The evening was still young when Ethan showed himself to the armory the next day. Rather begrudgingly, Ethan noted how accustomed he now was to be walking around the castle alone.
The maids, usually absent by the time Ethan (and Bela) navigated to the armory, were still mulling about the kitchen when he passed by. Dinner had only just ended, and so the maids were hard at work cleaning.
Flashing a charming smile (or so he told himself) got him through the kitchens without too many lingering looks from the maids. That was save for Tatyana, whose suspicious glare cut through her obscuring veil and dug right into his soul. But such looks from the grand chambermaid were nothing new; even she turned away with a slight shake of her head before he was even halfway through the kitchens. The old redhead knew where Ethan was going, and he doubted she had any real qualms with it.
If Tatyana did take issue with Ethan's after-hours fieldtrip, then she knew better than to voice it. It didn't matter how seemingly close Tatyana and Cassandra were. Tatyana would surely have some explaining to do to Cassandra if the latter found out that Tatyana prevented Ethan from showing up to the armory.
Traversing the rest of the way was a slower affair. As much as Ethan would have loved to waltz through the castle with swagger in every stride, he knew to tread carefully when Lady Dimitrescu was home. He made it a habit to carefully peek every corner and walk on light, slow feet, all the way until he arrived at the armory.
The evening was so young, that even Cassandra had not been prepared for his arrival. Ethan had caught her sitting by the fireplace, barefooted, black leggings, black long sleeved rash guard, and all. She'd been in the process of tying her hair up in a high ponytail. The surprise had crossed her face – still caked in the dark makeup she wore around the family – before she greeted him with that signature almost fondness.
When on the brink, productivity was key.
It was what brought Ethan to the armory a mere fifteen minutes after the Dimitrescu family dinner had concluded – because if he spent just another fucking second alone in his cell, he may just do something he might regret.
What that something was, Ethan wasn't sure. Maybe kick down the master bedroom door, flip the big lady the bird, and then secure Rose. Maybe kick down Bela's bedroom door, try to rebuild the burnt bridge between them.
Maybe kick down the front door and brave the sub-zero winter winds, just to find Chris and put a gun in his mouth.
Lots of drastic places his mind went when on edge, really.
At least in the armory, Ethan could be productive.
He'd already spent the day going over the freebie that had come with all the bricks and construction supplies – a small guidebook. But it wasn't just any guidebook, no – the Duke once more proved how he enjoyed messing with people by giving Ethan 'Brick Laying for Girls: The Basics & One Woman's Short Journey'.
Because why provide Ethan with a regular guide, when he could instead learn to 'tear the wall of intimidation down and build her (his) first brick wall'?
Ethan had shaken his head at the time and just taken the Duke's little joke in stride. Any guide was better than no guide. Even if he did have to read a short biography of a journeywoman bricklayer just to get to the good stuff.
That was how Ethan found himself laying bricks down on the damaged wall, while Cassandra slowly warmed up her joints, padding onto the blue mats on bare feet.
Und dann reiß ich der Puppe den Kopf ab,
Dann reiß ich der Puppe den Kopf ab,
Ja, ich beiß der Puppe den Hals ab,
Es geht mir nicht gut!
The raw power of Till Lindemann's voice rocked the armory the entire time, bouncing off the stone walls – loud enough that Ethan had to wonder at one point the castle matriarch would barge in and tell them to turn down the racket.
When Ethan voiced this concern, all Cassandra did was grin and turn the volume up a notch.
Evidently, Cassandra was indifferent to such worries. She was downright elated to receive Ethan's little gift in the form of the signed album. A toothy grin had graced her lips the entire time Ethan explained why he'd gotten such a gift – which was no big deal, really. Cassandra had given him the blank check to buy some gym clothes and sleepwear, and he was simply returning the favor.
Though Ethan wasn't too sure if Cassandra was even listening to him. The hypnotized look in her eyes and that wide smile – making her look like a kid on Christmas day – made it look like she cared not for why he got the album. If a pink flush set into Cassandra's ears while she wasted no time slipping the record into the player, Ethan paid it no mind.
Rather serendipitously, Ethan found the album's timing to go perfectly with his attempt at masonry. It served as the perfect distraction for Cassandra while he toiled away. It avoided a long, uncomfortable discussion as to why Ethan was bricking up the damaged wall. While he worked, Cassandra simply paced along the mats as she stretched; a youthful, girlish smile hugged her lips – and Ethan would hazard to say Cassandra was fangirling on the inside.
"I know we're not even done listening to this album, but," Cassandra paused a good distance behind Ethan, bringing her leg up in a high kick and tapping it with her foot. She switched legs, repeating the motion as she continued, "I think this may be my new favorite."
"It's a banger, that's for sure." Ethan nodded, eyes fixed to his handiwork.
The Duke and his men – perhaps with assistance from Tatyana – had taken the liberty of preparing Ethan's workstation for him. The bricks, the mortar, and all the needed tools were ready when he arrived.
The task at hand was, thankfully, not a massive one. It was a fairly simple matter of slipping in some bricks in the larger gaps, and slathering on enough mortar to fill up every crack in sight. For the smaller spaces, Ethan smacked a loose brick onto the floor enough times to shatter it – then used those pieces to plug the gaps. A bit of a band-aid solution, but short of hiring a professional team of masons, this would have to suffice. After all, the only thing that mattered was that the frigid winter night no longer seeped into the armory.
Ethan couldn't speak much of the wall's structural integrity when he was done with it, though. A couple of nasty hits with sufficient mass may be enough to crumble it again – but that wasn't a problem Ethan foresaw in his future. His goal here was to simply keep cold air out, not to keep Ethans or Cassandras from crashing through the wall. Given the warmth now flooding the armory much better than before, Ethan was succeeding at his goal.
"Imagine my shock coming back from lunch earlier to find a quarter of my armory turned into a construction site."
Ethan's trowel slipped, smearing mortar on the wall, and misaligning a freshly laid brick. A glance over his shoulder revealed a smirk on Cassandra's face. Ethan cleared his throat. "Yeah, I probably should've given you a heads up about that." His gloved hand came up to subconsciously rub the back of his head. He stopped just as he made contact with his hair and undoubtedly got mortar on it. "My bad, Cass."
Cassandra chuckled and shook her head. She folded a leg back, holding it with one hand to stretch out her quads. "You should have. But no matter." A quick smile came and went. "I appreciate your initiative…" She paused, eyes scanning the wall. "and this… abstract art you're creating with my wall. Do you know what you're doing?
"Kinda," Ethan answered her question before slipping into his nonchalant excuse, "It was getting a bit too chilly in here. I figured you of all people would want this draft covered up." He shrugged, turning to face the wall. "You know – so you don't catch a cold or something."
Silence met Ethan in reply. He peeked over his shoulder to see Cassandra's eyes fixed to the matted flooring. A subtle, contemplative furrow set into her brow. His too-casual excuse, in hindsight, may have been too on the nose. Too much of a reminder of that close call, which Ethan still had no idea how Cassandra felt about.
Ethan had expected the brush with death to be a personal strike against Cassandra – something she would hold against him for the rest of his stay in the castle. But instead, the incident had not once been spoken of aloud. It was as if their first spar had never happened, and they skipped right into the second night – which had gone far, far better than the first.
It seemed Cassandra was content to carry on and avoid acknowledging it, as she asked him instead, "Will that take much longer?"
The uneven bricks and thick, drooping mortar stared back at Ethan, daring him to pretend he knew what he was doing.
"Uhh," Ethan just barely refrained from scratching his face with a gloved hand and getting more mortar in his stubbly beard. "I think I'm almost done?"
"And your shoulder?" Cassandra asked. "Has it recovered?"
After the unexpected field trip to the shooting range, and then Bela promptly crushing his heart in her hands, Ethan had nearly forgotten all about his pinching shoulder. Ethan rolled the limb in question, finding it free from any sort of discomfort.
"Yeah, I'm good," Ethan replied as he tidied up his application of mortar.
Application was, of course, a strong word. It looked more like a truck had hit a ditch and splattered mud all over the wall. Ethan grumbled under his breath and ran his trowel along the wall, smoothing out the mortar.
"Wonderful," Cassandra remarked. Ethan could perfectly picture her teasing smirk when she added, "Don't expect me to go easy on you tonight."
Ethan shook his head. "Wouldn't dream of it."
The minutes ticked by as Ethan finished up his patchwork job on the wall. Some bricks were a tad crooked, and the mortar appeared unreasonably thick in some places, but the cracks were sealed. Not the sightliest job, but it would do. If Cassandra didn't like it, she could cover up the uneven masonry with a shelf or something.
Ethan straightened up and stepped back to observe his masterpiece, leaving his tools on the floor. Ethan gently nudged them to the side with his foot to ensure they wouldn't be knocking into the tools during the spar. He tugged his work gloves off, setting them aside with the tools on the ground.
"Mind if I borrow your sink?" Ethan asked. Mortar was smeared here and there along his arms, and it was due to be washed off.
Cassandra paused from her position on the mats. From the height of her sit-up, she nodded and pointed to the door off to the side; it was the same door with the pullup bar wedged into the doorway. "Go on ahead. Just try not to bring all that mess in." She got one more sit-up in before she paused and locked her eyes onto Ethan's hand.
His haphazardly bandaged right hand.
"What happened there?"
Oh, you know – Bela kinda broke up with me, I guess, so I punched a wall out of frustration. Just your typical broody teenager shit.
"Ah," Ethan waved it off, already halfway to the bathroom. "It's nothing – just bumped into a wall in the dungeons."
Cassandra quirked a brow in silent disbelief.
"I'm still gonna kick your ass like I always do, don't worry." Ethan flashed her a wink, one hand on the bathroom door. "This hand won't hold me back."
"Try me, Ethan." Cassandra narrowed her glare, eyes glinting – reveling in being challenged. "Just try me."
All Cassandra got in reply was a low chuckle as Ethan slipped into the bathroom.
The sizeable room took Ethan off guard. It was nearly identical to Bela's bathroom in the dungeons. Candelabras casted a warm glow on the space. The warmth landed on Ethan's reflection staring back at him from the medicine cabinet mounted above the sink. To the side of the regal toilet on his left, a porcelain bathtub occupied most of the room. Far less toiletries crowded the stone shelving by the tub – at least, far less than Bela's. The bottles of shampoo and soap were kept in a neat and orderly line.
The bathroom itself was squared away, Ethan noted. While Bela's bathroom had not been dirty in any way, it was a little cluttered. Cassandra's bathroom was a Spartan one – very tidy and minimalistic, without a spec of dust in sight.
Ethan didn't waste much more time. He washed the stray dirt off his arms, and carefully rinsed his hands – avoiding wetting his bandage in the process.
It was wishful thinking at that point. After sticking his bandaged hand into the work glove earlier, it was all askew. It got damp under the spray of the faucet soon after.
With a grumble at his own carelessness, Ethan glanced at the medicine cabinet. He could try his chances at rebandaging – or better yet, using some antiseptic to stimulate his moldy cells and reset the swelling in his knuckles altogether.
The small, mirrored door swung open, and Ethan peeked within. An abundance of first aid supplies occupied the shelves. Suturing kits, band-aids of all sizes, rolls of bandages, packed sheets of gauze – they all crowded each tier of the medicine cabinet. Various sleeping aids filled the shelves as well, from Zzzquil to numerous brands of melatonin; given how deep Cassandra's eyebags went, Ethan could hazard the guess that they didn't help much.
Yet aside from bottled alcohol (which, as far as Ethan knew, didn't trigger his healing powers), there was no disinfectant of any sort. For such a comprehensively stocked medicine cabinet, the absence of any antiseptics aside from alcohol struck Ethan as odd.
Filing the observation away for later dissection, Ethan helped himself to the bandages and got to work.
The knuckles of his index and middle fingers were split open, and had nearly doubled in size from the swelling. Thankfully, in the almost twenty-four hours since he'd lost his cool, the swelling had subsided by a degree. His hand's condition was annoying, but in no way debilitating. He had gritted his teeth and fought through worse before. This was no different. He could probably lose the bandage later tonight after the spar, now that the swelling was slowly vanishing.
As Ethan secured the bandage over his split knuckles, he took another second to scrutinize his fingers. He'd been dutifully applying Bela's concoction to his damaged digits. He didn't want to get ahead of himself, but he could swear they were reforming. If his luck would hold up for once, maybe they'd grow back within a few weeks.
Like a fucking lizard regrowing its tail.
Ethan shook his head to himself, setting the hand towel aside. Time to get to it. Cassandra was waiting.
Slipping back into the armory, Ethan found Cassandra in the process of wrapping her hands. In wordless synchronicity, she paused for long enough to toss Ethan his own pair of hand wraps. He caught the rolls effortlessly and put them to use. He'd only need to wrap his left for now, since his right hand wouldn't fit into his gloves if he wrapped over the bandage.
Besides, it's not like he and Cassandra were hitting each other hard enough to hurt their hands these days. Sparring had become a highly technical affair, with both of them preferring clean, textbook hits over slugging it out with raw strength.
Thank goodness for that, since Ethan's Angel of Mercy in this castle wasn't going to patch him up if he broke his nose again.
"What is it tonight?" Ethan asked, doing his best to banish the bitter thoughts. He got into position on the mats, flexing his gloved fingers once. "The usual?"
Cassandra hummed and raised her fist forward. "The usual."
The usual was good. He could use the outlet to blow off steam. He had enough steam to power a goddamn turbine.
Ethan tapped his glove against Cassandra's, and they began.
They started slow, as they usually did. Short, measured strides allowed them to circle one another. Jabs and front kicks measured range, and acted as a warmup before the pace picked up. The cushioned matting beneath them sank with each step they took – a reminder that throwing one another was safer than ever before now.
Ethan shot across the space first, throwing a simple jab-straight-hook, with the final blow aimed for Cassandra's side. She weaved and deflected the first two strikes easily enough, but miscalculated Ethan's hook. She puffed out a grunt when his glove connected with her ribs.
Cassandra's fist swung up, and Ethan narrowly avoided the uppercut, twisting his head and upper body clear; in the same movement, his left fist shot forward in a jab, tagging Cassandra in the chin.
His straight punch met air as he tried to follow up, only for Cassandra to dodge back. She disengaged with a kick to Ethan's midsection, which he effortlessly mitigated with his arms.
It was meant as a reset – to give Cassandra the room to breathe before reengaging. Ethan pressed forward before she could recuperate. He stomped in Cassandra's direction, throwing his right leg in a low roundhouse kick. Predictably, she drew her leg back – retreating from his advance.
Ethan allowed the momentum of the kick to carry him over – planting the same foot on the mats and twisting his body. He turned, sending his left leg back with all the force of a piston. Cassandra grunted, tanking the strike with her arms protecting her torso as she stumbled back.
In the time it took Cassandra to regain her footing, Ethan was already on her – feinting a kick with his left, causing Cassandra to brace. It left her open to Ethan lunging at her and securing a single collar tie.
"Ethan," Cassandra grunted, knocking her knee into his side as she wriggled. "You're awfully aggressive tonight."
In the middle of their grapple, it gave Ethan pause.
He was, wasn't he?
"Sorry," Ethan muttered, and his hands loosened their iron-clad grip on Cassandra's nape and shoulder.
Cassandra's leg swept to the side, and Ethan raised his foot up, preventing the trip. She yanked him backward in the attempt to break his balance. In between pants for breath, she said, "Don't be sorry." Another sweep, this time catching Ethan's leg – but he swiftly caught his balance, and pushed against Cassandra to keep her from trying that again. "You're tense."
Ethan rammed his knee into Cassandra's side in lieu of a reply. It drew another sharp grunt from Cassandra, who retaliated with a knee of her own.
"You've been rather quiet all night, too." Cassandra let the words out in between quick breaths for air. She tucked her arm down, shielding her ribs from Ethan's knee as she asked, "Something on your mind?"
Bela burning the bridge between them, for one. And with that singed connection went Ethan's lifeline to Rose. He could probably attempt to infiltrate Lady Dimitrescu's bedroom himself, but the risks that posed were limitless. Without knowing the rotations of the maids – especially Tatyana's schedule – he was bound to be discovered in no time. Those giant claws wouldn't stay away for long if she found out Ethan had snuck into her bedroom.
Not to mention there would be additional blowback on Bela, if not all the sisters. They were meant to keep him under lock and key. If not locked up, then at least guarded, and watched – never let out of their sight. It would reflect terribly on them if their mother found Ethan free as a bird, trespassing wherever he wished.
"A lot on my mind," Ethan admitted. He lowered his forearm, catching Cassandra in the thigh as she tried to knee him in the midsection. "That's nothing new, though. Always got a lot on my mind these days."
His leg caught Cassandra's, but he'd taught her well by now – and she was adept at breaking Ethan's stance before he could drop her to the ground. With a breath, Cassandra chimed, "And here I thought taking you to the range would put you in better spirits."
Ethan was tempted to ask since when it was Cassandra cared at all about the spirits he was in. He thought better of it, lest he get his teeth kicked in for asking such questions. He instead turned his attention back to destabilizing Cassandra's balance. "It was a fun time. Don't get me wrong."
Cassandra hummed, long and contemplative. She knocked her fist into his temple in a long overhead strike, sending Ethan wincing. He shifted his hold on Cassandra in the grapple, shrugging his shoulder up to help block the attacks.
"Maybe another field trip is in order then," Cassandra said, just as Ethan kneed her in the side, winding her. Under her breath, in a whisper that Ethan may not have been meant to hear, she said, "It's the least I could do."
His heart may have skipped a beat at this unexpected, unfamiliar warm sentiment from Cassandra. He fell back to a cool, detached tone as he quipped, "Don't tell me – we gonna go take the Duke's carriage on a joyride or something?" He dropped his arm, minimizing the damage of Cassandra's incoming knee. "Maybe we can bring some guns along and do a drive-by on some lycans. I can ride shotgun, and pick the music. Real Grove Street gangsta shit."
Cassandra went completely still in the grapple, and turned her head to look at Ethan. The bewilderment set into the confused lines on her forehead. "What the fuck are you talking about, Ethan?"
Ethan – as always – laughed to himself at the state of befuddlement he could evoke from Cassandra and her sisters.
He wasn't laughing anymore when Cassandra told him, "I was thinking something more along the lines of taking you to your daughter."
He froze.
Had he heard that right? Was Cassandra of all people actually saying those words out loud, in real life?
Had that last hit to his head knocked his brain loose enough for him to start hallucinating?
"If Tanya's willing to listen to anyone other than mother, it's me." Cassandra avoided his eyes, shrugged, and spoke of the plan as though it was the most normal thing in the world. As regular and ordinary as their nightly spars. "And that's if she catches us to begin with. I know her schedules. It won't come to that."
The unease was rumbling up a storm in Ethan's gut. The words simply were not computing in Ethan's head – not when it came from Cassandra. This wasn't real. It was too good to be true. From Cassandra, it was more likely to be some damn trap, or game.
"Cass," Ethan drew in a breath through clenched teeth. He kept light on his feet as he avoided Cassandra's halfhearted attempts at tripping him. "You better not be fucking with me right now."
Cassandra's eyes shot to meet Ethan's once more. With the scant distance between them, he got a good look at the frown crinkling her tattooed forehead. Her hot breath fanned his face when she growled, "I'm not fucking with you. Why would you think that?"
To Ethan, it was obvious why. It had been a little over a week since they tried to kill each other in this same armory. They were only a few steps away from the very same wall that had separated them between life and death. If that incident alone was not enough to instill doubt, then their bloody and painful history in the weeks prior to that were more than enough to give Ethan some pause.
While the progress they made in such a short span of time was leaps and bounds better than what he could have hoped for – he was still guarded and doubtful. Time felt like it moved differently in this castle, when exposed to only a handful of friendly faces at a time – and Ethan suspected that's what made it so easy to fall into camaraderie with the sisters.
But still.
Ethan wasn't so far gone that he didn't carry a healthy dose of caution until now. His textbook case of Stockholm Syndrome aside, Ethan liked to think he wasn't a complete idiot, or too far gone. If there was anyone in this castle Ethan had to be wary of, aside from the castle matriarch, it was Cassandra.
Not to mention, Cassandra had given him every reason to distrust her when it came to his daughter. She'd hung the threat of hurting Rose in the air as the bait to secure Ethan's cooperation. Fuck – even Rose's bracelet had been Ethan's reward for delivering the wine within the time Cassandra allotted.
While Ethan could compartmentalize to hell and back after Cassandra had given her explanation – his love for his daughter took precedence over his attempts to rationalize and accept Cassandra's behavior. The fetch, and the torture could be somewhat justifiable, fucked up as it was – but Ethan drew the line when it involved Rose. Nothing could excuse the threats on Rose's life. Things like that could not just be swept under the rug and forgotten.
Even if Cassandra was whittling away at his walls with each night they bonded together.
It appeared Ethan's silence spoke volumes, because Cassandra's frown twisted into a snarl tugging at the corner of her lip. Her grip on Ethan's neck and shoulder tightened. Despite the ferocity on her face, Cassandra's words were uttered in a whisper. "You don't believe me, do you?"
Ethan closed his eyes as he shifted, trying to worm out of Cassandra's hold in the grapple. With a sigh, he began, "Cassandra… it's not that long ago you were threatening my daughter to get me to play fetch with you. Hell, you even got your hands on her bracelet as part of the damn game." He opened his eyes, and hardly knew how to feel about the mixture of offense and sadness that flashed across Cassandra's face, quicker than he could blink. Ethan stood his ground. "You'll have to understand if I'm a little… mistrustful."
Cassandra pushed against Ethan – still trying to break his balance. The look on her face was of pure incredulity. Her thin brows raised up, and her hot scoff fanned Ethan's face. It was a good couple of seconds before she found her voice. Very matter-of-factly, she asked, "Did it ever occur to you that I was lying?" Her lips parted and pressed together before she pushed against Ethan, and managed to sputter out, "That every threat I made with regards to Rosemary was empty?"
No. It had not once occurred to Ethan. Cassandra had never given him reason to believe so. Viewing Cassandra as anything other than a ruthless sadist was very, very new territory.
Not one to fan the flames, Ethan didn't voice his thoughts. But once more, his silence, and the hesitation on his face said it all.
Cassandra huffed under her breath, "Unbelievable." She sent her knee up, and Ethan just barely rammed his own knee into hers in time – deflecting the attack.
"Cass –"
"I never planned on hurting your daughter, Ethan. I only said that because I knew it would get you to cooperate."
Steering Ethan by the nape of his neck, Cassandra turned them around, so that her back was facing the newly repaired wall. She tried and failed to reap Ethan's leg, then continued – her voice still rife with offense, "I wouldn't harm a single hair on her head, and I never laid a finger on her either." The anger built on Cassandra's face, and her grip on Ethan only tightened further. "I took her bracelet from mother's dresser. I was in and out like a ghost. Little Rosemary never even saw me."
Ethan took a big breath – made difficult by Cassandra's powerful fist smacking him in the ribs.
Cassandra's admissions were a hard pill to swallow. Like this entire process of getting to know the brunette, it clashed with his established worldview. It was like if someone walked up to him and suddenly told him Mia was alive this entire time.
Ethan wasn't sure what he would do. He wasn't sure what to feel off the bat – because he'd be happy his wife was alive, but…
After everything with Bela, and after Ethan had grieved for his late wife – then what? Where was he supposed to go from there? He'd already been through that rollercoaster of emotions once, only to find her alive in Dulvey. Ethan wasn't sure he would survive those tumultuous emotions all over again if there were a round two.
This was a little similar. He'd been so sure of Cassandra's indiscriminately murderous nature. He was struggling to make peace with it and reconcile it for the sake of general civility and peace within the castle – and now he was learning that one of the things that truly sent him into a frenzy was an empty lie. What now? He'd repressed so much anger and rage towards Cassandra across the weeks that it was nearly impossible to comprehend that Cassandra never meant his daughter harm.
"Come on, Cass. Take a walk in my shoes for a second, yeah?" Ethan met Cassandra's glare and kept his tone level. The last thing he wanted was to escalate – especially if Cassandra's intentions were as benign as she claimed. "You were so sure that I came to your castle to destroy your home – you had that in your head all this time, until we finally got to talk without trying to kill each other."
Ethan dug his heels into the mats, then pushed off with the balls of his feet – preventing Cassandra from steering him around. With a grunt of exertion, he went on, "Wasn't it hard for you to put that in the past too? To accept that the guy you thought was your family's mortal enemy was really just some guy looking for his daughter?"
"The way I see it…" Ethan dropped low, keeping on stable footing so Cassandra's attempt at a hip throw fell flat. She pulled away, and just as quickly reengaged the single collar tie. Ethan continued, "I think that right now, I'm feeling what you felt when I got close to Bela and Dani."
Cassandra's downcast eyes were an indicator that he'd hit his mark; the analogy he drew served its purpose.
Ethan tried to give Cassandra the benefit of the doubt as the silence stretched on. "Look, if what you're saying is true –"
"It is," Cassandra hissed, eyes darting back up to glare at him. "I've never hurt a child in my life, do you understand? In this one, or the last." Her teeth remained bared for a moment longer, and she growled, "That's why it is insulting to me that you trust Bela of all people with your child, but doubt me when I say I never planned to hurt her."
It was Ethan's turn to narrow his eyes. "What are you saying?"
"I thought I was perfectly clear," Cassandra growled, "but allow me to rephrase it, so it gets through that thick skull of yours." She began pushing against Ethan once more. "I have never killed a child while out on the hunt. Bela cannot say the same."
"Cass –"
"Ask her," Cassandra huffed. "Ask her about the cellar she found in the early days." A pause as the anger mingled in her eyes with what looked like sadness. "Ask her! Ask her about how much she enjoyed slaughtering the men, women, and children down there. Ask her how much she fucking laughed when they all lay dead at our feet." She snarled, nearly spitting the words out, "See if you still trust her around Rosemary after that."
Cassandra channeled her frustration into their grapple – into pushing against Ethan to keep him off balance. She was angry, and when she was angry, she was sloppy. Ethan didn't have much time to process Cassandra's challenge. All he had was muscle memory deftly guiding him to sidestep Cassandra, and displace her momentum. He was getting tired of this grapple, and needed to calm her down before this got worse.
With all her force moving forward, Cassandra stumbled when the only thing stopping her (Ethan) was suddenly removed. She staggered, and her foot caught on a gap between the mats on the floor. Ethan lurched to try and grab her – to stop her from falling over – but it was too late.
Cassandra caught herself at the last moment with one hand on the floor, preventing a nasty faceplant. Her other arm had landed on her desk near the fireplace. Crouched on one knee, she shifted, her rash guard's sleeve snagging on the corner of the table. An irritated grunt, and Cassandra yanked her arm free, tearing the stretchy fabric apart in one swift motion.
The breath left Ethan's body.
Countless crooked, sunken, pale scars ran along Cassandra's left arm. The dreadful marks crisscrossed her pallid skin, forming endless aimless patterns.
But what truly caught Ethan's eye – now that he was seeing Cassandra's bare arm for the first time since they'd met – was the deep, jagged, and unmistakable line that ran from her wrist all the way to the crook of her inner elbow.
Self-harm was an understatement for that one. Cassandra had tried to take her own life, and Ethan had no clue if she'd succeeded, and wound up as a bug woman, or what. It would have been a miracle if she did survive, judging by the sheer scale of the wound alone.
Cassandra was frantically tugging on her ruined sleeve within moments as she got to her feet. A strained, "fuck," was grunted, and she struggled to cover up her exposed, scarred skin. When it became evident that her sleeve was beyond saving, she cursed again, and looked up to see Ethan's stare.
"What?" Cassandra snapped. "Spit it out, man-thing. I know they're hideous."
Ethan found himself parroting Cassandra's question, "What?" He shook his head, tearing his eyes from her arm. "No, they're not. I'm just… surprised, is all."
It was a rotten life in a rotten world. I am glad I'm never going back to it. I'm glad it's all gone.
Ethan's eyes fell back to the scars, and the synapses in his brain all but fried themselves.
Nothing worth missing from those days.
Had that been how bad her previous life was? Bad enough to push her to the brink, and to try to take all the pain away in the most terrible way possible?
What had the world done to her?
Ethan licked his lips, bringing his gaze back to Cassandra, whose eyes were fixed to the floor. She continued to try in vain to cover up her arm with her ripped sleeve. The fabric only tore further when subjected to the fervor in her movements.
As gently as he could, Ethan tried to broach the topic. He stepped closer, his voice just over a whisper. "Cass… those are some serious scars."
"No." Cassandra's head shot up. Her face morphed into a visage of anger as she took a step closer to meet Ethan. "I don't want to hear it. I don't need your pity. I do not need anyone's pity."
"It's not pity, Cass," Ethan tried. His brows furrowed together as he told her, "I only wanted to say you're not alone, in case you wanna talk about it." A deep breath, and he added, "I know what it's like to hurt, and –"
"Oh, you do, do you?" Cassandra snapped. She tilted her head, her voice full of mockery, "Poor, poor Ethan Winters thinks he knows pain." Her lips curled into a snarl. "So I cut your arm up a little and took a finger, and – and you think you know hurt? You think you know pain, Ethan?" Her trembling lips remained parted, her teeth bared like a feral animal. "You know nothing."
Cassandra stomped forward, this time sending Ethan back a step as he frowned, hands raised up slightly at his sides. Cassandra's voice rose in volume, even as it cracked at times, "You think you know what it's like to be beaten senseless for the slightest mistakes? To be kicked and kicked over and over again, until it pains you to breathe? Until passing out is considered a mercy? To be in and out of consciousness, remembering nothing but the pain?"
Another step forward, and Ethan nearly tripped over the mats as he retreated a step.
"You think you know what it's like to be strapped to a table and tortured for days on end?" The fire was alight in Cassandra's eyes. She grabbed her intact sleeve, and with a single motion, ripped it clean off. It revealed a menagerie of scars to match her left arm. "You think you know pain, Ethan?" Her hand shot out, grabbing Ethan by the front of his shirt. She tugged him close – until their faces were only inches away. "You know what it's like to be so delirious in the pain that you lose your mind? That you stop seeing whoever it is doing this to you, and – and seeing…"
Cassandra licked her lips and then clenched her teeth together – so hard that it looked like it hurt. "You see your own face staring down at you, turning your skin into a fucking jigsaw puzzle."
A final scoff, and Cassandra spoke around her tight sneer. "You think you can come to me, and talk about suffering, Ethan?" Her fist tightened around his shirt – enough for the fabric to produce a creak in protest. "You know nothing about suffering."
Ethan had to close his eyes and count his breaths.
He had to, or else he would have lashed out at Cassandra, and they would be right back at square one – and he would probably be beaten into a bloody pulp for matching anger with anger, hate with hate.
When he opened his eyes, he found Cassandra had not moved at all. Her fierce scowl bore down on him from only inches away. Hot, shaky breaths continued to fan his face. Her hand clenched a fistful of his shirt – just about ready to tear the fabric if she made any sudden movements.
Disengage, Ethan.
Stand down.
Ethan knew pain and suffering in spades, and he would be damned if he let Cassandra push him around like this – acting like he'd lived nothing but the easy life.
Fine, then. He would decisively prove her wrong.
"Lemme show you something." Ethan put his hand on Cassandra's. He gently tugged down to free his shirt, but was met with resistance. Amber eyes glinted dangerously in the light of the fireplace – daring him to make one move out of line. Then, she let him go.
Ethan stepped back. With little warning, he grabbed the hem of his shirt and rolled it up – all the way to his collarbone.
Over the crackle of the fireplace, Ethan could just barely hear Cassandra's sharp intake of breath.
Ethan turned slowly, showcasing the countless scars plastered over his torso. Jagged cuts, crooked claw marks, splotches of burns – his body was a roadmap of his night at the Baker House and the Village alike. Ethan stopped when his back faced Cassandra. It was marked by all the dozens of times he'd tried to make a break for it, sacrificing flesh and a pint or two of blood in the process. Light on ammo and supplies, Ethan had often been forced to flee from his moldy foes and scavenge for loose bullets and bandages.
You could run a hand along his back, and Ethan could tell you the origin of each and every one of the ghastly old scars.
Like Mia's chainsaw carving a shallow but gnarled, twisted line from the back of his shoulder, all the way to his hip.
Like Jack's shovel clipping Ethan in the back, fracturing a rib and tearing flesh and muscle clean off the bone.
Like the colony of spiders that had split his skin, burrowing inside, only to burst free a few inches away.
Like the rusty nails Lucas' traps had peppered into his body, leaving ugly, uneven pockmarks in their wake.
Ethan looked down at his body, eyes fixed to the unsightly blemish where Heisenberg had impaled him with a piece of rebar. "Look, Cass. I don't know what you've been through. I dunno how much you've been hurt – but it sounds like a lot." He gave her one last eyeful of his back before he rolled his shirt down. "I don't mean to pretend like I know everything about you, or how you've been hurt." Countless marks scarred Cassandra's skin, both little and large. "Or how many times."
Slowly, he turned to face Cassandra. All the fire and brimstone in her face had vanished. In its place were the familiar pitched brows – that vaguely sad expression that reminded him of Bela whenever she was upset.
"What I'm trying to tell you is that you're not alone. I know what it's like to suffer, and… I know that sort of misery well."
There would be no apology from Cassandra. No admitting that she was wrong about him. Ethan knew by now that wasn't how Cassandra worked. Any remorse she had would be expressed in other ways.
When Cassandra said nothing, Ethan continued, "My wife went missing three years ago. It's a long story, but the gist of it is that I found her in a fucking hellhole." His eyes tightened and went down to the floor. "That fucking claustrophobic hellhole was worse than this entire valley."
The memories – the sensations – the pain all came at him a mile a minute. He was wincing and speaking through a tense jaw as he spoke, "These moldy monsters were fucking me up every step of the way. They weren't like the lycans here." Ethan's hands fidgeted at his sides as he glared at the floor. "They were these tall, gooey fuckers made of black mold and slime. You could hear them coming a mile away because of that," he grimaced, and suppressed a chill running down his spine, "that fucking squelching sound they make when they walk."
"If you don't hear them, then you'll smell 'em." His nose crinkled, and the bitter, pungent rot assailed his senses, quickening his heartbeat and making his hair stand on end. "The lycans might be like wild animals, but these things – they're just fucking killing machines. They don't eat, they don't sleep." Ethan swallowed the lump forming in his throat. The droning ring in his ears made it challenging to hear his own voice. "They just kill. That's all they wanna do. You could take their fucking heads off, and they'll just keep swinging." A shuddering breath, and Ethan shifted his leg half a step back – almost like a reflex. "You take their legs off, and they'll keep crawling after you. They won't stop 'til either one of you is dead."
"They cut me to ribbons more times than I can count." Belatedly, Ethan realized the quiet, uneven tapping sound he could hear was his trigger finger against his jogging pants.
Ethan clenched his hands together, clamping down on his trigger finger. "I lost more blood that night than I ever thought I had in my body." He closed his eyes. "And at night… I'm right back there in that hellhole. I taste the blood, I smell the rot – it's like I'm back there, and it makes me sick to my goddamn stomach. The nightmares, they…" Ethan had to pause and swallow hard. "They never stop, you know? In my dreams, I'm always running. I'm running for my life, because if I stop, I know I'm going to be tortured and mutilated until my body gives out."
His eyes opened, and he saw the bob of Cassandra's throat. "I think you know what that's like, yeah?" Sad eyes, previously fixed to a nondescript spot on Ethan's chest, flicked up to meet him. He studied the dark circles under Cassandra's eyes, and how they had never left in all the days they trained together. "I think you've been doing a lot of running in your dreams too."
The emotionless mask was gone.
Cassandra wore the sadness plain on her face now. She closed her eyes, shaking her head and sending her dark ponytail swaying in slow movements. "I don't want to talk about it anymore." She paused and gulped. "Please leave."
"I can't claim to know what you've been through." But Cassandra had certainly painted a gruesome image for him already. "I just… want you to know you aren't the only one in this castle who's been through the ringer." Almost as an afterthought, Ethan added, "and those scars are nothing to be ashamed of, really."
It caught her attention. In an instant, her eyes were on his. "And why shouldn't I be?"
Ethan took a cautious step forward to stand closer to Cassandra – just over an arm's reach away. "What is it you see in them? Why would you be ashamed of a couple of scars?"
"Why?" Incredulity clouded her face. "They are a reminder," Cassandra spoke in a low growl. "A terrible reminder of how much of a weak, pathetic wretch I once was." Her lip curled in disgust. "A reminder that I once let the world trample me into the mud." She swallowed hard the lump forming in her throat. "A reminder that I tried to quit and take the coward's way out."
Cassandra took in a shaky breath. "If you ask me, there is plenty to be ashamed of. They are nothing but marks of my failure, my weakness – all the pain and suffering." Her hands clenched into tight, trembling fists. "My desperation to end it all." Cassandra pushed the words out in a quivering whisper, "I hate each and every single one of them."
Ethan waited until he was certain Cassandra was finished. When her eyes fell away to stare vacantly through him, he took his chance. Voice soft and as disarming as possible, he asked, "May I?" He extended his hand forward, palm up.
Cassandra regarded him with her piercing stare – not quite that basilisk glare, but there was a visible distrust, which took a long moment to assuage. Wordlessly, Cassandra raised her hand up slowly, placing her forearm in Ethan's waiting palm.
Ethan had, obviously, been around his fair share of scars. He'd also been through his fair share of reassuring Mia about her scars – even though Mia's woes were completely dissimilar from Cassandra's. It still gave him a little foreknowledge when dealing with this current dilemma.
Gently, he ran his thumb over the long gash running from Cassandra's wrist to her elbow. Her muscles tensed beneath his touch – as if maybe she was regretting the trust she placed in Ethan, if only for a moment. As the seconds passed, the flinching ceased; Ethan waited until Cassandra took a long, even breath before he spoke, "These actually healed over pretty nicely. Whoever patched you up did a good job." He glanced up at Cassandra, offering a small smile. "Your body did a good job recovering, too."
They weren't new wounds, that much Ethan could tell. By appearance alone – color, shape, shallowness – it was obvious Cassandra had lived for quite some time in that past life after she tried to end it all. Her skin's condition was too good for these to have been the wounds that ended her life.
Of course, he was dealing with a bug-woman, whose physiology Ethan only knew by guesstimation.
But still, Ethan had a good feeling about his deductions. After all, Bela had said their bodies were the perfect imitations of human beings. If Cassandra's body imitated her appearance in her past life, then he was right, and she'd lived long after she earned those scars.
"I don't see weakness at all. The opposite, really." Ethan gave the scar another gentle stroke. "These scars – the fact they've healed over this well… It's a show of strength. A will to live and move on." He gave Cassandra's arm a squeeze, ducking his head to meet her downcast eyes. "I can't begin to imagine what that was like – the torture and the delirium… only you know how terrible that was, Cass. But these," Another tap to the long scar, "These show that no matter how shitty the world around you was, you survived, and you moved on. You lived in spite of everything. Even if maybe you were out of reasons to hold on, you did anyway."
For the second time in just as many days, Cassandra's eyes carried a glassy tint to them. Ethan's gaze never left hers as he emphasized, "These scars aren't a sign of weakness, Cass. Not to me, and not to anyone with half a brain. These show that you're a survivor. No – more than that." Ethan's tone was as firm as it was gentle, and he squeezed her arm one last time before releasing it. "You're a goddamn fighter, Cass – you always were. Even in the last life, you got up from death's door and said no."
Cassandra drew in a shuddering breath and averted her eyes. Apparently wholly unused to the kindness, she looked away – craning her head to the side to expose as little emotion to Ethan as possible. She cleared her throat and crossed her arms – but more looked like she was simply embracing herself. "You can go now, Ethan. We can pick this up tomorrow."
Cautiously, Ethan placed a hand on Cassandra's shoulder. "You sure?"
To his surprise, Cassandra's hand landed atop his. She held his hand tight for a beat, then just as quickly returned it to her arm. Her trigger finger began its erratic dance, and she let out a breath. "Yeah." A beat passed, and the firmness set back into her voice. "I'm sure. Good night, Ethan."
Ethan's hand slowly came free from her shoulder with one last pat. He took a step to the side – towards the exit – but remained sloth-like in his movements; in case she changed her mind, Ethan wanted to be sure she had the chance to call him back.
Cassandra turned her back to him fully, facing the blazing fireplace instead. She rubbed her face, puffing out a sigh. Cassandra took a leaf from his book and hedged on humor when she chimed, "I will owe you two extra shots of vodka next time to make up for tonight."
Halfway to the door now, Ethan cracked a smile. "Lookin' forward to it. Good night, Cass."
Ethan made his exit with little further ceremony. His legs carried him forward automatically, the path now drilled into his body over the weeks. His head, meanwhile, stirred and spun from the information gleamed.
A past life of abuse and suffering. A gnarly suicide attempt, somehow survived.
Torture.
Torture that had lasted for days. Torture awful enough to make her hallucinate.
The old wounds were countless in number and in method. The incisions had been delivered by tools of varying sharpness, from rusty, dull knives, to perhaps scalpels. Different sizes and lengths, and Ethan could guess different depths as well.
There were wrinkled burn marks as well, from acid and fire alike. The color and condition of her skin spoke volumes of all Cassandra had endured, and just how ruthlessly wicked her torturer was.
Had his deductions really been correct? What if she really did die by her own hand, maybe after all that torture? Suicide was certainly an understandable alternative to being strapped down and tortured to insanity.
But no – Cassandra had reacted to the assumptions he'd made. He'd hit the nail on the head with regards to the timeline of her suicide attempt, and the scars backed it up. Those near-fatal wrist scars were some of the oldest, compared to the rest he'd seen.
And there was no telling how many more Cassandra hid. But it was safe to assume there were many more, judging by the severity of the torture, and the lengths Cassandra went to ensure she exposed as little skin as possible at any given time.
Had that torture been part of… however the hell it was she was turned into a bug-woman? Or was it an unrelated incident in its entirety?
Bela had made it clear that she and her sisters were a creation of Miranda's – but there were still so many details missing from that entire process – the whole process, really. How had they fallen into Miranda's hands to begin with? What the fuck kind of mad scientist shit did Miranda do to the sisters?
Had Miranda been the one to torture Cassandra? Why? To what end?
It seemed the more Ethan lingered in this castle, the more questions he had.
Ethan sighed, finding himself at Bela's front door thanks to his restless feet.
Surely Bela wouldn't mind if he borrowed her shower really quick, then dipped out. She couldn't be that unreasonable, even after everything yesterday. While the spar had not lasted that long, he'd still worked up a sweat, and he knew he smelled like a combination of cement and sweat – which was frankly, gross.
Then Ethan tried the handle and found Bela's door to be locked.
Ethan stared at the doorknob, dumbfounded. He tried again, hoping he was mistaken, and had simply forgotten how doorknobs worked.
The door refused to budge.
"Fuck." Ethan muttered to himself. "Now what?"
A/N: Hey hey, thanks so much for reading! Be sure to hit those favorite and follow buttons so you don't miss out on updates!
Tiny bit behind schedule, lots going on in my personal life at the moment. I hope you fellas enjoyed this one nonetheless. Not sure if I have much to say in the notes this time around. Lots of little revelations abound as we near the peak of Cass' arc.
Next update should be up on the weekend of October 2nd, or earlier if we're all lucky. Later, if things get busier for me.
As usual, hope you give the socials a peek before you go, to see other ways you can support this story linktr . ee / sylvesterm . I'm recording the Q&A for September soon, so if you have any burning questions to ask me, be sure to hop in.
Thank you fellas for all the support. I'll catch you again soon. Stay safe out there!
