Page 14 of Of Blackened Blood (The Blackened Blade #3)
MICAI
A couple of days have passed since I woke up and told the guys about my marks and The Facility. And so far, they haven’t had me committed to the supes’ asylum for my crazy stories.
We then spent yesterday together, with them trying to help me summon my wrist blades. But even after hours of trying, all I was left with was wrist spasms and an ache in my arms from all the straining.
Annex and Ezra also broke into fits of laughter throughout the evening with my “Spider-Man wrist moves” and my “cute, scrunched faces.” Even Mallyn was chuckling. Damn assholes.
So today I decided to focus my energy elsewhere and train the rest of my body instead. I had grown too stiff from all the rest and needed to move. Sparring with someone would have been the better option, but unfortunately for me, the boys all had errands to run for their group.
I watch on and wave as Ezra pulls Annex away as he tries to reach for me again. He leaves struggling against Ezra’s grip, all while complaining about why he has to go on the errand with him and not one of Creed’s pets.
His pleading eyes meet mine as he asks Ezra “who’s going to keep Micai company and happy if I’m gone.” Ezra rolls his eyes playfully and scoffs before waving to me and telling me they’ll be back soon.
I chuckle before I make my way back inside and toward the kitchen. A little morning snack would help energise me and prepare me for a heavy training session.
I make my way over toward the cupboards, having seen Annex sneakily hide some tasty looking chocolate granola bars up there this morning.
My brows cinch downward. But who was he hiding them from?
I grab a couple of the bars, taking a bite of one before heading toward the fridge for a glass of milk. I glance around the room as I pour a full glass of the liquid cream and take a sip. The place feels so empty without the boys.
Mallyn had left earlier this morning too, saying he had to check in on a couple of his connections in the next town over.
He seemed reluctant to leave, but after a quick, searing kiss, he rushed off, telling me he would return soon.
But the bright blue glint in his eyes told me he was fighting his beast for control.
I guess the big guy didn’t want to go to work either.
A small sigh leaves my lips as I finish off the last of the granola bars and milk and begin washing my glass.
Ezra had also gotten a call late last night from his contact checking Seria’s bracelet.
The contact had asked around discreetly and found someone who might have some information on its metal.
His name is Jericho, or at least that’s what he goes by in the black-market trades.
He’s some type of magical historian who collects old and rare materials of the magical-taboo kind.
He agreed to meet Ezra, but there were two conditions put in place for the meet. The first being that he gets to keep the bracelet if he takes a liking to it, and the second was that they had to meet up in person and on the day and time that he selected. There was no negotiating it.
Usually, anonymity was the way most informants or black-market traders handle their dealings, using a middleman to keep their secrets.
But Ezra’s contact assured us that this was normal for Jericho because he would only choose to meet select clientele face-to-face.
And that he had the most extensive knowledge on magical materials.
Jericho sent Ezra the location and day for the meet this morning: 11 p.m. , tonight at Club Maro in Rune City. Which was also New Year’s Eve.
That’s why the guys were rushing around, completing all their errands this morning. They were adamant we would celebrate it together and said to push the meet off. But I suggested we all go and make a night of it instead.
Rune City is an hour’s drive away and two cities over. It is known for its club scene, especially with the supernatural community. And Maro was one of its largest.
I hadn’t been to a proper club since my last life, and those places seemed more like dive bars rather than one of the most exclusive clubs around. Meeting Jericho and getting information as well would just be killing two birds with one stone.
I finish up and make my way toward the door, when suddenly I hear a loud thump . I stop and slowly open the kitchen door, glancing back and forth at the other doors in the hall as another loud thump, thump rings out again.
I take a step out and slowly move closer to each door, listening carefully until I reach the door the noise is coming from.
It is a dark charcoal-grey door, a shade darker than the others in the hallway.
My eyes narrow. After the attack a few nights ago, the whole abattoir was spelled to an inch of its life under Creed’s watch.
The ass even had people in yesterday working on the large doors into this space, spending hours resetting each spell to his liking.
The possibility of someone breaking in and staying solely in this room were slim.
And with Annex, Ezra, and Mallyn out running errands all morning there was only one ego-driven dickhead left here with me. Creed.
I open the door slowly, music blaring and the thumping noise growing louder as I slink inside the large room.
My feet freeze as my eyes widen, glancing around the space. The boys had said that they had a gym in the back room, but I always imagined a small space with a few weights and maybe a punching bag and treadmill.
But I should have known better. These boys don’t do anything small.
This space is even bigger than their bedrooms and has every piece of gym equipment known to man.
There are even some machines I’ve never seen before; they’re almost twice the height of me and look like they belong to some futuristic movie instead of a home gym.
They cover one side of the room along with large mirrors lining the walls from ceiling to floor behind them.
Probably so Creed can watch himself work out.
The floor is covered in a black padded mat, the feeling soft on my feet as I slink inside further, taking my fill of the room.
To the centre of the gym is another set of mats, but blue this time. They’re laid out in a small square, no more than eight feet long and wide. A pair of boxing gloves and a towel is thrown near its edge, as well as a couple of wrist bandages beside them. A makeshift fighting space, I presume then.
I glance around as the music continues, taking another quiet step.
The walls are painted mainly black with a mixture of red and white geometric lines running through them. In each corner of the room sits large racks with smaller accessories, the nearest to me holding rows upon rows of boxing gloves and grappling mitts, all in different shapes and sizes.
And opposite the large futuristic gym equipment sits a row of punching bags, all lining the wall and filling the space, completing its professional gym look.
And that’s where I see Creed. His eyes are narrowed and completely focused at the punching bag he’s currently thrashing. His torso is bare, his top discarded on the ground beside him as his muscles tense while dealing his next blow to the weakening punching bag before him.
His bare torso is just as I thought it would be: all tight abs and toned muscles, his normal fitted shirt leaving no room for imagination. But the part that does surprise me is the trail of tattoos flowing down one side of his chest and arm.
The large tattoo moves from his shoulder and down the front lines of his chest; large wings are open wide either side of his front, and look to lead onto his back, with swirls of black mist framing them.
It gives the wings a look of movement and a feeling of freedom, even with its dark and shadowy features.
The wings themselves seem to belong to some kind of bird, maybe an eagle or a hawk?
I take another silent step, my eyes trying to catch a glimpse at the shapes on his shoulder that connect these beautifully dark wings.
Creed moves, pulling my attention away from the tattoos as he reels his right arm back, the ink on his arms bunching with his muscles as he punches forward in a forceful jab.
The hit slams into the reinforced bag and smacks it into the wall behind it.
A loud bang echoes out around the room as I quickly slink closer.
He notices my movement and lifts his head, a scowl on his face, but it fades into surprise as our eyes meet. He quickly schools it before taking a deep breath and turning back to the beaten bag still slightly swinging from his hit.
“Do you need something, Micai?” Creed asks, lifting his hands to his face and tightening his fists into balls again, getting ready to strike.
“I can’t be here?” I ask, my voice sounding tight and curt. The asshole didn’t deserve any niceties from me. Did he think he could tell me to leave again?
He opens his mouth to answer, but I cut him off.
“You did tell me that before, right? To ‘get the fuck off your property’ before you ‘throw me out,’ right?” I take another step closer, my irritation rising with the memory.
If we were going to have to work together in the future, things needed to be laid out bare.
We can’t coexist or work as one unit if I want to constantly kick his ass, or with him constantly trying to get rid of me.
I know what he said before, but I still don’t trust him. And I doubt he trusts me either.
His movements still, a stiffness taking over his upper body before he slowly turns my way, his brows furrowed as our gazes clash.
“That was ...” His eyes fall to the floor as a heavy sigh leaves his lips. “I ... made an error.”
An error ? Were we talking about a report he fucked up for school or something? Was this supposed to be an apology of some sort? His way of saying he’s sorry ... “ he made an error ”?
I want to laugh at the stupidity of his words and the rigid expression he’s wearing. And punch some proper apologetic words and sense into the dick.