Chapter 8: Old Wounds

Priscilla’s POV

“Who’s your friend?” Jessica asked.

I slowly turned completely around, bringing the wine to my lips again.

It had been years since I’d seen her. She took great care of her skin, aging wonderfully. She hardly looked forty-five. “Oh. Priscilla? Is that you?”

Her husband, James, could sense the tension and he scooped the toddler into his arms and said, “I’m going to go find Rowan. Leave you to talk. Love you.” He pressed a kiss against her cheek. She accepted the affection gratefully.

“Love you, too,” Jessica agreed as James and her two children disappeared into the villa. She slowly turned back around looking between Astrid and me.

Once the kids were out of earshot I said, “You knew?” When Jessica didn’t reply right away, I added, “You watched me grieve for years and you knew?” The edge on my voice was clear.

“I couldn’t say anything, Priscilla,” Jessica said. “It’s nice to see you, by the way.”

Deflecting. Redirecting my anger. Clearly not seeing the severity of my upset. “Wish I could say the same, Jess,” I bit back.

Jessica ignored me, walking over to Astrid. “I hope you don’t mind me stopping by. I got a contract in Rome, and we thought it would be nice to check in.” She glanced over at me and offered a withering stare. “I guess I should have called.”

“You can stop by anytime, Jessica. You know that” Astrid reassured her. Always the peacemaker. “Cilla and I were just catching up.”

I grinded my teeth. “Catching up. Yeah.”

“Okay, what’s your problem?” Jessica snapped.

“My problem is that you watched me spiral and flounder and you knew that she wasn’t dead. Why didn’t you tell me? How could you do that to me?”

“I didn’t know you were going to try and kill yourself.”

Suddenly, it was like an old scar was ripped open. The memory of that awful winter washed over me. “You sure pick when you keep your mouth shut, don’t you?” I spat, a wave of anger flooding my insides. I don’t need this. I don’t need to see the pity on Astrid’s face.

“I—” Jessica started, but I didn’t want to hear it.

“Fuck you,” I stated, standing up from my seat. I grabbed the bottle of wine and I left, shoving past a few of the Romano servants as I charged out the room.

I could hear Astrid asking Jessica a million questions, but I didn’t want to hear it. I just wanted to go back to the lodge, crawl into bed. Be alone and not feel so fucking vulnerable.

But I couldn’t let the shifters see me like this either. A crack in the armor. The seam where the bone had broken.

The wine bottle touched my lips, and I took a deep drink, numbing the memories, the feelings. At least that was the plan, but as I felt hot tears slip down my face, I knew that it wasn’t working. I was already fuzzy from my two glasses of wine earlier, but as I took heady, desperate gulps, I wanted to disappear altogether.

As I sauntered down the dark pathway, I didn’t care who found me. If I died tonight at least this feeling would die with me.

That wound inside. That buried, fragile wound was opened again. I could still feel the hands on me. Twenty years later and the feeling of his hands never went away.

That weak, naïve Priscilla couldn’t fight. Couldn’t break away. The hopeful gleam of life in my eyes died that night.

Astrid wasn’t the only reason I ended up at that mental hospital. But she was the straw that broke me. I was eighteen years old, away from home in college. Astrid was my big sister, my safe place. She was the person who would have been there for me.

She would have believed me when no one else did.

At some point during my walk, I found myself staring at the dark water beneath a bridge. Wondering if that abyss would feel like home.

It’s funny. As a child, I was always afraid of dark water. What lurked beneath it. Terrified that the creatures from the depths would find me and drag me under. Now, it didn’t feel so scary. It felt like an end.

I brought the bottle up to my lips again, finishing the dregs at the bottom of the glass.

Part of me wonders who this Priscilla would be if that night never happened. Would I still be bright, full of hope and wonder? Would I be worthy of affection then?

Maybe.

Dios Mio, I felt so empty inside. Like something was sitting on my chest suffocating my breath. Trying to get me to surrender. Squeezing me until there was nothing left.

I didn’t know what I had left. Who I was. My revenge was cut short, ripped out from under me so fast I didn’t realize all was left was a shell.

My face felt wet, tears pouring down my chin as if it was raining. If only it was. Then I could pretend that I didn’t feel this way. Spiraling again down this hole of self-pity.

As I stared down into that deep, dark water, moonlight flickering and refracting off that glassy surface, I realized that it wouldn’t solve anything. Just pass my grief off to someone else. It would be easy to surrender, let it wash me away.

But a part of me liked the pain. Liked this twisted dark creature that my trauma forged me into. I wasn’t hopeful or bright. I also wasn’t skittish like a beaten animal.

I had become feral.

Strong. A product of my surroundings. Everything that happened to me, or everything I had put myself through, I came back from even more resilient than I could have ever imagined.

I had to keep fighting. There was no alternative. Not for me. Not in this life.

My stomach clenched as a wave of nausea hit me, my head reeling. The full moon in the sky spun around me like a vicious bout of vertigo. I stumbled back from the dark water, holding the railing of the bridge hard until the world slowly stopped spinning.

Fuck. Where was I?

The only illumination in this undeveloped area of the countryside was the bright full moon. All the woods looked the same and I couldn’t decipher exactly how far I had walked. Great. Just great.

I certainly picked a great time to get shitfaced. A wave of vertigo hit me again and I closed my eyes tight, a firm grip on the tree in front of me. Maybe if I just sat here, slept on the forest floor, someone would either find me or I’d sober enough to get back home.

Home. Ha. That’s funny. Home was a concept that I still didn’t have a grasp on.

I blinked hard, dumb determination flooding my veins.

No. I’m going to get back. This tree line looks familiar. I’ll just keep going in this direction.

Suddenly, a growl sounded behind me. My reaction was slow as I stumbled back, my head spinning as I tried to focus on the large wolfish creature staring me down. Saliva dripped from massive fangs.

I wondered who this was. Full moon, antsy shifters, they probably don’t recognize me drenched in red wine. “I…hic…Priscilla. Here I…hic…live,” I offered very clearly.

No reaction came across the beast’s face. I tilted my head to the side as it growled at me again, fear just gently raising the hairs on the back of my neck.

“You deaf?” I slurred, stumbling back toward a tree.

I tried to focus. Blinking hard as I concentrated on the creature’s eyes, then my entire body went cold. This creature wasn’t a shifter.

It was a rogue werewolf.

And I was fucking plastered.