Amanda Bonilla - Shaedes of Gray - A Shaede Assassin Novel

Istripped down, changed into some comfortable clothes, and found a nice spot on the shag rug in front of the TV. Using the couch as a backrest, I pulled my knees up against my chest, hugging my body into a tight ball. I wasn’t thinking about Xander or the job anymore. He hadn’t answered any of my questions, more or less giving me the runaround. As if finding out after all these years that I wasn’t the only Shaede roaming the planet wasn’t enough of a shock, I had been assured by Xander that had he known of my existence, he would have come for me. The thought of knowing others like me, the freedom of being released from anonymity, frightened me. Truth be told, I only pretended to want nothing more than to be alone. Solitude was not what I wanted, though I’d been alone for nearly a century. And I had Azriel to thank for that.

I’d been human once.

I met Azriel in another age. A gentler age—a bullshit age, really. Women hadn’t learned how to empower themselves yet. Of course, there was a growing faction of females who were big into the suffrage movement. They were the first real feminists, ready and willing to embrace their true power. I think I could have been one of them.

According to my family, I was a sad excuse for a girl. Though I was winsome and lovely, my mouth could sometimes be my greatest flaw. My father had been fairly successful, a banker in a rising industry. And he wanted his daughter’s marriage to echo his financial status. They tried to peddle me off to every guy with a buck. None of the matches ever worked out . . . until Henry Charles. He was an up-and-coming doctor, upstanding and well liked by everyone. He made a decent living, and he seemed to adore me. So, of course, my father pushed me to accept his proposal. I was already twenty-one—old by marriage standards—and my family was dying of embarrassment that I had yet to find a suitable husband.

They were so anxious that they allowed for an unusually short courtship and married me off to him just weeks after our initial meeting. “Charming” didn’t even begin to describe Henry. I had high hopes for me and one of the city’s most eligible bachelors. I wanted to be loved, adored, and paraded on someone’s arm. Only my sharp tongue hinted that I was a less-than-docile female. But fiery or not, a girl wants affection. I dreamed of an equal partnership full of passion and tenderness. Life would be perfect.

In reality, our life was as far from perfect as one could get. Henry never wanted me; he’d actually never wanted any woman. His tastes ran a little more on the masculine side. Now, in this day and age, Henry would have had a better chance at happiness. The modern world isn’t perfect, but he would have found some of the acceptance he assuredly deserved. He lived a double life, slinking around, finding pleasure under the cover of darkness. And I was left to take the brunt of his anger at the card he’d been dealt.

I was a human punching bag. His drunken antics always ended in a beating. I suppose he was mad at me for being lovely and soft—all of the things society dictated he should love and yet didn’t. And so I took the abuse, day after day, week after week, until the years sort of faded into obscurity. My parents, glad to see me gone, never visited. They’d never truly understood me. I was the product of a blossoming female society, a generation of women who were finding their voices. But despite my intelligence and need for independence, I couldn’t find my voice when it came to my husband. Henry didn’t keep me prisoner. But thanks to the constant bruises, my own shame kept me safely at home lest some concerned community member question my routine injuries. Let’s face it: No one’s that clumsy.

I didn’t hate Henry; he was a product of his time and environment just as much as I was. I could’ve done without the verbal and physical abuse. Who knows? Maybe he didn’t treat his boyfriends any better. The fact of the matter was, no matter whom Henry loved, he was a lousy, abusive drunk, and an asshole’s an asshole no matter your creed.

The days bled into one another, and I wanted a new life so badly I could taste it. I wished every day that I would go to sleep and awake to a better existence.

Azriel gave me that gift.

“Darling, I want you to meet a friend of mine.” Henry had been just as shocked as I was when the knock came at the door. But he could be all grace and charm when the situation demanded it, and his new friend’s surprise visit required all of that and more. “Azriel, my wife, Darian Charles.”

No doubt Henry met him and fell head over heels. Azriel was something to behold. Dark, curly hair, dark brown eyes—beautiful despite their cruel edge—and russet skin that glowed in the firelight. He looked like a Roman god come to sit in our living room, and little did we know, it wasn’t too far from the truth.

“Mrs. Charles,” he said, bending over my hand. “I’m so very pleased to meet you.”

The touch of his lips on my skin sent a river of chills flowing across the landscape of my body. Of course, I sensed something different in him. And yet, I was as infatuated with him as my farce of a husband. “Will you join us for dinner?” I asked, glad to have Henry distracted for the evening. If anything, it would keep the abuse at bay.

Azriel stood, his eyes roaming over what I hoped he couldn’t see: traces of yellowing bruises that had not quite healed. I didn’t want this stranger to see the physical proof of my weakness. But he noticed. Azriel never missed a beat, and his pained look instantly tore at my heart.

“I’d love to join you for dinner,” he said. His fingers lingered on my palm as he pulled away. “Henry, let’s sit with your beautiful wife and enjoy her company while we eat.”

Polite and attentive, he hung on my every word. It made Henry jealous beyond description, but I didn’t care. I was falling in love by the second, hypnotized by his exotic beauty and soft yet intense voice asking me questions I didn’t feel worthy to answer.

Azriel seemed interested in the story of my life, my day-to-day activities, the goings-on in the city. Seldom did he address Henry, except every now and again when my husband would interrupt to gain Azriel’s attention.

I knew the consequences of my actions, but at that moment, I didn’t care. I didn’t care if Henry beat me to a bloody pulp, because it would all be worth it for a few moments of Azriel’s undivided attention.

“You stupid bitch!” Henry railed hours after Azriel had gone. “You just had to get in the way, didn’t you?”

His fist landed squarely against my jaw, the popping sound making me sick as I crashed to the floor. The metallic tang of blood lay thick on my tongue, and I tried to shake the fog from my addled mind.

“Henry, I—” Words stalled in my throat. My head felt too heavy for my neck to support. God, why couldn’t he just kill me and get it over with?

His boot made contact with my ribs and I heard more than felt the crack. I wanted to curl up in ball, protect myself, but I didn’t have the strength for the simple act. “Do you even think you’d be here if it wasn’t necessary?” A sob broke through his chest. “I hate you!” His fist came down, bashing my chin. Another pop, blood welling from the split in my lip. The smell of the blood made bile rise in my throat.

Henry hauled me up by the collar of my dress and slapped me with his open palm. “He was for me!” he shouted. “You ruined everything!” He followed through with the back of his hand, striking my other cheek. “I should wring your scrawny, ungrateful neck!”

I looked up at the panes of the French doors leading from the parlor to our garden and caught a reflection in the night-shrouded glass. His dark and lovely form slid through the solid structure as if the doors hadn’t been there at all. An apparition. An angel come to take me to heaven.