[This post is from Matt’s point of view.]
Somehow, she seemed different as she stood in the doorway, her pale face illuminated by the warmth of the lamp’s light. Her gaze, usually sharp enough to draw blood, was soft, her eyes crinkling at the edges with something that was almost…fondness?
What the hell?
“You’re awake,” the Hecate said, her voice soft. Even that seemed different, the edges gone, like a blade carefully tucked into its sheathe—or perhaps just wrapped in velvet and set aside.
It was suddenly hard to breathe.
Matt swallowed hard. “Barely,” he managed to say, staring at her. She was dressed in a long skirt, evocative of her supposedly Grecian roots, and a tank top—more modern than he’d ever imagined she’d dress, somehow. Her dark hair was limned in gold in the lamplight, strands catching the light and reflecting like fire, red and gold blazing amidst the dark strands piled into a messy bun.
“I want you to know that I didn’t want it to be like this,” she said, slipping quietly into his room and closing the door behind her. She carried no weapons—no visible ones, anyway—and it didn’t look like she was carrying any keys, either.
Was it possible that door was unlocked?
It wasn’t until she got close that he saw the scars, on her arms, on her neck. They were old, faded and slender, white marks against already pale flesh, but he could tell by looking at them that they had once been deep.
On instinct, he reached to grasp one of her arms, to pull her toward him so he could examine the long scar that ran from her wrist to her elbow, like a razor’s cut that went too deep to be anything but deliberate.
Instead of jerking back, she just stood there quietly, watching his face.
His mind screamed at him to take this chance to get away, the part that wasn’t being overwhelmed by questions, by memories that belonged not to Matt Astoris, but to his soul, the soul that had been Cíar mac Dúbhshláin once upon a time.
“Apotropaia,” he breathed.
Captor, savior, lady, protector, lover, lost and forgotten.
Friend.
The Hecate smiled, and it didn’t make him want to run. It was a sad, wistful smile—a terrifyingly human smile, full of emotion and pain rather than the promise of agony. “You have no idea how long it’s been since I heard that name.”
Matt shivered. “What did you do to yourself?”
A soft laugh escaped her and she put her hand over his, fingers squeezing gently. “Pain does horrible and wonderful things, sweet druid. In this, it did a horrible thing.” She tugged her arm from his grip, then reached up to unconsciously trace the scar on her throat, her gaze growing distant. “And fear did this.”
“Who?” he asked, his voice suddenly hoarse. Matt struggled to make sense of it all. Cíar had somehow loved this woman?
How is that possible—and how did his family never know about that? How—and why—would he keep a secret like that?
And if he really did love her—or the aspect of her that was Apotropaia—why didn’t he ever go back to her after everything that happened?
“The Hunt,” she whispered, slowly sitting down beside him on the bed. “They feared my influence over their illustrious leader.”
“You don’t mean Seamus,” Matt said, his mouth dry.
“No,” the Hecate whispered. “No, I don’t. They tried to kill me. In some ways…in some ways, they actually managed to do it, too.”
Her lips met his and he didn’t stop her.
Interesting.
I wonder if she’s trying to seduce (current Matt) to her side, trying to seduce her way into his group, or trying to pull both herself and him to the sidelines of whatever is going to happen?
Not going to lie, I’m excited.
If she ends up joining the group, I hope Thom gives Matt a lot of grief over it.