35. Axe

Chapter 35

Axe

THE PHANTOM

T he stinging sensation above my heart draws me back to reality, and I glance down at the blood seeping through the bandages Rossi wrapped around my chest. It's the only thing I wear other than white boxer briefs. Any other piece of fabric touching my skin is too much stimuli.

It's all too fucking much.

I was the most docile of the four of us, so I was treated by Rossi first, then ushered into a guest room by Tempest before the real fun began with the rest of my brothers. No one has shared with the Vultures all of the homemade traps Caroline laid, so every now and then I hear a genuinely deplorable curse before whatever dared threaten them is broken in two.

In the quiet of one of the forgotten, upper level bedrooms, the fresh, ugly burn pulsates in time with my heartbeat, a constant reminder of the ordeal I put us all through.

And even though I sit on the edge of the bed, safe and cleaned up, this peace does little to comfort me.

My eyes scan the room, taking in the moth-eaten curtains and once ornate wallpaper of roses and gold crests. The dark opulence is undeserved. I should be rotting in the ground along with my father.

Then the door opens, and Elara walks in.

She crosses the room gracefully, dressed in cotton shorts and a white tank, her fiery auburn hair dancing around her shoulders like a living flame.

I can't bring myself to look at her face and see what's reflected there. The pain, the heartbreak, or even worse, the hatred.

So I keep my gaze locked on my hands, resting on my thighs.

There's a moment of silence where Elara doesn't speak, and neither do I.

The rustle of her clothes precedes the slight weight on the bed beside me.

She's chosen to sit next to me—that has to mean something, right?

But what does it mean if she can't look at me, either?

"Are you alright?" Elara's words are soft, almost drowned out by the muffled threats downstairs.

Her face is still turned away from me. All I see is the soft silhouette of her profile caught in the dim light filtering through the threadbare curtains.

"What's one more scar?" I say with a jaded curve at the corner of my mouth.

The attempt at humor falls flat, and I am ashamed for it. Closing my eyes, I recall the block of text I forced myself to memorize before seeing Elara again.

"Elara ... I was the one who broke into Maverick's room that night. The Sovereigns, they'd just told me of my sister, that she was alive, and I remembered enough to know it was true. I had to discover what Maverick was hoarding, give them evidence so they wouldn't track Mari down and kill her?—"

"You did what you had to."

Elara lifts her hand, gently tracing the edges of my new bandages.

"It doesn't justify it," I reply, still unable to meet her eyes. "I messed up his things. I sullied his memory. I broke your heart."

"Did you have a choice?"

" Always ."

I say it with such vehemence, I almost believe it.

"It's not about forgiveness, Axe."

Elara's fingers entwine with mine, and every dark impulse within me quiets underneath her touch.

"It's about understanding that we were all forced into corners. And when pushed into a corner, we do what we need to survive."

I feel her gaze on me now, ever watchful, ever caring, and for once in my life, I hope she sees the truth. Not the hardened, unfeeling brute I've been led to believe I am, but the man underneath who, despite his hardened exterior, cares deeply for the people he's wronged.

My silence is stretches on, but Elara's patience is unending, her understanding infinite.

A woman, a miracle, I do not deserve.

"You're not a monster, Axe," she whispers, squeezing my hand gently.

A keening sound catches in my throat and I blink rapidly against a foreign sting in my eyes.

Elara's words bring no relief. Rather, they carve deeper into my soul as a hopeless truth that's hard to swallow—but I want to believe her.

A hesitant nod is all I have to offer as a reply.

"I know what you're thinking," Elara murmurs. Her thumb rubs comforting circles onto the back of my hand. "I've seen it in your eyes–every time you look at me, at your brothers... You're asking yourself if there's still redemption for a man like you."

"Yes," I whisper roughly.

It's an admission that costs everything.

Elara pulls me closer until her head rests on my shoulder. "And the answer is yes."

Her response is firm yet gentle, confident yet empathetic. It's as assertive as she's always been since we met, unwavering in her belief that there's goodness in everyone.

"Killing ... it stains your soul," I tell her.

"And you think that stain is permanent," she counters.

She releases my hand to cup my face, turning it towards her, forcing me to look. "If that's true, Axe, then I have blood on my hands, too, so deeply ingrained that no amount of scrubbing will ever clean them. I killed the Scourge. Violently. Viciously." Her eyes sheen over with tears as she voices her brutal actions. "Do you think I'm undeserving of forgiveness?"

"Never."

The word is strained, strangled, tormented.

"Then why," she breathes, her voice steady even as tears drip from her amber eyes, "why can't you accept that you deserve forgiveness too?"

"I..." I begin and falter. All I can do is stare at her in disbelief.

I work my jaw, trying to voice the fears and doubts that have caged me for years. "I've done so much..."

"So have they," she interjects fiercely. She pulls away slightly, holding my gaze with the force of her conviction. "The Court—the Sovereigns. The same way they forced their ideas onto Wilder, Cav, and Kaspian. They've hurt us enough. It's time we stop hurting ourselves."

I look at Elara, really look at her. She is a bittersweet symphony of regret, hope, bravery, punishment. She is pure, even when covered in gore. She shines brightly amidst shadows. She is good and kind and compassionate, even when forced into violent actions. And me?

I don't deserve her, yes, but I have her.

Elara's gaze holds mine captive, refusing to let go even as I try to break away. Her fingers trace the outline of my face, pausing at the slash down my cheek, brushing my lips, before running through my unkempt hair, grounding me in this moment with her before she closes the gap and touches her mouth to mine.

"I want to believe you," I confess as almost a silent plea against her lips.

The kiss is not one of possession, not this time. It communicates in ways my words can't, my lips moving with something akin to desperation both dark and sweet.

When we break apart for air, she rests her forehead against mine.

"I know you do." She breathes out the words so softly they almost get lost in the stillness around us. Her hands, warm and steady, continue to cradle my face.

Time stops as I allow myself to drown in her warmth, in her faith in me ... in us.

And then she drops another bombshell.

"Axe, I need to tell you something," she says. "Before he died, Orion told me where your sister is. She's alive."

I hold my breath as uninvited images assault my mind—of family dinners we never had, of school races I was never a part of, of laughter that never echoed in our home because we were separated, bartered with, sold.

But Elara continues like a gentle salve soothing my open wound. "She's safe. Living in Montana. She got into college there on a scholarship for dressage."

"She … rides horses?"

"Always has," Elara replies, her voice tender. "I asked Clover to look into it earlier. Your sister's even won a few competitions. She goes by Melody Parsons now."

I sit there, stunned into silence. An equestrian. It seems so gentle, so delicate. But then again, it's fitting.

My hand instinctively reaches for the wound on my chest—a reminder of my past mistakes, the price paid for my imagined redemption.

"She knows she has a brother somewhere, Axe," Elara murmurs, stroking the stubble on my jaw. "Orion made sure of it."

Her words punch through me like a bullet, leaving me momentarily breathless. My little sister ... alive ... and she knows about me.

"Write to her," she whispers, bringing a hand up to push back loose strands of hair from my forehead. Her touch is heaven. "Let her know that you're alive, too."

I hesitate, studying Elara for a long moment before I finally nod. Elara's face softens into a small but genuine smile as she fetches paper and pen from a nearby drawer.

The blank page stares back at me as I place the pen onto it. It feels foreign and unreal. The whole concept is dated, one borne from a time when people trusted their hearts to mere parchment and ink.

Elara's arms encircle me from behind, her chin resting on my shoulder. Her body molds against mine like it's made to fit. Soft where I'm hard, curved where I'm sharpened.

Because of her, I begin to write.

Dear Melody,

Fuck, it feels strange to write her name down, to acknowledge that this person exists, that she is a part of me.

I've wasted so many years believing we were alone in this world…

The words flow from my mind, through my hand, and onto the paper. It's a confessional. It's healing. It's terrifying. But every word is worth it.

After finishing the final sentence and signing my name, I carefully fold the paper and turn to Elara.

"Thank you," I say. "For everything. For being here, for not giving up on me."

Setting the letter aside, I pull Elara onto my lap, careful of my injuries. The pain is there, but dulled by Elara's warmth. My hands find her waist, steadying her.

Her lips meet mine, soft at first, then with increasing passion.

"I'm broken, Elara," I confess while losing myself in her taste, her scent, the feel of her.

"We're all a little broken," Elara responds, then punctuates the end of our conversation by sliding her tongue in my mouth.

Her body is the best kind of fire, a blackening I'll gladly allow to seep through my bandages and into my skin.

Elara's hands are tangled in my hair, pulling me closer, deeper. She straddles me with absolute certainty, her thighs on either side of my hips. My hands slide up from her waist to the small of her back, pulling her flush against me.

My hands find the hem of her tank top and I pull it off in one swift motion, her softness contrasting with my calloused, scarred exterior. Her attention flicks downward briefly before she goes back to my face while reaching into my boxers and palming my dick.

I groan at the intimacy, but there's nothing quick or fast-paced about her shifting her shorts and underwear to one side and exposing her pussy while she guides me into her in a single, fluid motion.

I hold her tight as we move together, the sensation of being inside her shattering every wall I've built around myself over years of loneliness and despair. I bury my face in the crook of her neck and release a guttural groan.

This is Elara, the woman who has captured my dark heart and refuses to let it go.

My fingers dig into her waist as the pressure builds up inside me—that sweet agony just before release.

And I give her a scar while I cum, biting just above her heart and proving to her, to myself, that I'll never let her go, either.