A/N
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You guys are awesome! Thank you so much for your feedback on how I was doing with the POVs, my OC, and just the story in general! =D
IMPORTANT! Okay, remember when Rephaim called Stevie Rae agwadantogi? Well, I found a different way to say what that means on a much more reliable looking website, so now agwadantogi is a-qua-da-nv-do. Sorry for any confusion!
Disclaimer: Nope. Sorry. No owning to be had.
~Smiley
Chapter Seven: The Mayo Penthouse
Nisroc
Rephaim had dropped to his knees beside the Red One. The small, frail-looking vampyre was unconscious, that Nisroc could tell. But what Nisroc thought was almost strange was the way his older brother scooped the girl up into his arms. He had never, not once in his entire life, seen Rephaim be so gentle, so careful, so considerate and—could it be—concerned for as long as he had known him.
Rephaim was holding the Red One bridal style with one arm under her knees and the other supporting her back, although her neck was unable to support the weight of her head, and it was tilted back.
Father nodded grimly; his fierce smile was victorious. Without a word, he unfurled his mighty wings and took to the sky. Nisroc and his brother looked at each other before Rephaim shrugged and the two followed their immortal parent back to what Nisroc later learned was a penthouse in a building referred to as "Mayo".
That had been days ago. The Red One had not yet awakened from the unconsciousness that they had brought upon her. As the days had passed, the Tsi-Sgili had gotten increasingly anxious and more irritable, and Nisroc was glad when she had to return to the House of Night and he could be rid of her presence.
However, at the same time, Nisroc felt increasingly alone. He was overjoyed that his brother wasn't dead, but Father and the Tsi-Sgili had both agreed that Rephaim should be the one primarily in charge of the Red Vampyre. And that meant that Rephaim had spent the entirety of the past few days holed up in that bedroom the Red One was imprisoned in. The only time Nisroc got to speak to his brother at all was when he needed to eat, and, like the obedient servant of his father's he was, Nisroc would bring the food to the immortal's favorite son.
Nisroc hoped the Red One would awake soon. Then, maybe, just maybe, Nisroc would be able to talk to his brother if the red vampyre came into another part of the large penthouse. Rephaim had never been loving or nice; like their father had raised him to be, Rephaim's emotions were hard to read, and he was never gentle-hearted with anyone. Why would he be, after all?
However, Rephaim was the one to teach Nisroc to fight, and to speak (even though he wasn't quite as good as it as his brother was), and everything else he needed to know to survive when living with his father.
No, Rephaim wasn't nice, but he had never been unnecessarily harsh to any of his brothers—at least not when they were alone. Thus, Nisroc had never been afraid of his brother, unless he was angry, in which case Rephaim had quite the temper. But, all in all, thinking his brother dead had taken a toll on him.
Nisroc settled into the dark brown leather arm chair, listening to the conversation between his Father and the Tsi-Sgili. He waited for the grand clock on the wall to creek and chime and complain and signal Nisroc to go and check on his brother and the state of their prisoner. But as he waited, Nisroc knew in his heart that he wanted nothing more than his brother back.
Stevie Rae
Days, weeks, months, years…they had all passed as far as she knew. All the time in the world and no time at all had passed. What was time to her in this state, this state where she drifted in and out of consciousness without control or thought to it at all? What was time to her in this state, where everything she could do was nothing at all? What was anything to her in this state of real and surrealism, this state of nothing and everything, this state of being and nonexistence, this state of…of…of…
Stevie Rae would moan as a grip on her neck tightened and a warm, healing liquid ran down her throat, giving her a feeling of pleasure and pain. Pain because she would almost be awake enough to feel her own injuries. Pleasure because she would know without really knowing anything at all in her state that the liquid that would be pouring down her throat and reviving her body was blood.
She wouldn't be able to hear much over the roar of her heart pumping the new supply of blood through her weakened body, but she would've been able to swear she'd heard the stifling of a moan, one that she would know was not her own.
What was going on? Where was she? The questions may or may not have drifted to Stevie Rae's attention, but in this state she was in, why did it matter? All she really knew was the strength the blood provided and the not really knowing (or caring to know) anything at all.
Then, the hand gripping her neck would release her, and the wrist she had been drinking from would gently move away, and Stevie Rae would fall back into the state of unconsciousness and consciousness.
It was like she was walking along on some sort of tightrope. Sometimes she would swing one way, other times she would swing another. Sometimes she would be more unconscious than conscious, other times she would be more conscious than unconscious. And when she was more conscious, she would always be greeted with the power and strength of the blood she was being fed.
For days, weeks, months, years, she drifted in and out and in and out. What was time to her in this state? What was consciousness in this state? Why should she snap out of it if nothing mattered either way? Why…
Rephaim
It had been days since Rephaim had been able to look into her eyes, and, if he was honest with himself, he simply could not bear it any longer.
It had been days since he, his father, and Nisroc had captured her and brought her back to the horrible penthouse Neferet had provided. Days since his Father told him he would be in charge of the Red One, and that he would be responsible for seeing that she did not escape. For days, Rephaim had gotten to stay next to Stevie Rae in the bedroom Neferet had decided to make her prison cell.
Even now, Rephaim counted himself lucky that he was the one who got to stay at her bedside, even though he had been ordered to inform Kalona and Neferet the moment she awakens.
See, that was the thing. For days, Stevie Rae had been unconscious. If she had been awake and talking to him, then maybe the last few days wouldn't have been so terrible. On the other hand, her being conscious would have probably only made the sickening guilt plaguing him and the overwhelming self-disgust he was feeling much, much worse. If he were truly honest, it was probably safer for her to stay asleep. Neferet had no use for her while she was so weak.
On the other hand, her weakness and vulnerability was the most impossible to bear, and Rephaim had spent every second of every minute of every hour at her bedside, trying desperately to help her in the only way he possibly could. Stevie Rae had remained unconscious, unaware, for the overwhelming majority of the last few days. However, it was those brief moments were she sat in between consciousness and unconsciousness that Rephaim could act.
She never once opened her eyes, but Rephaim just knew when she was awake enough to drink. Rephaim knew she had lost too much blood when they had abducted her; he had watched it pour from her body and coat the earth below with far too much of her lifeblood—of their lifeblood, joined forever because of their Imprint.
See, that was how he could help her. It was their lifeblood, and he knew he could help her by replacing it. He wanted her to heal so badly. He wanted to see her bright blue eyes again, even if he knew they would probably be burning with anger and hatred for him. He didn't care. She could be mad at him. She could hate him. She could scream and shout and throw punches at him. He knew he deserved it. But even if she would wake up hating him, he wanted her to wake up. He couldn't stand to see her laying there in such obvious pain and do nothing to help her.
If her healing meant giving her blood, then he was more than ready to do so. He didn't know if she would remember anything, but he did know it was helping. So whenever he felt her consciousness stirring, he would gently pull her into his arms. He would hold her tightly to him with one arm, and he would use his beak to cut a thin line in the bicep of the other. Gripping her neck to guide her to the bleeding wound, he would ensure that her lips pressed against the cut and she would drink, probably automatically.
Most of the time, she would give a low moan as the warm liquid would run down her throat, and Rephaim would have to stifle a moan of his own. There had been a slight stinging, yes, as he had reopened the same wound he had been using for the past couple days, but the second her lips touched the cut, the pain evaporated, leaving only pleasure.
When she slipped back into a fully unconscious state, Rephaim would gently release her and lay her back under the covers of the bed. And then he would wait.
He hadn't given her blood since the early evening. It was nearly 2:30 A.M., and Rephaim was sitting there, hoping she would awaken, or at least gain enough consciousness to drink some more. He was hoping, praying, wishing that those beautiful blue eyes of hers would flutter open, that she would say something, anything, to him.
And, because she made no movement, he allowed his shoulders to slump and his head to rest heavily in his hands, and he tried hard to deny the fact that his palms were damp from his tears. Please, Rephaim prayed to any god or goddess that deigned to hear him, please, just let her wake up—let her heal. Please…
Please…
It was then that all the heartache and all the mind-numbing fear and all the sick, sick guilt welled up inside him—made his insides clench and feel as if they would just explode if he didn't just let all of the emotions he was feeling out.
Head still in his hands, Rephaim couldn't hold the dam together anymore, and with a gut-wrenching sob, he began to really and truly cry. For the first time in his centuries-long life, Rephaim, first and favored son of Kalona, fallen immortal Warrior of Nyx, began to sob out of shear guilt. He had enough self-control to keep the noise muffled so no one would hear, but he couldn't stop himself from gasping, muttering, praying the same word over and over again.
Please…
Please…
Please…
Rephaim was concentrating so hard on that little, six-letter word. It was as if it was his life-line, and, for all he knew, it was. He felt as if he wouldn't be able to go on another moment without see her expressive, beautiful blue eyes.
However, he was concentrating so hard on that word, putting all his mind and energy and soul into it, that he didn't even see those eyes flutter open.
A/N
As always, review please!
Ugh, you guys have no idea how much of a hard time I had writing and finishing this chapter…I had to redo it like five times. Seriously, this was going to be a Zoey chapter…you can see what happened. More Stephaim to come next chapter, and I'll be updating this again before I update the next one of my stories…so review please! Tell me what you think!
~Smiley