Page 122 of Tainted Souls
She pauses, her back still to me. “No, you’re not,” she says quietly. “You are sorry you’re trapped here. Sorry about the consequences. But you are not sorry she’s dead.”
The truth of her words stings, though I wasn’t lying either. “I didn’t know her,” I admit, “but I regret taking her from those who did.”
Irene turns, her eyes hard as flint. “Regret doesn’t bring her back. It doesn’t fill the hole you left in our hearts.” She moves toward the door, then stops, hand on the knob. “Ace may have decided to spare you, but don’t mistake that for forgiveness. The rest of us aren’t so pragmatic.”
With that, she’s gone, the door closing firmly behind her.
I sink back against the edge of the bed, guilt twisting through me, a heavy, relentless knot that I can’t tell is for Hanae, for the chaos I left behind, or for myself.
Every rational thought scrambles under the weight of what-ifs and might-have-beens, and all I can do is sit in the quiet ache of shame and responsibility, feeling smaller and more fragile than I ever have before.
I trudge over to the desk, lifting the cover from the tray. The meal is sparse—porridge, an apple, water—but hot and nourishing. As I eat, I try to process Irene’s words, the pain behind them. I’ve spent so long seeing these vampires as monsters that I’d forgotten they could love, grieve, and form bonds that transcend mere survival.
More so, I understand her pain, because it’s the type of pain I have been bearing for years.
After breakfast, the rest of the morning is spent exploring my new quarters more thoroughly. The bookshelf holds a modest collection of novels and histories, nothing particularly revealing about my captors or their intentions. The desk drawer contains paper, ink, and quills, but no scissors or letter openers that might serve as weapons.
Everything has been carefully curated to provide comfort without opportunity for escape or violence.
Around midday, another knock sounds at my door. This time, it’s Saul who enters, carrying a deck of playing cards in his hand, worn at the edges from frequent use. “Thought you might be bored,” he says by way of greeting, beginning to shuffle the deck. “Remember how we used to play for hours when it rained?”
The memory of us huddled by the fireplace in our childhood home surfaces, dealing cards on the threadbare rug while rain lashed the windows. Dad would be sharpening his knives in the corner, occasionally glancing over to ensure we weren’t cheating.
“You always lost,” I snort, a grateful smile tugging at my lips despite everything.
“Because you cheated,” Saul protests, the familiar indignation in his voice an echo from the past.
“I was seven. I didn’t know how to cheat.”
“Exactly why it was so infuriating.” He sits cross-legged on the edge of the bed. “Care for a rematch?”
“Bring it on,” I challenge, settling on the opposite end with my legs folded beneath me, mirroring him without thinking. I give him a look. “What are the stakes? More secrets?”
“How about simple bragging rights?” He deals the cards between us. “Winner gets to lord it over the other for the rest of eternity.”
“Deal.”
We play in comfortable silence for a while, the familiar rhythm of the game easing some of the tension between us. I win the first hand, Saul the second. By the third, we’re both leaning forward, fully engaged in the competition. He hesitates just a beat too long before placing his card, and I pounce, sliding down a perfect counter from my hand. His eyes narrow as he realizes he walked straight into it.
I lift an eyebrow, smug. “Looks like I’ve still got it.”
Saul groans, tossing his remaining cards down. “Unbelievable.”
I gather the scattered cards with a satisfied smirk, stacking them into a neat pile before giving them a thorough shuffle. Saul watches me with narrowed eyes, clearly plotting his comeback.
“Best of five?” I ask, already dealing.
“You’re on,” he says, cracking his knuckles like we’re about to duel instead of play cards.
The first few fall between us, crisp and deliberate. The game resets, but the grin tugging at the corner of my mouth doesn’t fade.
“Try not to hesitate this time,” I tease, sliding the last card his way.
He rolls his eyes and picks it up, arranging the cards in his hand.
“Apparently this was Mother’s favorite game,” he says, his tone light and casual, but his eyes flicking up to gauge my reaction. “She had this uncanny ability to know exactly what card you were holding. You must have inherited her mind reading powers.”
The mention of our mother makes my fingers still over my cards. Saul rarely brings her up, and certainly not without purpose.
