Chapter 18
War is loud. It drowns out everything else.
Gunfire. Explosions. The crackle of Ascended abilities ripping through the air like unstable weather. Orders shouted across comms. The constant movement of people trying to survive the next ten seconds.
It all fills your head until there’s no room left for anything quieter.
If there’s been one good thing to come out of my war with Bellrose Institute, it’s that.
For seven years, I’ve been busy. Busy building something from the wreckage of my life. Busy tearing down the system Malcolm built. Busy surviving long enough to take another swing at the people who turned me into a ghost.
War doesn’t leave much room for memory.
Most days, I wake up thinking about my next move. Strategy, targets, contacts. Every one of our safehouses and supplies. Who we can and can’t trust. Which Ascended we might be able to get to before the Institute finds them first.
Everything is so loud and constant.
And necessary.
Because the quiet moments are worse.
Those are the moments when the memories creep in, the thoughts of a life I led before this. Thoughts of…
Him.
There was never a him before him, and I’ve tried to convince myself that I was simply mourning a curiosity I never got to truly fulfill, a sin I never got to fully taste.
It’s ridiculous that the memories of a mere twenty-five days with him haven’t faded.
Seven years is a long time, long enough that I should have forgotten the details by now.
A flash of blond hair in a crowd when I was watching him from afar.
The echo of his sharp laugh. The memory of a snarky comment that should’ve annoyed me more than it ever did.
The slow sweep of his tongue as he licked the mustard from his lip.
The way he used to lean his head back against the wall when he was thinking of his next question.
The exact shade of green in his eyes when he was pissed off.
The stubborn tilt of his mouth when someone told him no.
I should have forgotten.
But the human brain is cruel like that. It clings to things it never got to finish.
Cason was right about one thing.
I was robbed.
Not just of my life before Bellrose. Not just of the years Malcolm stole when he turned me into his weapon.
I was robbed of whatever the hell was starting to grow between us before everything went to shit.
I didn’t get to know if it could be more than Stockholm syndrome.
I didn’t get the chance to figure out what it really was.
Because Malcolm took that too.
In my mind, he was the one to kidnap Cason. Turned him into bait, used him to fake my death, then stole him away. Stole the only person in my life who had started to matter in a way that wasn’t tactical or convenient or…could have been more than temporary.
And the worst part?
I don’t think Cason ever knew that I was starting to feel things too.
For four years, I tried to forget him because I was a dead man, owned by the Institute, and I couldn’t have him. Because I had to protect him.
Then for three years, I hated him.
Turns out hating him was easier than trying to forget him.
It was easier to believe he had betrayed us.
Betrayed me. That he’d knowingly burned through everything we built.
That he’d been the architect of the disaster that killed Ash and left the rest of us scattered and hunted until we were nearly extinct.
Anger is useful in war. It keeps you sharp and focused. It gives the pain somewhere to go.
But now he’s here, locked in the basement, and the anger feels…misplaced.
Hurting him didn’t help like it was supposed to, like I thought it would. If anything, it made the hollow place in my chest feel like an even deeper chasm.
The truth is, Cason isn’t really the one I want to hurt. That honor belongs to the person who took him away from me in the first place.
I lean against the counter in the safehouse kitchen, staring down into the mug of coffee in my hand that’s gone cold, the dark liquid swirling like my shadows around my feet. Sebastian sits across from me with his tablet, scrolling through surveillance feeds.
After the silence has gone on for a long time, he glances up like he’s making sure I’m still here.
“You look like you’re plotting murder.”
I huff out a quiet breath. “Isn’t that what I’m usually doing?”
“Sure,” he says with a shrug. “But you also usually look more enthusiastic about it.” He peers back down at his tablet and taps something on the screen. “Rough time down there?”
My shadows stir a little more restless, and I force them to settle.
“It went peachy.”
“That’s a non-answer.”
“Congratulations. You’ve identified sarcasm.”
He leans back, his eyes on me again as he studies me for a second longer. “Why are you being sarcastic? Is there anything I can help with? If you want someone else to handle the Bellrose kid—”
“No.”
The word comes out sharper than I intend. Sebastian doesn’t flinch, just narrows his eyes.
“There’s something you’re not telling me about him.”
“Baz,” I say as a warning.
“You were holding back.”
I take a slow sip of my coffee, trying to hide the fact that he’s too close to the truth. I damn near spit it out when the lukewarm liquid hits my tongue, but I force myself to swallow it down.
“How the hell do you know?”
“Because I’ve seen you do worse to people who deserved less.”
My shadows ripple along the wall behind me.
He’s not wrong.
They can do far more than what I subjected Cason to. What he experienced was barely scratching the surface.
My shadows respond to my emotions, my instincts, my intentions.
Over the years, I’ve learned how to shape them, refine them, push them into forms that make them more precise.
Like hands and arms. Fingers that can curl around a throat or dig into muscle or hold someone perfectly still while I decide what to do with them.
They’re an extension of me. Sometimes they feel more like me than the rest of my body does.
But using them like that…
It’s different. More personal, more intimate. And the thought of wrapping those shadows around Cason like that…of letting them move across his skin the way they briefly did when I wasn’t paying enough attention…
I fear I’d lose control in a different kind of way.
Sebastian is still watching me. When I haven’t responded, he says, “We’re partners, Reese. You’re supposed to be able to tell me anything.”
Again, he’s right.
I set my mug down and take a long breath before meeting his concerned gaze.
“I can’t, Baz. Not about this. Not…not right now.”
He stares at me in silent contemplation for a moment longer before he nods, accepting it. That’s how much trust we’ve built in one another over the years.
“Alright. I’ll let it go. For now. But no matter what it is, I’ve always got your back, Reese. You know that, right?”
“I know.”
I lay my hand on his shoulder and give it a squeeze before picking up my mug and emptying the contents into the sink. Stepping across the kitchen, I pick up the coffee pot and pour myself a fresh cup. All the while, trying to forget the truth in those words…
You were holding back.
I was. Not because I couldn’t push harder, but because part of me was afraid of what would happen if I did. Afraid of how easily the shadows might slip from punishment into something else entirely.
I’m afraid of the things that still exist between us, buried under seven years of grief and death and anger and unfinished history.
The kitchen falls quiet again as I sip on my hot coffee. Somewhere downstairs, behind a reinforced door and several layers of concrete, Cason Bellrose is probably wondering whether I’m ever coming back.
My shadows try to pull me away.
Restless, curious, waiting.
I stare at the dark shapes pooling around my feet and let out a slow breath.
War is loud.
But, eventually…
The battlefield goes quiet again.