CRIMSON DEBTS Chapter 11
Chapter 11: The Bitter Root
The garage air exploded with the sound of screeching rubber. Kaelen jammed the car into gear, his jaw set in a line of granite. "Hold on," he growled. They burst through the exit, the sun-blinded streets of the city providing no cover.
Behind them, the roar of high-performance engines tore through the morning air. Two black SUVs and three motorcycles swerved into the lane, weaving through traffic with lethal precision.
"They're not trying to stop us," Julian shouted over the wind, "they're trying to kill us!"
A bullet shattered the rear window, showering them in glass. Kaelen didn't flinch, his eyes locked on the road, but the hunters were closing in. A motorcycle pulled alongside the passenger side, the rider raising a submachine gun. Julian stared down the barrel, frozen.
"Julian, get down!" Kaelen roared.
Kaelen didn't just yell; he threw his entire upper body across the center console, pinning Julian against the door. Thwack-thwack-thwack. Three rounds punched through the metal of the door and the seat. Kaelen let out a choked, wet gasp, his weight suddenly heavy and limp against Julian.
"Kaelen!" Julian screamed, shoving him back toward the driver's side.
Blood was already soaking through Kaelen's tactical vest, staining the leather seats. His face turned an ashen grey, but his hands stayed glued to the wheel.
"Stay... down," Kaelen gritted through clenched teeth. He slammed the brakes, sending the motorcycle sliding into a parked car, then floored it. He drove like a man possessed, weaving through narrow alleys and over medians, his breath coming in ragged, shallow hitches.
"Kaelen, stop! You're bleeding too much!"
"Not... yet," Kaelen wheezed.
He pushed the car until the city lights faded into the dark silhouettes of the forest. The engine began to knock, steam billowing from under the hood as the radiator finally gave up. With a final, violent shudder, the car died in the middle of a dense, overgrown logging trail.
The Labyrinth of Thorns
The silence was terrifying. Kaelen tried to open his door, but he slumped forward, his forehead hitting the steering wheel. Julian scrambled out and ran to the driver's side, hauling Kaelen out.
"We have to move," Julian whispered, draping Kaelen's heavy, muscular arm over his shoulders.
They stumbled into the thick brush, Julian's boots sinking into the mud.
Kaelen was a dead weight, his boots dragging.
They walked for what felt like miles, lost in the "bush," with nothing but the sound of Kaelen's labored breathing.
Finally, tucked behind a wall of ancient oaks, they saw it: a small, slanted stone cottage.
The door groaned on rusted hinges. Inside, the air was stale, the floor covered in thick, dry grass and dust. In the corner sat an old iron bed frame with a moth-eaten mattress and a pile of moth-damaged quilts.
Julian lowered Kaelen onto the bed. The Enforcer was drifting in and out of consciousness. "Don't... leave," Kaelen whispered, his fingers curling weakly into Julian's sleeve.
"I'm right here," Julian said, his heart hammering. He stripped Kaelen's ruined clothes off to find the wound. The bullet had grazed his ribs and lodged in the flesh of his shoulder-it was deep, angry, and weeping blood.
Julian spent the night in a fever dream of care. He found an old pot, boiled water from a nearby well over a small fire, and used the Yarrow leaves he gathered to create a stinging, healing pulp. He had to strip Kaelen completely to clean the blood that had pooled everywhere.
When the sun finally pierced through the cracked shutters, Kaelen's eyes snapped open.
He felt the cold air on his skin and the rough scratch of a wool blanket. He looked down-he was naked. Panic, sharp and cold, hit him harder than the bullet. Where is he?
He forced himself up, his shoulder screaming in protest. He wrapped the blanket around his waist and staggered toward the back door, clutching the doorframe for support.
In the small backyard, the light was soft. Julian was there, kneeling by a wooden bucket. He was humming-a peaceful, haunting melody. Kaelen's eyes widened as he saw what Julian was doing.
Julian was holding a pair of Kaelen's black silk underwear, scrubbing them against a flat stone with a piece of lye soap he'd found in the cabin. He was being meticulous, his artistic hands working the fabric with focused care.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Kaelen's voice was a cracked, mortified rasp.
Julian didn't even look up. "Washing your dignity, Kaelen. It was covered in blood. I couldn't exactly put it back on you like that."
Kaelen's face went from pale to a deep, agonizing crimson. The most feared man in the Thorne syndicate stood there, shivering under a moth-eaten blanket, watching his "captive" wash his most private garment.
"Give them to me," Kaelen commanded, stepping forward, but his knees buckled. He let out a sharp hiss of pain and reached up to rub the back of his head, his eyes darting away in absolute, bone-deep embarrassment. "I... I can do it myself. Put those down."
"You can't even stand, Kaelen," Julian said, finally looking at him. His gaze wasn't mocking; it was calm, almost pitying. "You took a bullet for me. The least I can do is wash your clothes. Now sit down before you bleed through the bandages I spent four hours making."
Kaelen sank onto the porch step, his head hanging low, his face hidden by his dark hair. He had never felt so exposed, so weak, or so strangely... seen.