Another's Demise

Some Motivation

Cameron

Empty.

Everything was empty without her, the distinct melody of her laugh floating through these halls, the wicked look in her eyes every time she tested the limits of what was possible. She never gave in.

And she would never come back.

The house mourned her, it was dull without her touch, without the scent of pancakes wafting through the air in the morning, without her voice sharp and ready, and so clear.

Alara was someone who knew who she was, what she was, and she had every right to never want to see me again.

That didn't mean that chasm in my chest had closed, it had just been filled with the never-ending search for Carlisle Grayson.

My Father.

The words were cruel in my mind, pushing through the crevices of my brain and branding themselves there, an unending torture of a thought. How someone could call themselves a father and do what he had done.

I sat at my desk, the polished wood, scattered with papers, never neat despite how meticulously I used to arrange them. There was no use in keeping things in order when chaos had ensued across the gang.

I was back in London; in the house we had shared. But I did not sleep here, I could not. Not when her faint scent of lavender and vanilla, with a touch of cinnamon.

Ma and Connor were living in the Grayson estate but that was worse than staying here, I could not face those walls, haunted by the sins of my father.

And Connor was worse for wear, I could not imagine what had happened to him, what our father had put him through. I had not even known of his existence until, like a joker pulled from a deck of already counted cards, my father cast him down, saying that he would marry my Alara if I refused.

Anything to get her the Grayson name.

I laughed, the sound hollow and humourless, how well that had worked out for my father, who was still out there lurking, waiting, hunting the woman who had so easily dismantled everything he had worked for.

The Duplicitous were growing, the hunger and need was unrelentless.

But there was no longer an Alara Grayson, to latch onto.

A marriage contract, a bond that linked her to him, that by the outdated traditions meant that in someway she belonged to the Grayson family.

But Alara Mortello belonged to no one.

I stood from the desk, memories of her, when I had taken her from the clutches of Dane Laurier, when she had curled into my side, hair soft and wispy as she rest her head against my chest, a sleepy dreamy look in her eyes, dark and swirling and full of life.

She had held her own against Dane Laurier, twice, she had fought and done everything possible to survive, and she didn't need me.

She didn't want me.

Because I had killed her father.

I couldn't stop myself, the way he spoke about her, turned my blood to liquid fire, this obsession with her being the Queen. When I saw him, with a fanatic's eyes, with nothing more than zeal and dangerous hysteria, all I could think was that he would kill her.

I acted with my heart, instead of my head, and I had cost me everything.

If I had just thought, for a second, she would still be here. Still in my arms in this chair, in this home, with those eyes, my darling would be here.