centuries of sweet-talking women to try to get me to accept the bond.”

I wish that were the case. I keep that to myself and instead make light of it. “Is it working?”

She only winks before glancing towards the window, the old, faded-pink curtain pushed to the side. The moon is full above, a precedent of the ceremony she’s about to have.

“What time is it?”

I slide my phone from my pocket. “Ten.”

“Then I have at least an hour more.” She glances around the room before staring at the door. “I should probably finish looking around this place.”

“You don’t have to. If it hurts, it’s not worth it.”

“That’s the thing, it doesn’t hurt. It’s just…I don’t know.” She shrugs. “It feels empty, if that makes sense. Everything here is unrecognizable. The child who once slept in this room was a different version of me. Someone innocent and happy, who had the world. I should feel sad about not remembering the people who slept down the hall. Instead, I’m confused.”

I sweep a hand over the back of her neck, gathering her hair on one side and allowing my fingertips to trace her skin. It’s getting increasingly difficult not to touch her. “You have no memories of this place or your parents. I think it’s natural you’re not sure what to feel.”

“Says the guy who can’t feel anything.”

“Never said I can’t feel anything . Besides, it’s simply logic. You feel like you should be sad, but it’s hard to be upset over something you can’t recall.”

She makes a noise in her throat, pulling her legs in closer. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe the ceremony will help. Morgan says she has a plan to get my memories restored. Or, at least, enough so I have some image of the past.”

“You’re perfect how you are, Hellion. Memories or otherwise.”

She doesn’t reply to that, and I don’t push her to say anything more. My touch continues over her back, tracing imaginary designs while fingering the ends of her hair. It becomes a game of pushing her hair to the side and watching it swing back towards me.

After another twenty minutes, her head falls onto her knees. I listen for a sob or the feeling of grief to finally hit her, but only find contentment.

My Bride is pleased. And that’s enough for now.

Another few minutes pass before she sighs. “Feels good.”

“It’s meant to.”

Without lifting her head from her knees, she turns her head. “Thanks for this, I guess. Even if Morgan gave me a key, I’m not sure I would have done this. Especially not alone.”

“My pleasure.”

She watches me. “You mean that.”

“I don’t often say things I don’t mean. You’ll learn that eventually.”

Her spine decompresses into my hand as I continue petting the back of her neck and down, completing loops until she sighs again, this time in resignation.

“We should go.”

“Scared for the ceremony?”

“More nervous.”

“It’ll be fine.” I stand, offering my hand to help her up.

She accepts it and stands, her chest close to mine. Her head falls back to look me in the face. “How do you know? You’re an active viewer of witches’ ceremonies?”

“Because I’ll murder them all if it’s not.”

She snorts as I take her hand to lead her from her old room, and then the house, except I wasn’t kidding.