Chapter 48
Conin
Nausea pins me to the slick chair I find myself in when the world takes shape. I’m pulled from the recesses of a pitch-black dark—my head pounding so excruciatingly tight, it’s like I’ve been drugged.
I blink away the bright flash of a floodlight that overstimulates my senses.
The beam forces my eyes closed; all I see is red.
They sting every time I attempt to open them.
The tap of boots sounds from a concrete floor, approaching, an ominous noise that makes my heart race.
I try to break free. It’s a futile attempt.
Rope binds my hands to the chair frame and my ankles to the legs. Naturally, panic sets in.
“They’re coming to,” says a gruff, unfamiliar voice.
“Fetch Leeanne,” someone else says.
Minutes, maybe hours pass. Where was I before this?
What happened?
Oh my god.
Ezra and I—we were in the penthouse suite making love . . .
And now we’re here. Wherever here is.
Thank god I’m clothed. The fabric brushes against my skin as I shift to get comfortable. My wrists chafe against the rope. If it’s true that Leeanne’s here, why are we tied akin to prisoners? Hostages.
Next to me are the stirrings of other individuals.
Ezra, Atlas, and the three Angelics that transported us to the Excelsior are here beside me, waking from the same binds, from the same drug-induced coma.
Ezra is in the seat over. He blinks life into those special eyes, just as confused and dazed as I was.
“Co,” he stammers.
“I’m here,” I whisper.
I can’t reach for him. I crave his skin, I want it, I need it to alleviate the fear of what’s to come next. This isn’t right. The Angelics wouldn’t do this to us.
“We’ll be okay,” I say. “It’ll be okay.” I’m not sure if I’m placating him or myself. If anything happens to Ezra—
“You’re awake. Good,” croaks an older woman, voice hoarse from years and years of cigarettes. “I apologize for the sedatives, but they were a necessary precaution.”
The woman approaches further, but my only thoughts are for Ezra, whose eyes betray the fear that must be wracking him from the inside.
“Don’t touch us!” I yell.
She promptly stops.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
She has a deep, ethereal red flow of hair that falls elegantly from her head, cascading off her white-clad shoulders.
Her skin is a golden tan from countless hours in the sun, with matching green irises that pierce into anyone who dares to stare at her straight on—an imposing presence I respect, given the predicament we find ourselves in again.
“I’m Leeanne,” she introduces. “As I’m sure Ambrosia has told you, needing to be unconscious for the trip to Proctus was crucial for secrecy. We, of course, do not want our enemies to know of our proper coordinates.”
“We’re in Proctus?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Why the binds, then?”
“Recidivists’ reactions can be unpredictable.”
“I don’t have powers—”
“Bresshet, cut it out,” Mafu grunts.
I suppress the rise in anger by biting my lips. Leeanne shrugs and then appoints Angelics to untie us from our ropes. There’s an urge to run, rooted deep inside me, but that’s shoved onto the backburner. I take a deep breath and exhale at a snail’s pace—no need to be premature with my anger.
“Ambrosia, Mafu, Matt . . . you’re free to follow Darcy and Malek to the briefing. The rest of you will be questioned. Precautionary measures,” informs Leeanne.
If I hear that phrase one more fucking time, I’m going to lose my shit.