XIII
Another wave of pain washed over Ansel as he lay in bed, one arm thrown over his face to block out the world. His Thirst was a thousand fire ants marching underneath his skin, stinging him, spurring him to find a blood meal. He'd only defiantly worn his glamour for another hour before he'd relented and dispelled it, preserving his meager reserves as Baptiste had suggested. Even alone in his room, he felt ugly and exposed.
He was trying to keep his mind anywhere else while his body resented being starved, but it was proving difficult when he had a face to associate with his failure.
Hector.
What an appropriate name for a cocky, dangerous foe. Ansel curled his lip at the thought of him batting him away with ease, without hesitation, as if he'd done it a hundred times before. A knot formed in Ansel's stomach when he again realized how close to death he'd come at the end of that sword. Though when he pictured Hector's eyes staring him down, they didn't carry the same coldness as Baptiste. Despite the unfathomable depths behind them, his dark brown eyes had been warm and alive.
Something stirred in Ansel's chest apart from his Thirst and he let it pass. He was still confusing the Hunter he had met with the man at the cafe he'd developed a crush on. It wouldn't do him any favors to keep stoking that flame.
But Hector, bathed in holy fire, seeing him for what he was and not flinching away was an image Ansel saw even when he closed his eyes. His mind drifted to other places and he wondered if his self-destructive tendencies hadn't turned into something more intense.
Wouldn't be the first time they've gotten me killed, he mused, rolling over onto his side to face the wall. Closing his eyes, he still felt the sting in his gut to hear Hector call him by his cursed name.
A new presence in his room's doorway announced herself with a rap on the open door and the query, "Ansel, why is Slate asking me if I knew you were gay?"
“Cuz Slate don’t know when to keep his fucking mouth shut, Carmen,” he growled. Though he didn’t roll over to face her, he scooted as close to the wall as possible.
Carmen — as Olive was once known by Ansel in her life and now only in private — took his actions for the invitation they were and entered the room to sit on the edge of the bed. Tucking her knees up to her chest, she leaned her back against his and asked with a smirk, “What have you boys been up to?”
“Not that,” he chuckled.
“Figured as much. He’s not your type, anyway.”
Ansel blinked and rolled over, looking at a spot just south of her eyes to avoid her Thirst. “And just what is my type, exactly?”
Grinning like the cat who got the cream, she stretched out next to him on the bed, rubbing a sweaty cheek against his. “Tall, dark-haired, miserable-looking men,” she said. “So who is it this time?”
Ansel had been ready to feign indignation, but Carmen’s jab hit too close to home and he pouted out his lips instead. “Ain’t sure that’s any of your business, now.”
“You didn’t get his name yet, then,” she said, throwing an arm over his chest.
Ticking his eyes down to her arm and back up to the side of her face, Ansel deflected away. "You smell like him," he said, wrinkling his nose. The lingering scent of sweat and lavender hung to her like a shadow.
"No shit," Carmen said, tucking her face into his pillow.
"Why do you do this?" he sighed.
"What?" she laughed, her fingers tracing idle shapes into his shirt. "Fuck him? Or come see you after?"
"The latter," he said. The former was much less of a mystery to him, he'd been a fledgling under Baptiste and starved for touch himself once.
Carmen was silent for a beat as she decided how vulnerable she wanted to be. "This may surprise you, but he isn't one for aftercare, so you're my best alternative."
"I'm touched, truly," Ansel said. Despite his sarcastic tone of voice, he did shift his position next to her so that his arm was beneath her neck and she more comfortably curled up next to him.
With a hint of a lascivious smile on her lips, Carmen teased Ansel's shirt up a bit from his waistband. "But if it bothers you, I could always get my fucking and pillow talk done in one bed."
"I ain't fucking you," he said flatly, a rejection he'd repeated a hundred times before.
"God, this new toy of yours must be hot as fuck," she laughed, pinching at his arm. "C'mon, tell me."
Ansel hesitated, chewing on the inside of his cheek with his molars. To a degree, Baptiste didn’t care about his personal life outside of the mansion, but there was always a tipping point, some unspoken factor or line Ansel would cross that spurred him to action. Like a steel trap snapping, Baptiste would reimpose his will and force Ansel away from whatever sliver of happiness he’d scraped up for himself by whatever cruel means he’d devised. Sometimes Ansel could anticipate the end and ghost his partner before the worst could happen.
Taking in the silence for what it was, Carmen propped herself up on an elbow and searched the side of Ansel’s face with her eyes. “No,” she breathed, “You really like this one, don’t you?”
Hackles raising, he rolled away from her. “I only just met him.”
“Ansel,” she said, her hand finding his shoulder. “Why do you do this?” He responded only with a grunt and further silence. “It’s pathological at this point, you just keep hurting yourself. How long until you get tired of this one?”
“Don’t you fuckin’ psychoanalyze me,” Ansel growled. Anger was a much more comfortable emotion for him than fear and he leaned into it. “‘Get tired of’? Fuck off and excuse me for trying to spare someone who don’t deserve it the likes of Baptiste.”
No sooner had the words flown from his mouth did he realize his error but Carmen leapt to her feet like the bed was red hot. He resisted the urge to grab her arm as she took a few steps away, her legs trembling. She threw him a cold look over her shoulder, her eyes boring a hole into his forehead. “I don’t even know why I bother,” she said.
“Carmen — ”
“Have fun while it lasts.”
Flicking her hair over her shoulder, she strode out of the room and out of sight. Ansel stared at the empty space where she’d been before hitting his forehead with the heel of his palm. His Thirst flared at that moment and the pain in his head became a blinding white force and bitter, hot tears spilled out of eyes.