Red Dreams (The Reaper Duet #2)

21. Layla

21

LAYLA

The lighthouse stands against the coming storm the way it always does, its beam cutting through darkness just like the choker tattoo slices across my throat.

Kaden kills the motor, and we drift the last few yards, the hull scraping bottom. He vaults over the side, splashing into the shallow surf.

I stare numbly at Ethan slumped beside me, his blood seeping through the makeshift wrappings I made from the spare blanket. He groans, his head resting heavily on my shoulder.

“Almost there,” I whisper, more to myself than him. “Just hold on.”

Cassie sits at the bow, her steel-blue eyes reflecting the beam of the lighthouse as she stares up at the weathered tower. She doesn't move to help as Kaden lifts Ethan from the boat, cradling his skinny form like a child.

“We need to move,” Kaden says gruffly.

I snap out of my stupor and stumble onto land, legs unsteady. I half drag myself across the rocks and sand toward the weathered cottage, its whitewashed walls and faded blue shutters appearing out of the mist like it’s heaven-sent. It’s a far cry from the opulent decadence of the Siren’s Call, and I couldn’t be more thankful.

When I realize Cassie hasn’t followed, I turn back, noticing that she hasn’t moved from the boat.

“Come on,” I say over the growing thunder. “We need to get inside.”

She looks at me, her expression so colorless and blank she might as well be a corpse. Slowly, she climbs out of the boat.

Cassie stalks past me, heading not for the cottage but for the lighthouse.

“Cassie, wait—” I start, but she's already gone, disappearing into the shadows at the base of the tower. I hear the groan of rusty hinges as she forces open the door, then the echo of her footsteps spiraling up, up, up.

I glance back at the cottage, torn. Ethan needs me. But something behind Cassie’s cold affect, a dent in her steel, pulls at me. Sighing, I follow her into the lighthouse.

The stairs are narrow and steep, the metal railings flaking with rust. Cassie’s form flickers through the gaps ahead of me, her footsteps light and quick. We climb in silence, the only sound the wail of the wind and the distant crash of waves.

At the top, the watch room is a circle of shattered glass and peeling paint. Cassie stands at the center, her face tilted up to the domed ceiling where faded murals fight to stay noticeable. There’s a section that’s brighter than the rest, probably an attempt by my father to bring it back to life, but he never finished, and I still can’t tell what the mural’s meant to be.

The beam of the lighthouse sweeps over Cassie, casting her in stark light and shadow.

“I'm staying here,” she says, her voice flat.

It's not a question.

I open my mouth to protest, but the sheer relief that she won’t be in my home stops me. She looks almost small against the vast expanse of the sea, but I know how vindictive and petty she can be. It’s probably best that she starts here, in an abandoned lighthouse that belongs to no one and whose gloom and doom matches hers.

“Okay,” I say softly. “Okay.”

I leave her there, a solitary figure in a solitary tower, and make my way back to Kaden and Ethan. The wind howls as I stumble down the lighthouse stairs, the metal railings cold under my hands. Outside, the storm now rages. Dressed in the simple black sweater and pants, I know I’m going to suffer, but the alternative is to stay here until the storm passes.

With Cassie.

I’m outside in an instant, crossing the rocky terrain toward the cottage, when a particularly violent gust of wind nearly knocks me off my feet.

A jagged bolt of lightning rips across the sky, blinding white. The thunderclap that follows is deafening, shaking the very earth. In that instant, I'm back in the suite, tied up, naked, and beaten by boots and fists.

I freeze, paralyzed, my breath coming out in choked gasps. The metallic scent of blood fills my nostrils. My vision blurs, the cottage and the rocks and the sea bleeding together into a swirl of colors. Another flash of lightning and I flinch violently, a whimper escaping my lips.

I stumble and fall, my palms scraping against the sharp rocks. The pain jolts me back to the present, but only for a moment. The next bolt of lightning sends me spiraling into another flashback, this one of me being torn from Kaden’s arms and thrown into a van, mocked by fully clothed men while they ogled my naked body. Touching me where I didn’t want them to. Threatening to do worse.

I curl into a ball, my body shaking with sobs. The memories keep coming, each one more vivid and terrifying than the last. I'm drowning in them, suffocating under the weight of my own trauma. The wind moans like it’s grieving and knows my pain. Each gust feels like hands on my skin, harsh and bruising.

Then, through the haze of fear and panic, strong arms wrap around me, lifting me off the ground. I thrash and fight, but the arms don’t loosen and hold me close to a wet, solid chest.

“Wraithling.” Kaden’s voice cuts through the chaos. “You’re safe. You’re safe now.”

I try to bury my face in his chest, but he shifts me in his arms so I have to look at him. Rain streams down his face, carving lines through the devil’s beauty.

“No one will ever hurt you like that again,” he vows. “Not even my own blood.”

Lightning splits the sky again, and I flinch. Kaden tightens his hold.

“Look at me,” he says. “Show me those gorgeous eyes that haunt my dreams.”

I do. I keep my attention focused on his scar—the only flaw in a face designed to distract. I wouldn’t even call it a flaw, actually. It’s just … him.

Kaden shields me from the worst of the wind and rain, using steady strides to get us to the cottage’s porch. Once inside, he gently sets me on the worn sofa, his hands lingering on my arms. I look up at him through wet lashes.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I don't know what happened. I just ... I couldn't...”

He brushes a strand of wet hair from my face. “Breathe. In and out. Slowly.”

I try to obey, but my lungs feel like they're filled with ocean water. I choke on a sob, my fingers tangling in my hair, tugging painfully.

Kaden's hands cover mine, gently untangling my fingers. He guides my hands to his chest, pressing my palms against the steady thrum of his heartbeat.

“Focus on me,” he says. “You seem to be awed into silence every time you look at my face, anyway.”

That gets a small smile out of me.

“You're okay,” he murmurs. “You're home.”

I lean into his touch, exhaustion sweeping over me. The cottage blurs again, but it's not from panic this time.

Kaden pulls me into his arms, and I let myself sink into his strength. I let myself believe, just for a moment, that he's right. That I'm okay.

“Ethan?” I ask against Kaden’s chest.

“In the bedroom. I splinted his fingers the best I could and cleaned his opened wounds. He’s stable.”

I exhale shakily, relief mixing with the residual terror still coursing through my veins.

“I need to check on him. And change out of these clothes.” I pull away, wrapping my arms around myself as I stand on unsteady legs.

Kaden nods, his eyes never leaving mine. “I'll secure the perimeter. Make sure we weren't followed and that every security measure I set up before is working.”

Shivering, I hug myself tighter. It stands to reason that Morelli’s men—or Cassie’s men—would know to come here to get Cassie back. But the hardened resolve in Kaden’s eyes tells me that we’re exactly where he wants us to be. When they come, which they will, it will be on Kaden’s terms. His turf.

Kaden's gaze lingers on me for a moment longer before he turns and strides out into the storm, the door clicking shut behind him.

I make my way up the stairs and down the short hallway, stopping at the doorway to my bedroom. Ethan lies on the faded quilt with Reaper curled against his side. I smile at the sleek feline, glad she’s safe and that Cassie never actually caught her, then go back to Ethan. His glasses are missing, making him look so much younger.

“Hey,” I say softly, perching on the edge of the bed. “How are you feeling?”

Ethan turns to the sound of my voice and opens his hazy eyes. “Kaden found opioids. I’m a happy boy.”

A soft laugh escapes me. “I’m glad you get to hang out in the clouds for a while.” I carefully take one of his hands in mine. His skin feels clammy. “Do you forgive me?”

In my attempt to hold back my tears, they leak into my voice when I ask the question.

Ethan's brow furrows, his uninjured hand squeezing mine weakly. “For what?”

I swallow past the thickness in my throat. “For getting you involved in this. For putting you in danger. If I hadn’t listened in and recorded Dawson’s conversation about Oracle, if I’d just minded my own business…”

My voice cracks, and I look away, blinking rapidly. The tears come anyway, sliding down my cheeks in hot, shameful trails.

“Hey, hey...” Ethan tugs on my hand until I meet his gaze again. Even drugged and in pain, his eyes are earnest, full of a steadfast devotion I don't deserve. “You didn't do this to me, Layla. You're my best friend. I'd walk through hell for you.”

A sob escapes me, and I press my forehead to our joined hands. “I think that's exactly where I've led you.”

“Well, you didn't leave me there to burn alone. That's what matters.”

I lift my head, managing a wobbly smile. I let his words wash over me, let myself believe them, if only for a moment. Then I pull back, wiping at my tears. “I should let you rest.”

Ethan nods, his eyelids drooping. “Stay with me? Just until I fall asleep?”

“Of course.”

He’s snoring within seconds. I gently kiss his forehead before quietly grabbing some dry clothes from the dresser and slipping into the bathroom across the hall.

I shut the bathroom door behind me and lean against it heavily, exhaling a shuddering breath. In the harsh light of the bare bulb, I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror above the sink.

My hair hangs in limp, wet strands around my face, the once vibrant blond now dull and matted. The bruises and cuts littering my skin stand out in stark contrast, a morbid collage of purples, blues, and angry reds. I look like a watercolor painting gone horribly wrong, everything bleeding together in a grotesque imitation of art.

But the tattoo draws my eye, as it always does. The intricate design wraps around my throat like a noose, black ink against pale skin. I reach up to trace it with trembling fingers, remembering the burn of the needle. I try to remember if Harris was one of the men slaughtered when we escaped, and I can’t.

A shudder runs through me, and I have to grip the sink to keep from collapsing. My knuckles turn white from the force of it, the chipped porcelain biting into my palms.

I force myself to look, to really see the extent of the damage. A particularly nasty gash runs along my jawline, the edges jagged and inflamed. I think I got that one from the serrated edge of a knife.

With shaking fingers, I peel off my wet clothes, wincing as the fabric sticks to the cuts and bruises littering my skin. Each article falls to the floor with a heavy plop, revealing more of my abused body.

The bruises on my ribs are a mottled mess of colors, some fresh and others fading into sickly yellows and greens. Each one is a reminder of a boot or a fist, of pain exploding through my body like a supernova.

And then there are the marks you can't see, the ones that run soul-deep. The feeling of hands where they shouldn't be, of hot breath and hissed threats. The humiliation and degradation sinking into my bones like venom.

I meet my own gaze in the mirror, hardly recognizing myself. Then I tear my eyes away and turn on the shower, the pipes groaning in protest. Under the spray of the shower, I scrub my skin until it's raw and my entire body is as red as my wounds.

When I emerge, dressed in my favorite oversized T-shirt and leggings, Kaden waits for me in the living room. He's stripped off his wet shirt, his chest bare and gleaming in the low light.

On him, scars are beautiful. I couldn’t picture him any other way.

And I wonder what he thinks about my body now.

“I forgot to tell you,” I say after clearing my throat. “Cassie’s staying in the lighthouse.”

He nods. “I know. It’s probably for the best. I don’t expect her to play nice with others right now.”

Kaden gives me a slow survey, taking in the T-shirt that hangs off one shoulder and the leggings that cling to me. I feel exposed under his scrutiny, all too aware of the marks marring my skin underneath the fabric.

But I don’t see disgust or pity in his eyes. Only a fierce protectiveness and insatiable desire that always manages to stop me from remembering to meet my basic needs, like breathing.

He takes a step closer, his hand reaching out to brush against the tattoo on my throat. I shiver at his touch even as I recoil.

“I wish I could kill the person who did this to you,” he says. “Make them suffer for every bruise, every cut they put on your body.”

“Don’t.” I turn my face away. “We both know you'd burn the world down to protect what's yours. But she's yours, too.”

His fingers trace the tattoo, possession competing with fury in his touch. “And that's why she's still breathing. But if she ever touches you again...”

The threat lingers unfinished because the Scythe doesn't need words to drive his point home.

“The lighthouse keeps her close,” he says, his hand sliding to my hip. “Anything she plans, every movement. She lives because she's mine.” His grip turns bruising. “You're protected because you're mine.”

His thumb retraces where the tattoo begins, transforming Cassie's mark of ownership into his own claim. Where her touch brought pain, his brands pleasure into my skin.

This man carved his way through empires to find his daughter. Now he's carved a place in my soul, too.

I raise my eyes to his.

He tilts his head slightly as he uses his innate talent to decipher the emotions swirling inside me. His stare narrows.

“If you think I’m not yours in return, Wraithling, then I haven’t done nearly enough to prove that to you.”