Bloom: A Dark Romance (The Order, 1) Read online

  The doctor laughed. “You’re a better man than I, Monsieur,” he said, taking off his gloves and slipping them into his coat pocket. “Such a beautiful flower just begging to have its petals picked from the stem.”

  The analogy made me want to vomit. Instead, I concentrated on my Owner’s reaction. It was so simple for him to grin like they were sharing some private joke. “I’ve waited a long time for this one,” he answered. “Now she is mine and there is no rush.”

  His hand was back on top of my head, relaxing the tense muscles in my neck and shoulders.

  This seemed like enough information for the doctor; he got down to business. “There’s no internal bleeding, Monsieur. A few broken bones and some nasty marks, but nothing that will not heal.”

  Master Lyon nodded, satisfied with his report. “And the stitches?” he asked.

  “Ah, yes,” the doctor said as if suddenly remembering. “Follow me to my car and I’ll supply you with all you need.”

  My Owner stood, replacing my head on the pillow. Without sparing me a passing glance or bothering to cover me up, he followed the doctor to the door and down the stairs.

  As soon as their footsteps and voices were out of range, I let myself breathe. I let myself cry. My hands twisted in the nearby sheets and my wrists ached as I pulled on the bonds holding them despite the fact that I knew, now more than ever, there was no escape.

  TWENTY

  When I woke, my arms and legs were free and the collar was gone. The sound of clinking glasses woke me and the suddenness made me jolt upright, sending sharp needles through my entire body.

  After blinking a few times, I could see Mr. B by the nightstand, clearing away dishes or setting new ones down; I couldn’t tell which. He was wearing the most casual clothes I’d ever seen him in: a blue polo and jeans. They made him look younger and not as serious. If he hadn’t turned around so I could see his face, I wouldn’t have known it was him at all.

  “Now you mustn’t do that,” he said, coming over to the bed and helping me lie back down. My body drooped into the mattress but he propped me up so I was sitting without straining my tender muscles. “There we are,” he said, tucking the blanket around my legs. I noticed when I looked down that I was dressed in lavender pajamas. The first few buttons were undone on the top and I could see where I’d ripped the tracker out still no longer had a bandage, but it had been recently stitched with blue thread—the supplies from the doctor.

  “You’ve been out nearly half a day,” Mr. B said. “Are you hungry?”

  I’d slept through a night and then most of a day. When I thought about it, my stomach felt hollow, but the notion of eating made me sick. I shook my head.

  “Thirsty?”

  My throat was raw and swallowing hurt. I nodded and he was already handing me a teacup and saucer, placing it gently in my lap and not letting go until he was sure I was holding it.

  “There’s honey in it,” he said, “to help with your throat.”

  I wasn’t sure how he knew at first but it occurred to me that he’d probably heard me screaming earlier.

  When I was done drinking the soothing liquid, he took the cup and saucer from me and I glanced around the room. I wasn’t in my own.

  There were heavy, yet soft looking blue-grey curtains around the many windows lining the wall. The headboard I leaned against was a slightly lighter color and cushioned within a thick brass frame. There was a large, shiny dark wardrobe that took up the far wall, and there were matching nightstands on either side of the bed, where Mr. B was pouring another cup of tea from a silver pot. I noticed that outside the window, the little sliver of the outside world I could see was nearly black.

  “I was asleep a long time?” I asked.

  He handed me the tea and I drank it slowly. “Two days.”

  I stared at the ornate furniture around me, unable to decipher where I was, although I could guess. “And…where is he?” I stared into the dark brown liquid in my cup.

  I’d been in this room before, but only in the dark or while I was terrified. I’d never seen it in the full light, with my full mind. And I felt utterly alone, as if something crucial was missing within it.

  “Master Lyon had to attend to some business concerning his absence at the Wolf Estate, Miss.”

  My chest stung at the words. “So you knew this whole time too.” I wanted to be able to shout, to get angry, but I didn’t have the energy.

  He stopped what he was doing and sat down near my legs, facing me so we were looking directly at each other. He was silent for what felt like a long time, thinking about what he should say or if he should say it at all. “I know that from where you’re sitting, this is all cruel. Unfair.”

  I bit the inside of my cheek in order to keep my mouth shut.

  “But Master Lyon never intended to leave you with that man. Not permanently.”

  “But long enough to get his wife back,” I whispered. “What makes you so sure he would risk losing her again just to come back for me?”

  Mr. B shook his head to himself, seemingly understanding something I didn’t. “That may have been true less than a month ago, before he came to know you,” he said. “But things are different now.”

  My eyebrows drew together. “Why?” I asked. “What’s changed?”

  Mr. B exhaled as he stood to take my cup again and place it on the tray on top of the nightstand. “He thought if he stayed in his role, he would remain unattached to the situation and be able to leave you with that awful man. He thought he would easily train you the way Master Jäger asked and then give you up for the woman he loves, but you’ve taken root within him, Miss Fawn.” It was now that he turned to me. “He hasn’t told me, but I think he loves you both. He doesn’t want to hurt either of you.”

  I couldn’t hold back the laughter that erupted from my lungs. “You can’t expect me to believe that.” Was this yet another deception my master had thought up to make me pliable, more willing to go along with his plans?

  Mr. B shrugged slightly as he lifted the tray and started for the door. Before he left, he said, “You can love more than one person at once, Miss Fawn. Master Lyon sees a lot of himself in you, and though these emotions are rare for people like us, I believe his actions towards you have been out of love—or what he understands it to be.” He gave me a small smile. “Just don’t give up. On him or yourself.”

  I stared daggers across the room at him as he left, wishing I had something to throw in his direction. How dare he look at my situation and tell me it was borne of love. How dare he tell me these actions were anything but selfish. And how dare he tell me that Master Lyon would ever be capable of loving anyone else besides this woman he wished to trade for me. Her life would always be more important than mine. She was his lifeline, his heart, and his love. How, if I even trusted what Mr. B had told me, was I ever to compete with that? How could I ever infiltrate his heart as deeply as she had so he wouldn’t just forget about me the moment she was back in his arms?

  I sank down into the bed and cried for most of the evening. Mr. B had left the light on, but it was dim. Even darker if I refused to open my eyes and face my new reality. I cried for every missed opportunity, for not making sure the Wolf was dead before I sought safety, for not staying hidden both escape attempts, for not being able to get out of the Compound, get away from this man, and forget this life. For one glaring minute, in the sharpness of the pain, in the clarity of my sobs, I thought of ending it.

  Surely death was better than whatever fate awaited me. It would be the ultimate freedom, escaping not just this life but this battered body and mind that had been forced to live through it. What was the point, anyway? If I was destined to suffer, why continue? And even if I did somehow manage to get away, what was the sense in looking over my shoulder the rest of my life just waiting for the suffering to continue?

  These thoughts spun around in my aching head like a drunken carousel, making me feel dizzy and sick until I had no choice but to lean over the bes
t I could and vomit up the two cups of tea I’d had.

  What I hadn’t been anticipating was my Owner being there, holding a small trash can under my chin with one hand and gently pulling back my hair with the other. My eyes burned and my already raw throat protested until my stomach was completely empty and uncontrollable tremors wracked my body.

  When he was sure I’d finished, he stood and brought the can downstairs. I sat motionless on the edge of the mattress, my collarbone and shoulder throbbing and tears still trickling down my face. I was powerless to stop them.

  I hardly noticed when he came back, pulling my hair up into a knot on the top of my head and then coaxing my arms out of the nightshirt I’d soiled despite getting most of my vomit into the trash. He replaced it with a new, baby blue one and took his time buttoning it, careful not to tighten the fabric over my sensitive skin.

  He sat beside me as he ran a cool washcloth along the back of my neck and then my face, which felt red with heat. When he was done, he let down my hair and tossed the washcloth aside on the nightstand.

  I gasped when he pulled me into his side, one hand cupping my cheek so my head was against his chest and his fingers absently massaged my scalp.

  It was a long time before he spoke. Perhaps he wasn’t sure if he should. What was there to say, really? An apology wouldn’t be enough. No amount of comfort, luxury, or money would change the outcome.

  “Est-ce que c’est la douleur?” he whispered. Is it pain?

  I nodded, unable to speak.

  “Où est-ce que cela fait mal?” Where does it hurt?

  I wasn’t sure why he was speaking in French, but my guess was that it made him feel more in control, that he at least had one choice that didn’t hurt someone. I didn’t know how to begin to answer. How did one describe the pain he’d caused me? The pain I was causing myself in hoping there was another way and that he would change his mind?

  “Peux-tu me dire où?” Can you tell me where? His voice was a low murmur as his fingers smoothed the hair from my wet face.

  I shook my head.

  “I can’t help if I don’t know, Fawn.” My name on his lips felt sharp. It was a shard of glass that pierced through me. He shifted my head so I was staring up at him, but through the tears, I couldn’t make out his face. He tried wiping them away, but they were only replaced with more. There was no end to them. “Dis-moi,” he said. Tell me.

  I could just make out his eyes, how they slightly squinted as if in search of something we both knew he wouldn’t find.

  Swallowing a sob, my throat was rawer than ever. “I-it’s…not something you can fix,” I whispered, voice trembling. I added, “Sir,” knowing there was no point in pretending I was something else anymore. The sooner I accepted my true purpose in his life, the sooner the pain would stop.

  He sighed through his nose as he brought my head to rest on his shoulder again. He was silent before he whispered, “I will. I promise you I will.”

  I tried to shake my head but he was holding it in place. Instead, I closed my eyes to the dim light of the room and concentrated on breathing. I wanted to argue, to make him feel guilty or at the very least a fraction of the pain I felt, but I couldn’t. It would only serve to hurt me more in the end, trying to appeal to the humanity in him. I wasn’t blind to how torn he appeared to be over his decision now that it was out in the open, but it did little for my fear, my future.

  I didn’t know how much time had passed, but eventually, my tears dried and my breathing became normal. He still held my head, his chin resting in my hair as his free hand rubbed my back. In this position, I could hear the even, steady rhythm of his heart. It was a metronome keeping time, a clock counting down how much I had left, how kindness like this would disappear.

  Somewhere in my exhausted mind, I wondered if this gesture was something he had tailored specifically for me or if he had held his wife this way and learned that it had comforted her in the past.

  “Your…” My voice came out too soft so I had to try again. “Your wife,” I whispered not much louder. “Tell me about her?”

  I felt his muscles tense around me before he caught himself and relaxed. “Pourquoi est-ce que c’est important?” Why does it matter?

  I slowly pulled away from him, but he kept a hand on the small of my back. I wiped at my face with the sleeve of my pajama shirt. “It doesn’t,” I said, knowing just how true the statement was. It didn’t matter who this woman was; my outcome would remain the same. “I would just like to know.”

  His jaw flexed, but only for a moment. “Quoi voudrais-tu savoir?” What would you like to know? He sounded defeated. There wasn’t much he could give me as consolation and I think this was as close as he could get: giving me answers.

  I shrugged, ignoring the ache in my shoulder. “Anything.” I stared at the covers beside me and covered my legs, suddenly cold.

  Standing, he handed me a glass of water, which I slowly drank to get the taste of regurgitated tea out of my mouth. He watched as I did everything, every slight movement interesting to him. Perhaps he was counting our time left together in his own way.

  When I was done, the glass half empty, I handed it back.

  “Do you need medicine?” he asked.

  I paused to take stock of my injuries. My ribcage burned and throbbed and my shoulder and collarbone felt tight enough to crack. I wanted to refuse, to stay lucid for as long as possible, but I knew I wouldn’t have many more opportunities to avoid pain so I nodded.

  He opened a bottle of pills from the nightstand and handed one to me.

  “What is it?” I asked even as I took it from the center of his palm.

  “Vicodin,” he said.

  I’d heard of it before. Once, a girl had to undergo some sort of cosmetic surgery to make her teeth more uniform and straight and that’s what they had given her.

  I swallowed the pill with the rest of the water and then he finally took the glass from me and set it back down. I’d nearly forgotten I’d asked him about his wife, and when I remembered, I instantly figured the topic was off limits and he wouldn’t answer. However, it was important I get him to talk about her. I needed to know whose place I was taking and who would occupy mine. I needed to know there was a chance, however miniscule, that he would see some part of her in me worth saving. But I didn’t want to push too hard either. It was a sensitive subject for more than one reason and if I wanted him to open up at all I would have to make him believe it was on his terms.

  “You untied me.” It was the only thing I could think of to say.

  He sat back down next to me; this time his hands stayed at his sides. “I did.”

  “And…” My hand fluttered up to the new stitches on my chest, wary of pressing too hard. “You made me another pretty scar.”

  Master Lyon laughed without humor and slowly shook his head. “I believe you created the scar, Doe,” he said. “I only tried to salvage what I could.”

  I locked my lips shut tight, choosing my nest words carefully. “Is that how you know how to stitch wounds?” I asked. “Because of…where you come from?”

  He glanced at me and I couldn’t read the expression behind his eyes. Sadness, anger, kinship; they all blended into one and he didn’t answer.

  I tried a different approach.

  “I’m sorry for what happened to you.” And I was. If there was one truthful statement that ever left my mouth, it was that. I was sorry for both of us. All of us. For how fucked we were since birth and how we were powerless pieces in an elaborate game.

  He squeezed my hand before letting go. I could tell he wanted to apologize as well, but he couldn’t. He was the cause of my fate, not just some bystander.

  After a while, he said, “You’re not a dog.”

  I supposed that was the closest he could get without dragging out all the things he’d done to lead us both to this moment.

  “And you’re not a Vulture,” I whispered, placing a hand on his knee and squeezing in the same way. “I shouldn’t
have called you that.” I meant this too. I’d met many Vultures in my nineteen years of being a forced Member. I had watched as they took young, vibrant girls and scavenged for their next meal, never satisfied. Elliot was not one of them.

  He swallowed hard. “I didn’t want to hit your face,” he said.

  This exchange was something we’d never given each other before. Admitting that the rules were all wrong and the consequences of breaking them were skewed. It was better than a flat out atonement. It was the same truth, stripped of every disguise.

  My Owner looked up at me. “Is the pain better now?” He sounded oddly hopeful but I couldn’t tell if he was talking about the crying or how I physically felt.

  “A little.” I didn’t want to explore that feeling in my chest that although had decreased, was still there. I didn’t want to know what it meant or wonder where it came from. It was so much more than his deceit and betrayal, the reality I now faced, but I wouldn’t dig any deeper than that. I was afraid of what I might find.

  “Why don’t you lie down?” It was a suggestion, not a demand. “You don’t have to sleep,” he added. “It would be more comfortable for you.”

  I watched him a moment. “Are you leaving?”

  “No,” he was quick to answer, motioning for me to lie back.

  I did as he asked, trying and failing not to let the discomfort in my body show on my face. When my head was against the pillow, he covered me the rest of the way so I didn’t have to move more. Then he sat near my legs, his arms on either side of my knees as he stayed close.

  “My wife…” he whispered, but he didn’t say more. It was as if pulling needles from his skin in the dark, sharp yet unseen.

  Though he was looking right at me, he was far away. He didn’t know where to start.

  “What does she look like?” I offered.

  He closed his eyes as if imagining; as if it was either difficult or painful to bring her image to mind.

  “She’s…” He started and gave up. I could tell it hurt to talk about her, and part of me felt bad. The other was all too willing to watch. “Her skin is much darker than yours,” he said quieter, as if telling me the details was divulging a secret he’d held a long time. “Her mother was black and her father was white. Her hair is naturally dirty blonde.”