The Parasite Rose

Chapter 16 — Hiding

The cloth wraps were the first lie I told that morning.

I wound them around my left hand—tight enough to look intentional, loose enough not to cut off circulation. Three layers. The outer one was stained with dried blood from yesterday's "cut." I'd reopened the same wound on my index finger at dawn, pressing the blade against the already-healing skin until it parted. One drop of blood. Just enough to sell the lie.

The vampire servant who brought my breakfast didn't look at my hands. She set the tray on the nightstand—bread, water, a piece of fruit I couldn't identify—and left. She never looked at me. None of them did. I was a piece of furniture that happened to bleed.

I ate the bread. Chewed slowly. The parasite had killed my appetite two weeks ago, but I forced it down anyway. Food was fuel, and I was running on empty. The sweetness in my blood was getting worse—I could taste it at the back of my throat, a syrupy edge that clung to every swallow like honey mixed with rust.

I checked the window. Sunlight, thin and pale, filtered through the glass. I raised my wrapped hand against it. No light leaked through the cloth. Good. The wraps worked.

Damian didn't say anything during the exchange.

We sat across from each other in the study—the desk between us, the knife on the blotter, the candle throwing its usual shadow play across the bookshelves. I'd reduced the frequency to once a week. He knew. He hadn't mentioned it. That was almost worse than him asking.

I cut my wrist. The blade was sharp—his, not mine—and the wound opened clean. I held my arm out across the desk. He leaned forward, his dark eyes fixed on the cut, and pressed his mouth to the skin.

The pull. The drain. The sensation of something leaving me that wasn't just blood—it was warmth, energy, the thin thread of life that connected my circulatory system to whatever lived inside my cells. I felt it flowing out of me, steady and warm, feeding the thing that lived in his chest.

His breathing was even. No tension in his jaw, no clenched teeth. The silver in his chest was quieter than it had been in weeks. My blood was doing its job. The old wound was healing.

I held the position longer than necessary. Not for him—for me. I wanted to feel the exchange, to count the seconds, to measure exactly how much I was giving. My journal had pages of these measurements now, columns of numbers that told a story I didn't want to read.

He pulled back. Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand—a gesture that looked human, practiced, the kind of thing he'd learned three centuries ago and never stopped doing. He pressed a cloth to my wrist. The wound was already closing.

"You've reduced the volume," he said.

"Same amount."

"Your pulse says otherwise." His fingers were still on my wrist, holding the cloth in place. His thumb rested against my artery, reading the rhythm. "Your heart rate is normal, but the stroke volume is lower. You're pumping less blood per beat. The parasite is compensating."

I pulled my wrist free. Pressed my thumb over the wound. It was sealed.

"You keep your own records," I said. "Of my heartbeat."

"I keep records of everything that matters."

"Everything that matters." I stood. "So I matter."

"You matter because your blood is treating my wound." He said it without inflection. The kind of statement that could be true without being the whole truth. "If you're withholding information about your own condition, that affects my treatment."

"Your treatment."

"My health. My ability to function. The silver in my chest doesn't care about your privacy."

I looked at him. He was watching me the way he always did—still, patient, his dark eyes catching the candlelight in a way that made them look wet. Three hundred years of observation, and he still hadn't learned that some things aren't meant to be seen.

"I'm fine," I said.

He didn't respond. He didn't need to. The silence said everything—I don't believe you, and I'm not going to push, because pushing doesn't work with you, and I know that because I've been watching you for six weeks and I've learned that you only move when you choose to.

I left the study. The door closed behind me.

Ryker came at dusk.

He didn't knock. He didn't need to—he was a beta in a wolf pack, and knocking was for humans. He appeared in the corridor outside my room, a shadow that solidified into a tall figure with dark hair and the kind of jaw that looked like it had been designed for clenching.

"Alpha needs you," he said.

"How bad?"

"He's been pacing for six hours. Broke a support beam. Thorne tried to talk him down and got thrown through a wall."

"Knox threw Thorne through a wall?"

"Through a wall and into the courtyard. Thorne is fine. The wall is not."

I grabbed my knife from the nightstand. The same knife I used for the exchanges—the small one with the wooden handle, worn smooth by four years of use. "Is he in the pit?"

"The isolation chamber. He locked himself in." Ryker turned, already walking. I followed.

The tunnel to the Iron Cage was the same as always—damp, dark, smelling of earth and blood and something musky that I'd come to recognize as wolf. Ryker moved through it without hesitation, his boots silent on the wet stone. I kept my hand against the wall for balance, my wrapped fingers trailing along the rough surface.

We reached the isolation chamber. The iron door was thick, scarred, scored with claw marks from previous episodes. Behind it, I could hear something—heavy breathing, the scrape of nails on stone, the low vibration of a growl that wasn't quite human.

Ryker opened the door. "Don't go in until I say."

"Since when do I wait for permission?"

"Since last time, when you almost got your arm torn off."

"I got it back. Mostly intact."

He gave me a look—the kind that said I don't have time for your sarcasm. I stepped inside.

Knox was in the corner. Not sitting—crouched, his body folded into a position that was too low for a human spine, his arms wrapped around his knees, his forehead pressed against the stone wall. His breathing was ragged—inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale—the rhythm of someone fighting to stay in one form.

His eyes found me. Vertical pupils. Amber irises gone wild, the pupils slit like a cat's, the edges bleeding into the iris. His hands were embedded in the stone wall—literally embedded, his fingers sunk into the rock up to the second knuckle, the stone cracked and crumbling around them.

"Alpha," I said. "I brought what you need."

He didn't respond. The growl in his chest was louder now—a physical vibration that I felt through the soles of my shoes, through the bones in my feet, up through my legs and into my ribs. His body was shaking, the muscles in his forearms rippling under skin that was too tight, the fur just barely visible at the edges.

I gave him less. I'd planned to give him less—the journal's calculations, the reduced schedule, the careful rationing of what was left of me. But the sight of him like this—the raw, animal desperation—pulled at something in my chest that I refused to name.

I drew the knife across my wrist. Deeper than I'd cut for Damian. The blood welled up, bright and warm, and the parasite's signature scent hit the air—iron, copper, the faintest trace of something sweet. I held my wrist out.

"Come on," I said. "It's here. You know the smell."

He unglued his fingers from the stone. One by one, the nails pulling free with a sound like cracking ice. He moved toward me—not fast, not slow, the deliberate crawl of something that was barely holding on to its humanity.

He took my wrist. His grip was too tight—I felt the bones shift, protest, the thin skin between them threatening to split. He brought my wrist to his mouth and bit down.

Not the careful, controlled bite of the exchanges with Damian. This was the bite of an animal—teeth sinking into flesh, the pressure uneven, the edges ragged. Pain shot up my arm, bright and sharp, and I bit down on my own lip to keep from making a sound.

He drank. I felt the flow—warm, fast, the blood leaving me in a rush that made my vision blur at the edges. The parasite was working overtime, pulling energy from my reserves, converting, processing, burning through whatever was left. My fingers went cold. Not the normal cold of the exchanges—this was deeper, a cold that started in the marrow and crept outward.

His breathing slowed. The growl faded. The vertical pupils narrowed, then softened, the slits widening back into circles. His grip on my wrist loosened from crushing to firm.

He let go.

Looked at the bite marks on my wrist—two rows of teeth, deep, the skin already purpling. His face was unreadable. The amber eyes were human again, the pupils round, the expression something between exhaustion and something else.

"You're different," he said.

"I'm the same."

"You gave less. The last three times, you gave less." His voice was rough, the way it always was after an episode—raw, scraped, like he'd been screaming in a voice he didn't have. "Your blood tastes different. Thinner."

"Maybe you're getting more sensitive."

"I'm not getting more sensitive. You're giving less." He stood. His full height hit me like a wall—six feet of muscle and bone and barely contained power, the kind of body that had been built for hunting and fighting and surviving. "What's happening to you?"

"The same thing that's always happening. I'm surviving."

"That's not surviving. That's—" He stopped. His jaw worked, the muscles in his neck tight. "You look like shit."

"Thanks. Very eloquent."

"Your hands are shaking."

I looked at my hands. They were shaking. I shoved them into my pockets. "I didn't eat today."

"You didn't eat yesterday either. Or the day before. Mara said you've been skipping meals."

"Mara should mind her own business."

"Mara is omega. It's her business." He crossed his arms. The gesture was pure alpha—broad shoulders, squared stance, the kind of posture that said I am in charge and you are not leaving until I say so. But his eyes were different. Softer. The amber warm, the pupils round, the gaze fixed on my wrapped hands. "Take off the wraps."

"No."

"Nessa."

"I said no."

We stared at each other. The isolation chamber was cold, the stone walls damp, the air thick with the smell of wolf and blood and earth. Somewhere above us, the moon was rising—I could feel it in my bones, a pressure that had nothing to do with the supernatural and everything to do with the simple, human knowledge that night was coming and I needed to get back to the castle before the sun went down.

"Fine," he said. "Keep your secrets." He turned toward the door. "But next time you come, eat something first. You're no use to me dead."

"That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

He didn't smile. But the corner of his mouth twitched—just barely, just enough for me to see. Then he was through the door, and I was alone in the isolation chamber, my wrist bleeding, my hands shaking, and the taste of my own blood sitting heavy on my tongue.

Sweet. Too sweet. Like sugar dissolving in water, the crystals breaking down, the sweetness spreading through everything, making it impossible to tell where the blood ended and the sugar began.

I wrapped my wrist with a fresh strip of cloth from my pocket. Pressed it tight. The blood soaked through almost immediately.

I needed to get back to the castle. Damian was waiting for something—I could feel it, the same way I could feel the moon and the cold and the slow, steady drain of my own life force. He was watching me the way he always watched things—patient, calculating, three centuries of observation trained on a nineteen-year-old girl with transparent fingers and a borrowed clock.

I walked through the tunnel. Ryker was gone—probably back to the pack. The stone walls were close, the air thick, the sound of dripping water filling the silence. My wrapped hand pressed against the wall for balance. The cloth was damp now, the blood soaking through, the cold stone a relief against the thin skin.

I reached the exit. The night air hit my face—cool, sharp, carrying the smell of the city. I stepped out, turned toward the castle, and started walking.

My hands were still shaking. I kept them in my pockets.

Back in the castle, I went straight to my room. Locked the door—pointless, since anyone could break it, but it made me feel better. Sat on the bed. Unwrapped my left hand.

The bandages peeled away in strips, each one stained red and brown. The skin underneath was pale. Not the pale of healing or the pale of blood loss—the pale of disappearance. The index and middle fingers were transparent again, the light from the candle passing through them, the bones visible as thin white lines floating in a column of glow.

I held my hand up. The candle flame was small, weak, but it was enough. The light went through my fingers like water through glass.

The door opened.

I shoved my hand behind my back so fast that my shoulder popped. Damian stood in the doorway, a glass of water in his hand. He didn't knock. He never knocked. Three centuries of being the most powerful person in any room had apparently eroded the concept of knocking entirely.

"I brought water," he said.

"Thanks. Leave it on the nightstand."

He didn't. He walked in. Set the glass on the nightstand. Stood there, looking at me with the expression he always wore—calm, measured, the face of someone who had already seen everything and was merely waiting to see what came next.

"You left the study in a hurry," he said.

"I had somewhere to be."

"The Iron Cage. I know. My** saw you leave with the wolf's beta." He picked up the glass again, turned it in his fingers, the candlelight catching the water inside. "Your exchange with me was reduced. Your exchange with the wolf was probably reduced as well. And you've been skipping meals."

"Is there a point coming, or are you just listing things you've observed?"

"The point." He set the glass down. "Is that you're hiding something. And whatever it is, it's accelerating."

I didn't answer. He looked at my hands—my left hand was behind my back, my right hand was in my lap, fingers curled, the wrapped wrist visible above the sleeve. He didn't push. He didn't need to. The silence was his weapon, the same way silence was mine.

"If you're hiding something," he said, "it will eventually show itself. Things that are hidden have a way of surfacing. In three hundred years, I've never seen a secret stay buried."

"Maybe you haven't been looking hard enough."

"Maybe." He turned toward the door. Paused. His hand was on the frame, his fingers curled around the wood, the silver ring on his left hand catching the light. "Whatever it is, Nessa—"

"Don't."

He stopped.

"Don't tell me what to do about it. Don't give me advice. Don't give me warnings." I looked at him. My voice was steady—the voice I used when the mask was on, when the** was deployed, when the girl with the transparent fingers was hidden behind a wall of words. "I know what I'm doing."

He studied me. Three seconds. Five. Then he nodded, once, and left. The door closed behind him.

I sat in the silence for a long time. The candle burned. My hand stayed behind my back.

When I finally brought it out, the light from the candle hit my fingers again. Transparent. Thinning. The bone visible through the fading flesh.

I picked up the glass of water he'd left. Held it in my right hand—solid, opaque, the fingers gripping the glass like they still belonged to me. Drank. The water was cool, clean, and it did nothing to wash away the taste of my own blood that was still sitting on my tongue.

Sweet. Sweeter than yesterday. Sweeter than last week.

The clock was ticking. I just didn't know how many ticks were left.

I put the glass down. Pressed my transparent hand against the glass, feeling the cool surface against skin that was barely skin anymore. The candlelight passed through my fingers and cast a shadow on the wall—a shadow with gaps, missing pieces, the outline of a hand that was half-there and half-gone.

The shadow stared back at me from the stone.

I pulled my hand away. Blew out the candle. Lay in the dark, listening to my own heartbeat, counting the beats like they were coins in a jar that was leaking from the bottom.

One. Two. Three.

Still here. Still counting.

For now.