Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 58321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 233(@250wpm)___ 194(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 233(@250wpm)___ 194(@300wpm)
My heart breaks for him. I don’t know what it says about me that even in the midst of wishing he hadn’t gone through such devastating loss, a part of me is still jealous that he had those relationships to begin with. I’m an only child. My mother was a hunter, and her pregnancy with me was not an easy one. She decided that the cost was too high, even if it meant I was the one who would have to worry about continuing the family legacy. When I was younger, I loved that I had my parents’ sole attention. It was only as I grew older that the true cost and loneliness set in. I don’t know how much of it is being an only child and the family legacy placed on me.
Bram keeps touching me, little strokes that are meant for comfort, though I don’t know if he’s comforting me or himself. “My father was Arthur. People say my mother was the great love of his life, but I don’t think it’s the truth. I don’t know if he was even capable of love. He was always remote with us. I don’t know if he was a bad man, but I don’t think he was a good one. He claimed he brought the human in to increase the power in our territory, but I saw how he was with her. It was obsession, plain and simple. Selfish desire.”
“The decision on whether to have children—and who to have them with—shouldn’t be made because of power or family legacy. It should be made because you want a child and a family.” The words feel ripped from my chest. Our histories are not the same, and neither are our circumstances, but I know all too well the hurt I’ve experienced being seen as a gear in the machine instead of a person in and of myself.
“You’re right. It shouldn’t. Even if he had been telling the truth about his motivation, it’s still shitty of him. We don’t have to live our lives like they did.” Bram’s heart is a steady beat against my cheek. “Will you tell me about your parents?”
It’s the absolute least I can do. “My father’s name was Gerald. He married into the family, but he took up hunting as if it were in his blood. Or at least that’s what my mother used to say. He was killed by a werewolf when I was fourteen. The werewolf was terrorizing a small town, stealing the women from their beds. Dad cut off his head, but he dealt a mortal blow before Dad was able to finish him off.” Killing that werewolf was an undeniably necessary thing to do. The human police were only half right when they thought they had a serial killer on their hands. Even if they’d managed to corner the culprit, he would’ve torn through them like wet tissue paper. Because werewolves have superior healing and ridiculously fast reflexes, the only way to be sure they are really dead is to decapitate them. Last I checked, cops weren’t running around with swords and cutting off heads.
“I’m sorry.”
I smile even though my eyes are burning. “We keep saying that to each other, over and over, for our pains that words won’t fix.”
“Sometimes there’s nothing else to say.”
He’s right. Words might not change anything about our past, but words are all we have right now. I take a deep breath. “My mother grew up the same as me. Trained from birth to kill. Except not really the same as me at all. My father was a balancing force. He didn’t have the old prejudices my grandfather did. He wouldn’t go on a hunt unless it was proven that the monster he was hunting had harmed a human. When my mother married him, she adopted that policy as well. But when he died, things went a little strange. My grandfather only lived another year after my father, though it was disease that got him rather than violence. Ironic, that. But my mother started searching for something, some kind of answer to a question that I still don’t know. She was driven to the point of obsession. She disappeared the year I turned twenty. I’ve been searching for answers for five years, but I’ve never been able to find out why. That’s why I came here.” I exhale shakily. “Sorry, I’m getting ahead of myself. My mother’s name was Barbara.”
Bram freezes. It’s as if he’s turned to stone next to me, his arms no longer a comforting embrace but instead a cage. “What did you say?”
The movies and storybooks like to pretend that when something terrible happens, it happens in slow motion. Life is rarely that kind. Understanding, when it comes, happens in an instant. Pieces click together, and I wonder why I never saw it before. Why did I never question the details of his history, Azazel’s hesitance, Ramanu’s careful handling of us? I should have.