70. Briella
Briella
HIS CHURCH OF PSYCHOLOGICAL brEAKDOWNS…AND HOLLOW HEARTS.
Citizen Soldier Playlist
“Empty Cup”
“Sentence for Life”
“You Are Not Your Past”
“The Cage”
Ican’t run.
The knowledge rots my stomach and eats at my nerves.
Alden’s arms feel like locks around me. I don’t fight him. Can’t take the risk he’d go back on his word.
Still, every muscle in me coils tight as he carries me, like I’m something precious, something his. My injured leg dangles uselessly. I’m still holding the cane to my chest like it’s my only lifeline to my kings. And my crown, of course.
I’d let Rory fuck my ass again if it meant he was holding me now. Any of them.
The sweater has Vincent’s smell, his touch everywhere. And I can feel my heartbeat thump against the cane, making me think of Jude in the mine. The sheer determination of taking down the Prophet melted into hopelessness, replaced by unbreakable, unconditional love. I couldn’t let him say it.
I need to believe he will say it to me later.
Alden carries me like I weigh nothing at all. Like he still knows my body. Still owns me. He lowers his chin, and I feel his gaze on me, his hot mouth along my brow.
I don’t look up. I’ve been avoiding him this whole time, avoiding everything. The scent of him curls around me, too familiar. Masculine musk, high-end cologne, leather. I hate it all.
Even in the mine, all I could make out was his silhouette. I was focused more on Jude, the pit—anything else but Alden.
“Look at me, Gabriella.”
I don’t respond. I don’t move a muscle. My defiance is one thing I can hold onto. I said I’d come willingly. But I promised him nothing else.
“Stubborn and willful as ever, I see.”
The words needle into me, meant as fact and insult. But I take them with pride.
My heart pounds as he carries me past cabins. Random pockets of fire flare through the trees. Vincent took Pew Pew and put him in the barn. He’s safe. They’re all safe. Nothing else matters.
My chest tightens. I’m never going to see this place again, am I? Never laugh with Seth in the greenhouse or play games. Never help Vincent with the goats or knit with him in his cabin. Never sit on Jude’s lap and listen to him read poetry. Never bake with Rory in that kitchen.
Alden ruined it. Fucking ruined everything. And on Christmas, no less.
My tongue screams at me to let it out, to unleash the acid poison. But I don’t. I’m saving my energy. Nothing like how I saved it for Raphael.
The Prophet carries me down a winding dirt road where headlights and siren lights flare. Military-grade black SUVs. Decommissioned Humvees. Other command and security vehicles.
“Everything will be well once I bring you home,” He croons while leaning closer. “Just as it should be.”
It takes all my willpower not to attack him as he kisses my forehead. What I hate more? The traitorous heat swelling between my thighs. Not just because he has that effect on women. Five-year-old memories surface. No, more like six.
Because of the mark on my neck, I was groomed for him, manipulated by him. Alden is a master at everything he does—from weaponry to public speaking to how he may hold and command a crowd. He seduces as much as he steals.
The soldiers and guards lower their weapons. Now, I realize they’re not official military. Or cops. They’re militia.
Of course. He has government connections, but he doesn’t want them involved. He lied through his teeth about the National Guard. I have no doubt he could call them, though.
It hits me like a tidal wave. I thank the girl from five years ago, the one who took more than the gold bars. She took the thumb drive.
Raphael has it. He’ll know what to do.
Alden approaches the command post with a crude but large tent next to the lead Humvee.
“Is the plane ready?” he asks one on his right, a captain. Mid-forties, close-cropped hair, rugged face.
Of course, Alden has a small private plane waiting.
“As you ordered, Prophet. What about the fallen?” The captain gestures to the fires and pits.
Alden glances around. “We do not abandon our own. Gather any survivors, provided the territory is safe. But if the fires are spreading, take no risk that could result in loss of life. Bury the ones you can. Have medics treat survivors. Then return to Easthaven.”
“Yes, Prophet.” He flicks his eyes to me, and I turn away, resisting the urge to squirm. “Pretty little thing. Hope she was worth the trouble.”
Alden’s jaw clenches. “My future bride is not a thing. Do well to remember this, Captain Woods.”
The captain bows his head. “My apologies, Prophet.”
“One last thing.” Alden’s venom slides over me. He traces a circle into my arm, casual as ever. “Call our forces back from the north.”
He pauses. “And queue the drone to track the GPS in my SUV. Target mode.”
What? Terror surges through me as Alden follows the Captain inside the tent. A nearby laptop glows to life, blue light reflecting off Alden’s face as he types a string of commands.
A live drone feed fills the screen—aerial footage scanning over the wintry treetops, closing in on a winding road. There it is: the black SUV. Five glowing heat signatures inside.
My stomach drops through the earth.
“No!” I thrash, trying to break free, trying to reach the laptop. “We had a deal!”
Alden holds me tighter, mocking, “And I’ve upheld it. I gave them the keys. A running start. I never said I’d let them win.”
He tilts his head. “Arm it.”
The Captain clicks something. A soft mechanical beep. A red icon blinks on screen.
[DRONE ARMED – TARGET LOCKED]
The Captain murmurs, “Payload locked. ETA: forty seconds.”
Alden smiles. “Merry Christmas.”
Screaming, I swing the cane in desperation. It cracks through the air and glances off the laptop, knocking it sideways. It still glows with that blinking red light.
Alden’s grip tightens. His arm cinches around my torso like a vice. My feet kick, but he’s stronger.
“Let me GO!” I shriek, thrashing like an animal, but he lifts me like I weigh nothing.
Then the screen flashes:
[IMPACT CONFIRMED]
[SIGNATURES LOST]
I freeze. Just one heartbeat.
Then…I detonate.
I see all shades of red. I go berserk, twisting in his arms, screaming until I don’t even recognize my screams. No words—just sound, raw and cracked.
My heart melts. My soul burns. I claw, kick, bite.
Spit in his face. Slam my fists into whatever I can reach: his chest, jaw, shoulder.
My cane drops with a dull thunk as I flail.
“YOU MURDERED THEM!” I roar, the words ripping from my throat like broken glass. “YOU FUCKING MONSTER! YOU BASTARD! YOU MOTHERFUCKING COCKSUCKING PIECE OF SHIT—”
The curses don’t come in strings. They come in chains—in black iron and sulfur, in brimstone and the power I used to survive the Initiation.
Alden doesn’t blink.
He turns his face slowly with a vicious glare. It hits like a blow. My limbs seize. My heart stops.
He throws me down—not hard, just enough to leave me gasping. Then he kneels. Calm. Careful. Reaches into his jacket.
A syringe.
“No!” I scramble backward, clawing at the ground, but my leg hurts too much.
“Shhh,” Alden hushes, pressing me down, his grip landing between my shoulder blades. “You’ve had a very big day.”
“Don’t—”
The needle stings. Cold fire.
My vision lurches sideways, swimming, melting. The smoke from the destroyed SUV rises in the distance.
I can’t see the heat signatures. They’re gone.
I’m still screaming in my mind when the black takes me.
When I come to, the memories come flooding back.
I expected the sterile smell of antiseptic.
Instead, it’s smoke from a crackling fire curling in my nose. It’s musk and spice, clove, leather, and something darker. Something male.
Beneath my fingers: soft sheets. Warm. Real. A thick duvet presses down on me.
Am I imagining this? Will I open my eyes, finding this a delusion? I’m not here. I am in a padded room with a straitjacket, facing the grim torture of isolation.
Thock.
The unmistakable knock of firewood. Like bones being stacked in a pyre.
I stir. My fingers twitch. My body is sluggish.
When I blink my lids open, I see him.
Alden. He’s kneeling beside the fireplace, a wrought-iron poker in hand.
He’s stabbing at the logs with too much force for a man simply tending flames.
The light bathes him in gold, shadows dancing over his sharp cheekbones, the set of his jaw.
He hasn’t noticed me yet. Or he has and wants me to think he hasn’t.
His bedroom is exactly what I feared it would be.
Grandiose.
The bed is massive, built for more than two. The kind of thing a man keeps when he’s got multiple wives and no shame. Circles, his symbol, are carved into the wood post with sheer black canopy drapes.
Silken robes hang on the wall like holy garments.
A ram’s horn is mounted on the wall above the dresser. Random other animal skulls decorate the walls. I shiver.
The Bible of the Prophet rests on the end table to my right with a decanter of amber liquid on the corner table.
The Prophet’s throne, disguised as a bed.
His private chapel. His church of psychological breakdowns, psychiatric episodes, and hollow hearts. And now I’m in it.
“You’ve only been out about an hour.” His voice cuts through the fire’s pop, far too casual. “I remember how you used to sleep so lightly.” He turns to face me, the poker still in his hand.
I remember. Everything. The SUV. The drone.
It feels like someone shredded my heart and took my soul through a meat grinder.
And yet? A part of me wants to believe, must believe they’re not dead. They have to be. Even if it’s a dream, I will never let go of that dream.
“I remember having happy dreams where I stab you in the neck,” I mutter.
He snickers. For the first time, I see him fully. Take him in.