And I’m codependent enough to actually feel better because of this reaction. “He’s an instructor,” I whisper, my voice hoarse.
Des sits down next to me, one of his wide shoulders brushing mine before he wraps his arm around me and pulls me in close. For the next five minutes he lets me just cry and make a mess of his leather jacket, my head tucked beneath his. His hand moves up and down my arm reassuringly, but the action is somewhat ruined by how menacing his presence feels.
Finally I manage to pull myself together, my body not shaking quite so much anymore. I push away from him a little.
Frowning deeply, he wipes the tears off my cheeks before cupping my face. “Tell me what happened.” I feel anger vibrating off of him.
I take in a shuddering breath. “His name is Mr. Whitechapel. He—he tried to touch me …”
But those aren’t the right words, are they? He did touch me. He wouldn’t stop until he’d pinned me down, telling me the entire time that I wanted this. That I’d been driving him crazy the entire semester. That he’d noticed every one of my suggestive looks.
He’d unbuttoned the top of my pants, he’d pushed my shirt up …
That was as far as he got. Too far.
I still don’t have full control of my gift, but fear brings it out. The siren told him to stop, told him to let me go.
And then I ran here.
And now I’m dying inside, falling back into who I was before the Bargainer saved me from my past.
I hate my face, I hate my body, I hate who I see in the mirror. I hate my ability to reel people in with a single look and command. I hate everything about me that makes me who I am. I hate that anyone can still make me feel weak.
I manage to get the story out, and then I begin to cry again. And again, the Bargainer pulls me into him. I lean my head against his chest, for once not thinking about him in a romantic sense. Just comfort.
“Cherub, I’m proud of you using your power like that,” Des eventually says.
Why that makes me cry harder, I can’t say.
“Want to know a secret?” he says, his hand smoothing down my hair. He doesn’t wait for me to respond. “People like him were born to fear people like us,” he says, his voice sinister.
I pause amidst my sobs.
What? What does that even mean? And why is he telling me this? I’ve been a victim my whole life. People like Mr. Whitechapel use people like me. It’s not the other way around.
“That’s a shitty secret,” I decide.
The Bargainer brings his lips close to my ear. “It’s the truth,” he whispers. “Eventually you’ll understand. And eventually you’ll embrace it.”
Unlikely. But I nod anyway because I don’t feel like debating with Des at the moment.
For about fifteen seconds I’m good—I might even be over it—then the memory of my teacher’s hands on my body drags me under all over again.
I don’t know how long I cry, only that Des holds me the entire time. I’m not sure I’m even crying about what happened today at this point. I think I’m crying about all those days when I didn’t get away in time.
Eventually Des moves us from the floor to the bed, humming some fae hymn beneath his breath. And eventually I stop weeping like a maniac and instead just hold him close like he’s my own personal safety blanket.
I nod off like that, wrapped up in the Bargainer’s arms.
The next morning when I wake, he’s gone.
It’s only later that I learn Mr. Whitechapel has disappeared. And that, when he resurfaces a week later and countries away, most of the bones in his body are broken, several teeth and toes are missing, and the Bargainer’s calling card is on his person.
No one can get him to talk about what happened to him. But he is apparently quite eager to discuss his gross misconduct with his students.
Students. Plural. Apparently I’m not the first.
Des is no longer just my savior; he’s also my vigilante. And I have to come to terms with the fact the man who let me cry in his arms is also the Bargainer, a wanted criminal known not just for his deals, but also his immense cruelty—the same cruelty the fae are infamous for.
And Lord save me, I am just fine with that.
Present
I’m still reeling when our surroundings re-appear.
My breath catches as I look around.
Des and I stand amongst ruins, the white marble glittering in the moonlight. Flowering vines wind around the worn arches and the toppled statuary.
The Otherworld.
The sound of rushing water surrounds us on all sides, the mist from it dappling my skin. I turn in a circle, staggering back at the sight of the giant waterfall that crashes against the opposite end of the outcropping we stand on, plumes of mist rising up around it.
“What is this place?” I ask, wonder entering my voice.
“The Temple of the Undying Mother—one of the first gods my people worshipped.”
Once more, Des wraps his arms around me. “Hold on.”
My arms slip around his waist as his wings unfurl. He tenses, his wings beginning to flap, the force of each stroke whipping my hair about.
Then the two of us rise, and I get a better look at the ruins. They sit on a small rocky island that protrudes out from the middle of a giant falls.
I tear my gaze away, only to find that the Bargainer has been watching me with those riveting eyes of his, his face soft.
The longer I hold his stare, the faster my pulse races and the more that old longing returns. I want to look away, but I can’t.
Des sits down next to me, one of his wide shoulders brushing mine before he wraps his arm around me and pulls me in close. For the next five minutes he lets me just cry and make a mess of his leather jacket, my head tucked beneath his. His hand moves up and down my arm reassuringly, but the action is somewhat ruined by how menacing his presence feels.
Finally I manage to pull myself together, my body not shaking quite so much anymore. I push away from him a little.
Frowning deeply, he wipes the tears off my cheeks before cupping my face. “Tell me what happened.” I feel anger vibrating off of him.
I take in a shuddering breath. “His name is Mr. Whitechapel. He—he tried to touch me …”
But those aren’t the right words, are they? He did touch me. He wouldn’t stop until he’d pinned me down, telling me the entire time that I wanted this. That I’d been driving him crazy the entire semester. That he’d noticed every one of my suggestive looks.
He’d unbuttoned the top of my pants, he’d pushed my shirt up …
That was as far as he got. Too far.
I still don’t have full control of my gift, but fear brings it out. The siren told him to stop, told him to let me go.
And then I ran here.
And now I’m dying inside, falling back into who I was before the Bargainer saved me from my past.
I hate my face, I hate my body, I hate who I see in the mirror. I hate my ability to reel people in with a single look and command. I hate everything about me that makes me who I am. I hate that anyone can still make me feel weak.
I manage to get the story out, and then I begin to cry again. And again, the Bargainer pulls me into him. I lean my head against his chest, for once not thinking about him in a romantic sense. Just comfort.
“Cherub, I’m proud of you using your power like that,” Des eventually says.
Why that makes me cry harder, I can’t say.
“Want to know a secret?” he says, his hand smoothing down my hair. He doesn’t wait for me to respond. “People like him were born to fear people like us,” he says, his voice sinister.
I pause amidst my sobs.
What? What does that even mean? And why is he telling me this? I’ve been a victim my whole life. People like Mr. Whitechapel use people like me. It’s not the other way around.
“That’s a shitty secret,” I decide.
The Bargainer brings his lips close to my ear. “It’s the truth,” he whispers. “Eventually you’ll understand. And eventually you’ll embrace it.”
Unlikely. But I nod anyway because I don’t feel like debating with Des at the moment.
For about fifteen seconds I’m good—I might even be over it—then the memory of my teacher’s hands on my body drags me under all over again.
I don’t know how long I cry, only that Des holds me the entire time. I’m not sure I’m even crying about what happened today at this point. I think I’m crying about all those days when I didn’t get away in time.
Eventually Des moves us from the floor to the bed, humming some fae hymn beneath his breath. And eventually I stop weeping like a maniac and instead just hold him close like he’s my own personal safety blanket.
I nod off like that, wrapped up in the Bargainer’s arms.
The next morning when I wake, he’s gone.
It’s only later that I learn Mr. Whitechapel has disappeared. And that, when he resurfaces a week later and countries away, most of the bones in his body are broken, several teeth and toes are missing, and the Bargainer’s calling card is on his person.
No one can get him to talk about what happened to him. But he is apparently quite eager to discuss his gross misconduct with his students.
Students. Plural. Apparently I’m not the first.
Des is no longer just my savior; he’s also my vigilante. And I have to come to terms with the fact the man who let me cry in his arms is also the Bargainer, a wanted criminal known not just for his deals, but also his immense cruelty—the same cruelty the fae are infamous for.
And Lord save me, I am just fine with that.
Present
I’m still reeling when our surroundings re-appear.
My breath catches as I look around.
Des and I stand amongst ruins, the white marble glittering in the moonlight. Flowering vines wind around the worn arches and the toppled statuary.
The Otherworld.
The sound of rushing water surrounds us on all sides, the mist from it dappling my skin. I turn in a circle, staggering back at the sight of the giant waterfall that crashes against the opposite end of the outcropping we stand on, plumes of mist rising up around it.
“What is this place?” I ask, wonder entering my voice.
“The Temple of the Undying Mother—one of the first gods my people worshipped.”
Once more, Des wraps his arms around me. “Hold on.”
My arms slip around his waist as his wings unfurl. He tenses, his wings beginning to flap, the force of each stroke whipping my hair about.
Then the two of us rise, and I get a better look at the ruins. They sit on a small rocky island that protrudes out from the middle of a giant falls.
I tear my gaze away, only to find that the Bargainer has been watching me with those riveting eyes of his, his face soft.
The longer I hold his stare, the faster my pulse races and the more that old longing returns. I want to look away, but I can’t.
