The House of the Wicked (The snake and the raven #1)

40. Nora

Nora

do you work for king?

“ T ake Dima to your room, Nonny.” Gracious moves from his spot on the sofa as I spring into action. My palms are sweaty on the handles of the wheelchair, quickly maneuvering us out of the living room toward the back of the house.

After pushing Dima inside the bedroom, I turn to close the door. Stopping halfway, I decide to leave it open just a crack, to listen, to observe.

“Shit, I wish I had a gun,” I say, looking over my shoulder at Dima. She smiles at me before reaching beneath the folds of the blanket covering her lap.

“Just call me your fairy godmother,” she whispers, pulling out a compact Beretta.

“Jesus,” I mutter, leaning forward and taking the pistol from her outstretched hand. “You’re a menace, you know that?”

“A menace who’s got your back.”

“Always,” I agree, placing a soft kiss on her forehead.

Peek ing through the crack in the door, I scan the empty hallway, turning toward the kitchen and then back toward the living room. The house is silent… Until it’s not.

Agonized groaning saturates the air. I spin on my heel, turning to Dima for confirmation before I move.

“Go,” she whispers. But before I do, I hand the gun back to her, unwilling to leave her defenseless should anything be violently wrong in the living room. With one last nod from Dima, I creep forward, out of the bedroom and down the hallway. The shouts of pain grow more intense the closer I get. Dread pools in my gut as I step into the space.

It takes a second to locate the source of the groaning, but there he is. Yves’s body is draped over the dining room table, blood streaming from an open wound on his shoulder and another on his abdomen. He’s been stabbed.

“Nonny, get the first aid kit from the bathroom,” Gracie snaps and robotically, I move without another thought, racing toward the small bathroom.

“It's under the sink,” I hear Dima shout from the bedroom. I sigh with relief as I open the cupboard doors and drag out the old heavy kit.

Skidding to a stop in the living room, first aid kit in hand, a wave of nausea rushes through me before thrusting the box at Gracie. August hunches over Yves, soaking a cloth in clear liquid. I grimace as he presses the fabric against the first open wound. Yves howls in pain and my stomach lurches. I’ve never been good with blood, and this is a lot of blood.

“What the fuck happened?” I finally ask after it becomes clear none of them are about to offer any explanations.

A hiss of pain slips out of Yves as August roughly dabs the cloth against his second wound. “N ot everyone’s as happy to see me as you are, princess.” He winks at me before his face contorts in pure agony.

“Is Thalia okay?” As soon as I voice the question, everything else fades away. Saying her name reminds me that the last time I saw my best friend, she was in Yves’ car as he drove her away from me. And now he’s here, bleeding…

“She’s just peachy,” he says.

“Where is she?” I demand.

“Protected.” He hisses again and takes a deep breath before looking at me. The way he meets my eyes, the urgency I see in his gaze… It’s as if this information is important, as if it’s critical that I see the truth in his eyes and hear it in his words. “Far away from here. And protected. I promise, Nora.”

Fighting the urge to sag with relief at his words, I ask, “And Adam? Where’s he?”

August ignores my question. It’s foolish to hope Yves will answer. But history will no doubt reflect that I’m nothing if not a complete and utter fool.

“I need to get the dressing,” August mutters before walking out of the room, sidestepping me intentionally as he goes.

Yves watches us, clearly witnessing August’s purposeful attempt to avoid touching me. “Still worried about the prodigal bastard?” Yves raises his eyebrows at me.

“Where is he?” I ask again. Adam left the lake house with Alley. Did she kill him? Would Gracie truly be indifferent about his son's death? And why do I feel so indifferent at the thought of it? The questions bounce around in my mind as Yves frowns at me.

“I thought August told you? About everything?” He gestures vaguely in the direction August took out of the kitchen.

“Told me what?” I ask.

“You know… about Gracie and Adam and—”

“He did,” I cut him off. “But what does that have to do with me asking about Adam?”

“Nothing, I guess. It’s just surprising that you’d still care? About him?” He seems genuinely confused, which only puzzles me further.

“Yves, that’s enough.” Gracie’s words are swift and final. Most men would tremble if they found themselves on the receiving end of that tone. Yves simply rolls his eyes and grins painfully at me.

And then the final tattered shreds of my patience snaps. “I am so sick of everyone talking in riddles.” Anger twists inside my stomach as I spit the words at him venomously. “Don’t trust Ricky, but no one says why. Trust Gracie even though he killed his wife. Trust August—”

“No one told you to trust me, little raven.” August strolls back into the kitchen, a bundle of gauze and wound dressings in his hands. “In fact, I distinctly remember telling you not to trust me, multiple times.”

“Gracious killed his wife because she was fucking Ricky,” Yves announces. “Hence Adam’s existence.” Gracious glares at him; Yves simply shrugs his shoulders. “What? it’s true.”

I hear Gracie’s voice, then August’s, but I can’t make sense of what they’re saying. Because with that one truth, my entire world plunges into darkness, as if my center of gravity has been stolen, and I’m falling through an endless chasm of lies. Nothing makes sense, but as Yves’ words settle over me, I realize I no longer care to piece this puzzle together.

I gl are at the three of them. My lips part, as if desperately searching for words that my stunned mind can’t supply.

“Nora,” August takes a step toward me, bandages still in hand.

“No.” I hold up my hands. “No, August. What did he just say?” I turn toward where he stands, halfway between Yves and me. Pleading with my eyes, begging for a truth I know I don’t want to hear; a truth I need to hear. “He’s lying,” I insist, because that’s all this could be, another one of Yves’ teasing jabs.

“Nora, listen to me carefully. Both Ricky and Adam don’t know about this,” Gracious says.

My eyes jump between them wildly. “And what is all this ?” I yell, gesturing around the room. “An attempt to get in a seat of power? To have control of both The Flats and The Heights? Is all of this fucking mayhem just so the three of you can take over from Ricky? Is Adam as much of a pawn as I am?”

“Adam is a pawn, yes, but not Gracie’s,” Yves sneers.

“Pay attention, Nora.” Gracie steps in front of me and grabs my chin with his free hand, forcing my eyes toward his. “Focus on what you’ve been told. You already have all the answers.”

“I am paying attention.” I jerk back, tearing my chin out of his hold, stepping away from him. “And all I see is a bunch of fucking liars.” My words are a weapon aimed directly at them.

Yves opens his mouth to say something, but August silences him with a sharp glare. “Shut the fuck up. For once, just shut the fuck up,” he snaps. Yves raises his hands in supplication.

I’m so fucked. I have to leave. I have to run. I can’t do this. My shoulders slump inward, I turn to leave the kitchen.

“Nora, wait,” August calls out and I spin to face him.

“Tell me the truth,” I beg. “Are you a Knight?”

His eyes don’t leave mine. “I’m not a Knight, Nora.”

“D o you work for King?” I ask flatly, finally, desperately. Only, as soon as I voice the question, August laughs. It’s bitter and shallow and condescending.

“God, that is fucking ironic,” he says as he walks from where he’s positioned next to Yves and stops directly in front of me.

“Ironic?” I frown at him, confusion slowly overtaking my anger. “How the hell is it ironic?”

“It’s ironic,” he starts, placing his hands on my shoulders as he drops his head until his face is level with mine. “Because you’re so fucking obsessed with King.”

I sigh dramatically. “For a moment.” My words are clipped and short as they race out of me. “Just for a fucking moment, could you pretend to respect me enough to give me the entire truth? Please.” I’m begging, but I’ve long since passed the point of caring.

“Do you want to know who King is, Nora?” August’s fingers dig into my shoulders as his eyes burn into mine. Tension and fear hang like a noose around my neck; I wait for his next words. Large, calloused hands move up my shoulders and around my throat as he pulls himself to his full height, angling my head up, forcing me to maintain eye contact. “Your father. Your father was King. Your father started the Knights. Your father saw Ricky’s evil empire growing and swelling and festering over Dahlia Heights. Your father consoled mothers who had their daughters sold into sex slavery and children whose parents were killed because of gun violence or drugs. Your father saw the way these people suffered under the heel of Ricky’s boot… and your father said enough.”

The room swims as the edges of my vision blur in and out of focus. My skin is on fire with shock, denial, and confusion. August’s words rattle through my m ind, bouncing off the walls inside my head again and again, like a bell ringing incessantly.

Your father.

Your father.

Your father .

“And now that he’s dead, Nora,” August drops his hands from where he’s wrapped them around my throat, stepping away from me. “Now that he’s gone, who do you think his legacy belongs to?” He sits on the edge of the sofa, his long, muscled legs spread out in front of him as he watches me try and fail to process the truth I just begged for. “Who do you think gets to save his people? Not a new King. No, little raven, a fucking Queen.”

I stagger back, pressing my back against the wall separating the living room from the hallway.

His words are a knife slicing away everything I think I know. Like the ripples on the surface of a lake, the words reshape the foundation that my entire sense of self is built on. Those words take my dreams, my future, my life; turn them to ash in my heart. Everything I am, all the places I hope to see, the life I want to live, all of it erased in a matter of seconds.

“Nora.” The air shifts around us as he moves closer.

“Don’t,” I warn.

My heart races like a freight train behind my ribs. Every thud joins the ringing in my ears that only grows louder. Turning away from August, my legs spark to life. I’m racing out of the living room, into the bedroom— his bedroom—and slam the door shut. Dima’s not here. I don't know when she left, but I don’t care. Her role in all of this is not lost on me. I feel betrayed. By everyone; Dima, August, Gracious, my parents. And myself.

August knocks on the door, and my eyes squeeze closed, trying to drown out the sound of his incessant knocking. I have to get away from him, from here, from everything.

“Nora, open the door.”

“No,” I mutter, leaning my head back against the bedroom door.

“Don’t fucking pull away from me, please.” His words are soft. I would’ve missed them if I wasn’t standing so close.

“Fuck you, August.”

S taring up at the mute, yellowing glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to the ceiling of August’s bedroom, I try to make sense of what I’m feeling. August has lied to me from the first moment we met. And even though Dima’s lies echo his, August’s feel shattering, destructive. I love her, and it hurts that she never told me the truth, but August’s deception has destroyed me.

My fingers trace one of the racing cars on the bedsheet as my body snuggles deeper into the hoodie I’m wearing as pajamas—stolen from August’s room yesterday when he was at the store. It smells like him. Delicious and masculine; I draw that smell deep into my lungs.

It’s dark outside, fall is slowly creeping in, the cooler evenings and darker mornings proof of it. How fast time moves when your entire life is spiraling out of control. Slipping out of bed, I tiptoe to the window, gradually peeling the curtains back to look out over the street.

Dahlia Heights.

I’m holed up in Dahlia Heights.

This is the place my parents fought for. While nothing makes sense, that part is easy to understand. These people deserve more. They deserve a chance. I don’t know how to process any of this, but I know I can’t do it here. Before I know what I’m doing, I’m standing in front of the door, my ear pressed to the cold wood as I listen intently. The house is silent. August’s either asleep or out. Dima is definitely asleep. I have no idea where Gracie and Yves are, but… I take a deep breath and turn the handle as silently as possible.

With featherlight steps, I walk down the hallway. Other than the soft sounds of Dima’s snoring and the static buzz of the fridge, the house is silent.

Creeping down the short hallway, and into the dark living room, escape is the furthest thing from my mind. Each step I take is speared on by pure curiosity. I inch toward the front door. The pre-dawn light in the room is my favorite kind of darkness. It’s eerie, but strangely peaceful.

Stopping in front of the door, my fingers brush against the cold brass chain, the deadbolt and then the keyhole, with no key resting in it. There’s a brass chain, a deadbolt, and a keyhole with no key. With painstaking slowness, I slide the chain off the groove that holds it in place and gently push the deadbolt back. I don’t expect it to be unlocked, but something pushes me to try. Hope stutters and dies in my chest as I run my hand over the chrome door handle and push down, waiting with foolish anticipation for it to open.

“It’s locked, little raven.” The deep rumble of August’s words drift toward me. My heart pounds as I spin on my heel, facing the source of that dark, seductive voice.

He’s sitting on the couch, shirtless. Corded muscles of his forearms tense as he grips a coffee mug between his massive hands. Disappointment wars with arousal inside me as I lean my back against the door, staring him down.

“Where’s Gracie?” I ask.

“He doesn’t sleep here,” August replies.

“And Yves?”

“He’s back at his apartment,” he answers, his eyes making a slow, agonizing crawl over my body.

“With Thalia?” I demand.

“No,” he murmurs in reply.

“Am I a prisoner here, August?” I ask it so quietly, a part of me is terrified of the answer.

“No more than you were at the lake house.” His eyes slide over my bare legs and then back up to my face.

“Where’s Adam?” It’s a whisper drifting out of me as I press my thighs together. August’s eyes feel like phantom fingers moving over my skin.

“Did you steal that hoodie from my room?”

“Yes. Where’s Adam?” I ask again.

“You could have just asked.” He smiles at me.

I scoff at that. “I was looking for a charger for my phone. Do you have one?”

“I do.”

“Can I use it?”

“No.”

Desperate to ruffle his feathers the way his leering has ruffled mine, I grin at him and ask, “Does Gracie know we hooked up?”

“Is that what we did?” he muses, a smirk now lighting up his eyes.

“I sn't it?”

“Hooking up,” he whispers, as if he’s testing the phrase out for the first time.

Slowly, he stands and stalks a path over to where I am, frozen, pressed against the door. I would’ve retreated, if I had anywhere to run to.

August comes to a stop in front of me, one massive hand resting against the door as he leans fully into my space. His free hand... Oh God, I bite back a moan as he drags it up the seam of my tightly clenched thighs, stopping when he reaches my core and—fuck my traitorous body, my legs part slightly.

“I don’t remember hooking up. I remember fucking you raw,” he whispers, cupping my throbbing pussy. “I remember sinking my cock so deep inside you, you screamed my name until your voice turned hoarse. I remember you riding my face. I remember sucking on those sweet tits until you came in my hand. I remember fucking your face with the veranda doors wide open for all to see, cicadas humming around us… I remember—”

“You’ve made your point,” I snap, pushing him away from me. “Do you know what I remember? I remember you telling me not to trust you and I remember what a fucking fool I was, because I ignored you. And now I’m here, in Dahlia Heights, a prisoner in your grandmother’s house, while you continue to lie and scheme around me.” With that, I storm out of the living room, stopping only to slam the bedroom door shut. There’s no lock, but I know he won’t come after me. Not again.