Chapter 23 #2
I have the strange urge to giggle, remembering when Tarl threw a knife into that Tailor guy’s shoulder during the meeting about storming the Soldier’s HQ.
Karma really is a fucking bitch. Warmth spreads from the knife, yet the pain is still not there, and I’m not sure why, but I’m grateful that I feel nothing, although sweat covers my skin, and my head is a little woozy.
“I have several knives on that table, Tarl, as well as a whole plethora of other toys. I know how you enjoy torturing people, Inquisitor,” Afshin states casually, turning to look at Tarl, his voice dark and foreboding.
“And I will stick them all into her pretty, white flesh just like her father’s men stuck their dicks into her if you don’t start talking.
” Tarl’s jaw works, his chest heaving and his body rigid and my eyes fill with tears at his hesitation.
Pain hits me with full force at that moment, but it’s not in my shoulder, and I glance down, half expecting to see another knife sticking out of my chest this time. Yet, there’s nothing there, and I look back up to see Afshin still leaning over Tarl, waiting for him to say something.
I realize what the pain is. It’s my heart breaking as Tarl holds his tongue, remaining silent even after I’m threatened. It’s the betrayal that he’s put his past before me; his future. It’s the knowledge that I will die for his cause, his revenge being more important than my life.
“I SEE FIRE” BY ED SHEERAN
TARL
My gaze flicks away from Afshin for just a moment, seeing the devastation and betrayal on my beautiful bird’s face as I keep silent. My soul cries out at the way her eyes fill with tears, her body slumping slightly as though she’s given up.
Just a little while longer, Koshgelam.
I can’t even acknowledge the knife sticking out of her shoulder, but luckily, it’s not near anything vital, and Afshin left it in, so for the moment it’s not bleeding too heavily.
“Cat still got your tongue, Tarl?” Afshin whispers, his brown eyes crazed, and it gives me a small amount of satisfaction to see him ruffled.
Being in the same room as the man who murdered my family has my pulse pounding, my hands itching to tear him apart for what he did to me, and now Lark, but I must wait, bide my time until the moment is just right.
“Bring him,” Afshin barks, striding away, and the two guards walk hurriedly over to me, unlocking my cuffs from the chair and then proceeding to drag me over to the table full of his tools.
I don’t fight them as this might be just the opportunity I need.
The new stitches in my forearm itch and I have to forcibly relax. Not yet.
“You know that I’ll never tell you, don’t you, murderer?” I sneer at Afshin, and my lips lift in a smile when the side of his face twitches.
“Did you know, in some cultures,” he tells me, his voice deceptively calm, and I know that whatever happens next will hurt. He holds up a small hand ax. “They take someone’s fingers for mistakes? Flatten his left hand on the table.”
“Tarl!” Lark shouts, but I’m only aware of the look of self-satisfaction in Afshin’s eyes as his guards flatten my left palm on the table.
I do struggle this time, I can’t fucking help it, even if I know that this will give me the chance I need.
My pulse rushes in my ears, my jaw clenched tightly as they force my palm down.
The sound of the ax whistling past fills my ears, and I feel the judder all the way up my arm as it buries itself in the wood, the sound of my cry echoing in my ears.
Looking down, I watch as blood pours from the stump of my left pinkie finger.
The pain rushes in a tidal wave, and I’m not pretending to slump as I cradle my left hand against my chest. Fuck, that hurts.
Spots dance in front of my eyes, and it takes a couple of breaths to stop the rushing in my ears.
The guards let me go and I crumple to the ground.
“Awww, a minor cut and he falls to the floor,” Afshin coos, laughing. I can hear Lark screaming, and it shatters my heart a little more.
I’m coming, Aziz-e delam.
Knowing that I only have one shot of this, the adrenaline pumps through me, deadening the pain from my severed finger as I push my left sleeve up, exposing the fresh stitches in my arm.
Gritting my teeth, I tear them open, hissing out a pained breath as I withdraw the obsidian, surgical blade that I’d placed underneath my skin just before my capture, in preparation.
It sparkles in the daylight, my blood coating the black, volcanic glass, which I know is several times stronger than steel.
Letting out a deep exhale, I sink into a state that I’ve been practicing for years, a place where my body takes over and instinct rules my motions.
In one fluid move, I leap up, twisting and arching my arm to slash across both guards’ throats.
It won’t kill them, but it’s enough to distract them so I can get to the real prize.
My body turns as I complete the move, and using the table, I leap over it, straight at Afshin.
His eyes widen for a brief second, and then the blade is slamming into his left eye socket, my other hand coming up to drive it home and straight into the fucker’s brain.
I go down with him, landing on top of him and then springing up quickly, just in case, but his chest is still, his right eye unseeing as he lies on the dirt floor, dead.
A wave of euphoria washes over me, like the ghosts of my parents and sisters have finally found peace.
Then a groan from behind the table sounds, and I turn, grabbing a long, curved sword.
Walking around the table, I see that the guards are dazed but coming around, blood dripping from their throats.
Lifting the blade up high, I step over the first one, locking eyes with him as I swing the sword down, chopping his head off just as his hands come up in a pleading gesture.
The second guard tries to scuttle away, but blood loss makes him clumsy, and I dispatch him the same way as the first, blood splattering over my arms and chest.
I look down at the carnage, my chest heaving as the gravity of what I’ve finally accomplished threatens to bring me to my knees.
“Tarl?” a soft voice whimpers, and my gaze snaps up, the sword clanging to the ground as I find my soulmate staring at me, eyes wide and her face so pale that I’m surprised she’s not passed out.
“Shit!” I reach down, grabbing the handcuff keys from the dead guard at my feet, then rush over to her. “I’m going to get you out of this, Aziz-e delam. You just need to hold on, okay?”
“O–okay,” she answers, but I’m finding it hard to meet her beautiful eyes, the memory of what my earlier silence did to her flashing before me. She whimpers when her hands are finally free, no doubt the move jogging the knife that’s still in her shoulder. Fuck, fuck, fuck!
“I just need to get some pressure on the wound, Koshgelam, but we can’t remove it yet.
Not until I can get to a first aid kit, just in case it’s hit something,” I inform her, coming to the front of her and glancing around the room to see if there’s anything I can use.
I grimace when I spot Afshin’s keffiyeh.
It’ll have to do. “Stay there, Koshgelam.”
Striding over, I rip it from his head, noticing the patch of red that now mars the black and white fabric. I grab a handgun, tucking it into my waistband, and a small knife off the table, using it to help me tear the fabric into strips as I stride back towards her.
“I am not fucking having anything that cunt has worn touching me!” she growls, although it lacks the usual heat, and worry about how much blood she’s lost, and the very real possibility that she’s in shock has me biting my lip.
“You will do what I say, Azizam,” I command her, my voice low and full of warning. She narrows her eyes, and I realize that she’s not disgusted with me for my actions, but is pissed at being told what to do.
“Fine,” she huffs, holding her left elbow as she attempts to stop her arm from moving.
She’s still sitting down, and I quickly braid up the torn strips, kneeling before her and placing them around the wound.
She whimpers again, and hatred flashes across my vision for the man who should have suffered more before he died, but I couldn’t risk her safety to take my time, who knows when someone else might come to check on us.
I don’t even know if anyone else is here.
Using the spare strips, I bind the makeshift bandage to her, hoping it’s enough to at least help. Then use the knife I’d grabbed to cut the ties at her ankles.
“That should help until we find something better,” I tell her, pausing as my hands tremble with the realization that I could have lost her, something that would have made this victory bitter and hollow.
“Jigar Tala?” she murmurs, a hand cupping my cheek, and I can’t stop the moisture that fills my eyes as I kneel before the other part of my soul, my mind swirling with all the what-ifs. “Look at me, my love.” I do as she orders, her beauty astounding, even pale and drained as she is.
“I could have lost you,” I tell her, my voice barely above a cracked whisper.
“And it wouldn’t have been worth it. It would have broken me so completely that I would have taken a gun to my temple.
I’m so sorry, Azizam.” As I acknowledge the consequences of my actions, I hang my head and the moisture spills down my cheeks.
Revenge blinded me, and almost lost not just my heart, but the beating heart of the men who are as close as brothers to me.