Chapter Eight
The pain radiated throughout Newt's entire body, but he couldn't allow Vaughn to put those shackles on.
Raw terror flickered across his mate's face.
A look Newt never wanted to see again. If Vaughn submitted to save him, that look would become permanent, etched into his features like a scar that would never heal.
“Don't you dare,” Newt hissed through clenched teeth, yanking against his restraints until metal bit deeper into his wrists. Fresh blood trickled down his forearms, warm and sticky against his skin. “I mean it, Vaughn.”
His mate hesitated, caught between the wall with its waiting chains and Newt's pleading gaze.
Even if Vaughn hated him forever for running away that morning, Newt would fight like heck to make sure his mate never wore those shackles again.
Some scars ran too deep, and Vaughn had enough of them already.
“How touching,” Vex drawled, twirling the knife between his fingers with casual menace. “Perhaps I should take you both. The wolf can watch while I experiment on his pretty little mate.”
“You’re a piece of poop,” Newt snapped, glaring at the demon. “A festering, rotten, moldy piece of poop that even dung beetles wouldn’t touch.”
He really needed to work on his trash talk if he was going to taunt a demon.
Vex barely spared him a glance, attention locked on Vaughn like a predator savoring the moment before the kill. The demon's anticipation filled the air with an oily, suffocating presence that made breathing difficult.
Under his breath, Newt began chanting. The room might’ve been dampened against powers, but Newt couldn’t just lie there and do nothing. Even if he wasn’t bound to a table, he couldn’t physically fight Vex, so he was doing the only thing he knew how to do. Wield horrible magic.
He whispered the oldest, meanest words he knew. He dug past fear, past shame, down where his dark magic dwelled. The restraints bit into his wrists with each syllable.
“Release,” he whispered, pouring it all into the cuffs. “Release, release, release. Let go. Unbind.”
Metal groaned. Hope flared.
It died immediately under a barrage of exploding color.
Fire bloomed overhead, huge, reckless blossoms of violet and gold erupting across the low ceiling.
Sparks rained in cheerful arcs, popping against stone and hissing out on damp patches.
Fireworks roared in the confined space, blooming into fountains that spat glittering comets.
One squealed past his ear and fizzled in his hair.
Smoke stung his nose, sugar-sweet and choking.
“Fantastic,” he croaked, blinking through sparkles. “I love decorating the scene of my impending doom.”
The fireworks bathed the dungeon in a carnival glow.
Vex finally looked at Newt. Mildly annoyed, he lifted a device from the table.
A black rod with studs, the thick shaft wrapped in leather, coils along its length.
The tip was crowned with wicked prongs that crackled blue-white.
Newt had no idea what that thing was, but if Vaughn’s hitched breath meant anything, Newt was right to be terrified.
“Touch me with that and I’ll hex your toenails to grow inward,” Newt snapped, even as bile climbed his throat. He yanked at the cuffs until metal tore skin and blood slicked his palms. His wings pushed uselessly against the steel table. “Forever. Both feet.”
Oh god! Vex is going to use that thing on me!
Newt changed his mind. He couldn’t take the pain, couldn’t withstand the torture Vex was about to unleash on him.
Newt kept chanting, voice gone hoarse, scraping the bottom of his magic like it might cough up one more miracle. He would even settle for a bad spell. Whatever his magic wanted to give him, he would take.
The prod lowered toward Newt’s chest, close enough that the hair on his arms stood on end from the electrical charge. He braced for agony, tears filling his eyes.
Vaughn moved.
He hit Vex like a battering ram, shoulder slamming ribs.
The prod clattered to the stone floor and slid away, sparks spitting until it died.
They crashed, rolled, hit the table. Tools skittered, rang against the floor.
Vex’s arm snapped wide as Vaughn wrenched it at the elbow with a sound that turned Newt’s stomach.
“Vaughn,” he rasped out, not even sure if it was a plea or a prayer.
Claws slid out of Vaughn’s hands. Not a full shift, just enough to make his fingers into weapons. He raked them across Vex’s ribs, making the demon shriek. Newt’s hands jerked to cover his ears, but they were still bound.
Vex swung, knuckles smashing Vaughn’s cheek. Vaughn didn’t fall. He drove forward, ripped the demon’s head back by a fistful of hair, and buried his other hand straight into Vex’s chest. Newt gagged.
With a savage pull, Vaughn ripped his hand free. A wet sound tore the air as he yanked a black, pulsing hunk from Vex’s chest.
Newt was shocked the demon had a heart.
Vex’s knees buckled as he dropped like a puppet whose strings had snapped.
Silence fell hard enough to make Newt’s ears ring around the crackle of dying sparks.
For a heartbeat, nothing moved except the fireworks sputtering out above, their last little pops shamelessly festive. Newt’s wrists throbbed. The cuffs dug deeper. He swallowed a hysterical laugh that wanted to crawl up his throat. Of course his release spell had turned into a celebration of death.
Loud footsteps could be heard outside the door. The wood burst inward, hinges shrieking their protest. Zeppelin hit first, a wall of calm fury, with Quinn three strides behind him and the rest piling in like a small army.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Zeppelin said, gaze cutting over Vex’s body to the blood-streaked walls. “Same damn place. What kind of bargain-bin demon keeps the old lair?”
“An overconfident moron,” Bayne added, already crossing to Newt. “Hold still, little guy.”
“No problem,” Newt said, voice thin. “I am one with this furniture.”
“How did you find us?” Vaughn asked, voice hoarse.
“Preston found your phone by the closet,” Quinn explained. “We figured something was wrong when neither of you answered our calls.”
Tools appeared, actual bolt cutters and a pry bar someone had scavenged, and then everything turned into noise and pressure.
Metal screamed as Quinn jammed the bar beneath a cuff.
Zeppelin braced the frame with both hands while Bayne leveraged the cutters around a lock and squeezed.
The cuff snapped with a gunshot crack that shot pain up Newt’s arm.
He hissed, bit his tongue, and swallowed copper.
“Two more,” Quinn said.
They worked fast. Wrenched. Yanked. Snapped.
Each level of freedom hurt in a different way, circulation roaring back like anger with nowhere to go.
Ankles last, because life liked to save its most annoying for the end.
The final cuff popped. Newt’s leg kicked without permission and almost introduced his foot to Bayne’s face.
“Oops, sorry,” Newt breathed. “Unruly limbs.”
“You’re good,” Bayne said, scooting just far enough away to keep his nose from getting hit.
Before Newt could try to sit up on his own, Vaughn was there. He dragged Newt off the rack with careful strength, like lifting something precious and possibly booby-trapped. Newt didn’t even pretend to resist. He folded into Vaughn’s chest and locked both hands in the back of the ruined Henley.
Warmth soaked his front. Blood and sweat and the stubborn smell of pine and something wild that steadied him better than any spell he’d ever mangled.
Vaughn trembled against him, tiny earthquakes traveling through muscle that had just ripped a demon open.
Newt realized he shook, too, a jitter down to the bones he couldn’t seem to stop.
“I thought I'd lost you,” Vaughn murmured against his hair, arms tightening around him. “When he had that prod—”
“But you didn’t,” Newt interrupted, pulling back just enough to look up at Vaughn’s face. “You saved me. You saved us both.”
Vaughn nodded, still holding Newt as if afraid he might disappear. “Can you walk?”
“Probably not with any dignity, but I can try,” Newt admitted. “Though I might need to lean on you a bit.”
Without hesitation, Vaughn swept him up into his arms, cradling him against his chest like he weighed nothing. Newt wanted to protest, but the solid warmth of Vaughn’s body felt too good to argue against.
Vaughn’s arms tightened, almost fierce. Heat soaked into Newt’s chilled fingers.
“Let’s go home,” his mate said softly, following Zeppelin toward the door.
Fireworks ash drifted down like confetti on a party no one wanted. Newt clutched Vaughn harder anyway, because surviving deserved a little celebration, even if it was just two idiots trembling together in a nightmare that had finally ended.
* * * *
The next morning, steam curled around Vaughn as he stepped out of the shower, towel slung around his hips.
His body ached in places he’d forgotten existed, reminders of yesterday's fight with Vex.
It had been worth it, every bruise, every cut, small prices to pay for freedom from the demon who'd haunted his life.
For the first time in months, he’d slept through the night. No nightmares. No waking up in cold sweats, heart pounding like it might burst through his ribs. Just darkness and rest, with Newt curled against him like some kind of magic charm against bad dreams.
He scrubbed another towel through his hair and caught his reflection in the mirror. The face staring back looked almost like someone he used to know. Less haunted. Eyes clearer.
Padding into the bedroom, he found Newt sprawled across the mattress like he owned it, sheet twisted around his legs, hair fanned across the pillow in cotton-candy disarray. The sight hit Vaughn somewhere between his lungs and stomach.
“I can feel you staring,” Newt mumbled into the pillow without opening his eyes.
“Hard not to,” Vaughn said, dropping the towel and pulling on boxers. “You’ve colonized the entire bed.”
One violet eye cracked open. “It’s not colonization, it’s liberation. This mattress has been freed from the tyranny of proper sleeping posture.”
Vaughn snorted, pulling on sweatpants. “How are your wrists?”
“Better.” Newt rolled onto his back, holding up his arms where Quinn had bandaged the raw skin last night. “Your friend used some kind of ointment. Smelled like feet but worked like a charm.”
Crossing to the bed, Vaughn sat on the edge, weight dipping the mattress. He took one of Newt’s wrists, turning it gently to examine the bandage. “Quinn’s good with that stuff.”
“I still say my feet smell better than his medicine.”
Vaughn’s thumb traced the edge of the gauze. “But your feet are tiny. Less surface area for stink.”
“Excuse you, my feet are perfectly proportioned for my height.” Newt kicked at him half-heartedly. “Not everyone can be a walking redwood.”
Dropping back onto the mattress, Vaughn stretched out beside his mate, arm propped under his head. Water droplets from his hair slid down his neck, leaving cool trails on warm skin. For a long moment, they just looked at each other.
“We survived,” Vaughn said finally.
Newt’s fingers found his, intertwining. “We did.” A smile curved his lips. “Though my fireworks spell could use some work, especially on timing.”
“I don’t know. The festive touch really brightened up the dungeon decor.”
Laughter bubbled out of Newt, bright and unexpected. “Nothing says torture chamber like a colorful light show.”
The sound pulled something loose in Vaughn’s chest, something that had been knotted tight for months. He found himself smiling, actually smiling, without having to force it.
“Come here,” he murmured, tugging Newt closer.
The fae complied, sliding into the space between Vaughn’s arm and chest like he belonged there. His hair tickled Vaughn’s chin, smelling faintly of strawberries from the shampoo he’d borrowed.
“I have a confession,” Newt said, voice muffled against Vaughn’s skin.
“Another one? Yesterday’s was pretty hard to top.”
Newt’s cheeks flushed pink. “That wasn’t—I didn’t mean to blurt that out.”
“The virgin thing?” Vaughn kept his tone light. “Or the part where you’d rather die than see me chained to a wall?”
“Both, I guess.” Newt’s fingers traced abstract patterns on Vaughn’s chest. “But that’s not what I wanted to confess.”
“I’m listening.”
“I’ve never been kissed. Not properly.” The words came out in a rush. “Before yesterday, when you…after the nightmare… That was my first.”
Vaughn blinked, processing this. “Your first kiss was after I almost crushed your wings and then had a panic attack?”
“When you put it that way, it sounds less romantic than it felt.”
“Jesus, Newt.” Vaughn’s hand came up to cup his mate’s face. “You deserve better than that.”
“Well, I was saving it for someone special.” Newt’s eyes met his, vulnerability and humor dancing in their violet depths. “Turns out that’s you. Congratulations on the job. The benefits are terrible, and the hours are worse, but there’s free entertainment in the form of magical mishaps.”
The self-deprecating humor couldn’t mask the sincerity underneath. Vaughn’s thumb brushed across Newt’s cheekbone, feeling the warmth of his skin.
“Then we should try again,” he said. “Do it right this time.”
Before Newt could respond, Vaughn leaned in, closing the distance between them. Their lips met, soft and tentative at first then with growing confidence. Unlike their first desperate kiss, this one unfolded slowly, each moment stretching into the next like honey dripping from a spoon.
Newt made a small sound in the back of his throat, something between a sigh and a moan that vibrated against Vaughn’s mouth. His hands came up to tangle in still-damp hair, pulling him closer.
Heat bloomed between them, slow and steady. Vaughn’s hand slid down Newt’s side, feeling the contours of ribs and hip beneath the borrowed shirt. His mate was so much smaller, fitting against him like they'd been designed as matching pieces.
When they finally broke apart, Newt’s eyes remained closed for a moment, lips slightly parted.
Their second kiss deepened almost immediately, hunger edging out hesitation. Vaughn’s hand slipped under Newt’s shirt, palm flat against warm skin. The contact drew another of those addictive little sounds from his mate.
“Wait,” Newt gasped, pulling back slightly. “I need to—I just—”
“What?”
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he admitted. “And I don’t want to disappoint you.”
Vaughn pressed his forehead against Newt’s. “You couldn’t.”
“You say that now, but—”
“Newt,” Vaughn interrupted. “Shut up.”
He kissed him again, swallowing whatever protest his mate had been about to make.
Slow and deep, with enough heat to make his intentions clear but enough restraint to let Newt set the pace.
His hand slid higher under the shirt, tracing the ridges of his spine where wings had disappeared beneath skin.
Newt arched into the touch, breaking the kiss with a gasp. “That’s—that feels—”
“Good?” Vaughn’s fingers traced the spot again, feeling the subtle difference in texture where wings connected to flesh.
“Like electricity, but…nice electricity. Not the demon-cattle-prod kind.
“High praise.”
A knock at the door interrupted them. Vaughn growled low in his throat, tempted to ignore it.
“Hey, lovebirds,” Preston's voice called. “Quinn made breakfast. And Zeppelin says if you don’t come down, he's sending me back up with a bullhorn.”
“We’ll be right there,” Vaughn called back, hearing Preston's footsteps retreat down the hall.
Newt laughed softly. “Saved by breakfast.”
“Temporarily saved,” Vaughn corrected, reluctantly releasing his mate. “We’re finishing this conversation later.”
“Is that what we’re calling it? A conversation?”
“Among other things.”