Chapter 40
Conin
The distant pops of gunfire work their way to our ears.
We’re barricaded in this car shop with whatever could be mobilized—wrenches, crowbars, and worktables.
No one speaks as we set up to treat Ezra’s wound—a gaping second-degree burn that wraps and builds up the length of his forearm.
I can barely eye it without feeling squeamish.
With the adrenaline from a moment ago fading little by little, I step onto my bad ankle.
It wails in agony, screaming for me to relent, but finding a first aid kit for Ezra takes priority.
Atlas absorbs my sorry state, most likely aware of my injury, and tells me to keep Ezra company while he seeks out treatment for the burns.
I huff, then acquiesce and settle next to Ezra’s frame.
He sucks his teeth in. His breaths are deliberate but distressed.
The longer he and I remain this way, the more my ankle throbs.
Ezra’s burn comes first.
“Can I?” I ask, indicating his arm.
He concedes, then raises his forearm for me to assess.
Atlas rummages through the car shop’s office in the background.
The gunfire tapers off but still sounds in occasional, staccato bursts.
Ezra jumps at each one. His arm jolts, instinctively retracting from me, but I gently pull it back.
The burns could’ve been worse. So much worse.
When I’ve finished studying the extent of the injury, I slither my hands to his own and lace my fingers with his.
He glances at me questioningly, but my heart’s too much of a mess to say anything.
“Co?” he whispers.
“I’m sorry,” I say, “for springing that on you earlier.”
“It’s—”
“But I needed to tell you in case something bad happened. And something bad has happened, so you deserve to know the truth.”
He says nothing this time. Somehow, this makes it much harder to continue. I want to be a writer, yet finding the proper words to say in real time may be the hardest thing ever.
“I’ve loved you for so long,” I confess again, letting the words ring true. Atlas was right. Admitting this to Ezra releases a burden that was weighing down my shoulders, but it does nothing to stop the racing thoughts.
More rustling from the office. A yelp of success.
Ezra shudders and inhales a bated breath.
“I love you too,” he says softly.
Those four words spark wisps of euphoria that electrify my skin, raise the hairs on the nape of my neck, make my blood rush warm, and breathe life into me in a way I’ve never felt before. I bite back suppressed tears and feel a harsh sting as my eyelids brim.
“Y-you do?”
“Yes. For so long . . . too long,” he laughs. It’s forced and jumbled, but fuck, his mirth sounds paradisical.
I feel like I’m floating in midair. Ezra’s hand keeps me grounded, tethering me to this earth. I forget about the tether that binds him to Atlas, about the past week and all the weeks before. I forget about the battle that ensues outside. Because Ezra loves me, and I love him.
“When this is over . . . when we get out of this, because we will get out of this, I’m going to kiss you so fucking hard, so you better not die,” I promise.
An incentive to stay alive.
“Kiss me,” Ezra breathes. “We might not live through this, so kiss me now. No regrets.”
It’s a dreadful statement, enough that I almost hang back. Want fuels the verdict instead.
“Drop the glamor, Ezra. I want to kiss you.”
He looks affronted but then comprehends my meaning. He melts into himself, recognizable once again.
I draw his head in, pulling him close. Our lips touch.
For the briefest of moments, all is right in the world.
His lips taste of lingering tequila and every word left unspoken.
They fit into mine perfectly, molding into the contour of my mouth.
His eyes are warm and radiating. The kiss is fleeting, though the spark that was there was enough to ignite a fire.
We need to get out of this.
When I search for Ezra’s eyes, he’s staring at something behind me. Atlas is looking at us. He casts his eyes away once he’s spotted and fumbles with the gathered supplies.
“S-sorry,” Atlas stammers.
Ezra chuckles while Atlas picks up what he dropped.
“Here,” he says and moves toward us. “I couldn’t find any clean towel to compress the burn, but I did find some ointment, bandages, and a water bottle.”
He starts uncapping the bottle, scrupulously pouring the liquid over the burn.
Ezra hisses and shuts his eyes tight. I stroke the back of his head, raking fingers down the length of his hair.
An ointment is applied next. Atlas dabs swabs of the lotion over every inch of the burn after washing his hands with the remaining water.
A blue and a green iris peer at me. The pain behind them shatters my heart.
“I’ve been through worse,” Ezra says.
I know he has. It doesn’t make this any better.
“I wish you hadn’t,” I say back.
Atlas sighs, upset. I don’t think Ezra’s broached that topic with him yet.
I assist Atlas in wrapping the bandages around Ezra’s forearm. Atlas breaks the fabric into two with the sharp edges of his canines and we tie the loose ends to finish it off.
“I’m sorry. There weren’t any painkillers.”
Ezra nods, then studies our handiwork. Once we’ve applied what we could, we wait.
The gunfire has ceased, but it’s foolish to believe we’re in the clear.
Seconds bleed into minutes. The three of us huddle together.
Neither Ezra nor I have objected to Atlas molding into our clump—the press of his body is oddly a comfort. Interpret that as you will.
We wait and I begin to feel bravely optimistic.
Until something collides with the front door.
The crowbar lodged between the handlebar remains steady.
An unknown force smashes into the door again, which noticeably bends the bar, wedging it tight against the handle.
Ezra freezes next to me. Atlas, on the other hand, slowly stands in a ready position.
“Whoever it is will get in. Find a weapon,” commands Atlas. He moves for the plethora of tools that line the back wall.
“It could be the Angelics,” I say.
“Or not.”
The gun’s in my pack. I could grab it—have this be over the moment they break in.
Keeping it on my figure had been a ruse in the bunker and I got lucky with Mara, but who’s to say that luck will persist?
These are bad guys, though. They want Ezra.
They want me and Atlas dead. If I killed them, I’d be saving the fate of other recidivists.
Discovering Mara was alive was a relief. If I killed this time . . .
No, it’s not something I want to think about. I will do what I must.
Fire blasts the door from its frame, sending the equipment careening through the repair shop.
I grab a hand tool instinctively and bolt for the entrance as Levi barges in.
His twisted expression could kill, but the flames hovering over his palms may do the trick.
Maybe I should’ve grabbed the gun, after all.
Levi doesn’t deserve to live. The flames climb higher, encroaching on his arms. His smile reveals bloodied teeth.
“This will be fun.”
The mercenary releases the fire and flies away in a blur when Atlas’s hand materializes from nowhere, clinging to the fabric of Levi’s collar.
He rams into the plexiglass, buckling to his knees.
Atlas streams ahead and knees the man on the nose.
Crimson drains from Levi’s nostrils. The mercenary makes a disquieting noise as Atlas rams the crowbar into his stomach.
“Ouch,” he exhales.
Fire plumes from Levi’s fingers. Atlas teleports away.
The flames spread, blackening the area with their touch.
I take cover behind a vehicle suspended by a lift and feel the heat scorch my clothes.
They’re no longer drenched but singed and battered.
Boots click on the cement floor, drawing dangerously close.
Fire erupts again. There’s a faint clatter from the far end of the shop.
Seconds later, Ezra is at my side with a morbid, frenzied look.
“Hand me the Glock,” he whispers.
I hesitate. Ezra blinks, holding out an expectant hand. Behind us, Atlas distracts Levi, and it’s only a matter of time before he finds us. This is the only way.
You’re a coward.
I rummage through the contents of my bag and feel the cool, metallic sheen of the handgun. My hands shake violently as I pull the weapon from the depths and proffer it to Ezra. While Levi and Atlas parry in the background, Ezra attempts to pry the gun away from my grip. I can’t let go.
“Conin,” he says, “give it to me.”
Ezra knows. Of course, he does.
“We’re wasting time.”
“Okay,” I concede. He takes the Glock and rounds the vehicle.
I follow, witnessing when Levi decks Atlas in the gut.
He hunches over on the concrete, gasping for air.
Flames lick the length of Levi’s arms. Atlas’s moves are stagnant as he backs into the garage door.
The emergence of yellow and orange flame burns bright, then releases.
Ezra cocks the barrel of the gun, firing at Levi.
Atlas drops to the floor. His wail is painful.
The fire dissipates at the release of a bullet.
Levi turns in the nick of time, his attention drawn to the loud noise emanating in our direction, and gets grazed in the cheek by Ezra’s lone bullet.
In reply, the mercenary loses balance and slumps against the garage door.
He holds a hand to his bloodied face in blatant shock but has no time to react when Ezra fires again without hesitation.
The bullet misses. It shatters glass, remnants raining down on the injured mercenary.
This buys Levi time. Atlas has moved to the far corner, hunched behind a worktable.
My eyes flick from him to Levi, who’s trained his gaze on Ezra and pursues the death blow.
Levi’s irises are murderous as blood trickles down his cheek and dribbles from his mouth, his sandy hair disheveled and his forehead scrunched up, features livid.
“Fucking bastard,” he growls.
The Glock clicks, out of ammunition.
“This will be satisfying.”
He slams a fist into Ezra’s chest. The boy I love rams into a tool cart that clatters away and tilts to the floor with a swarm of tools that spill over the concrete.
I raise the hand tool I gathered as Levi homes in on me.
He crumples his hands into fists and readies himself for a punch, but I’m set.
The hand tool swings at his ribs. Levi loses his purchase on the ground and falls on his ass, so I raise my weapon, getting ready to drive it in his face.
Armor-clad people rushed in and tackle the mercenary before I can finish the job.
I’m disarmed and held against the wall by an Angelic I’m not familiar with.
Ambrosia appears, blurred, while I take large, gulping breaths.
“Stand down,” she commands.
I’m not doing anything.
“Let him go!” someone cries.
Ezra fills my vision.
“It’s okay, love. It’s okay,” he says.
Love.