7. Layla
7
LAYLA
Returning to consciousness is like drowning in reverse, each forced breath a new way to suffer. Each heartbeat is a hammer to my skull. Something cold presses against one cheek—the floor—except for one spot that feels wrong. Warm and wet.
Moving sends lightning bolts through my closed lids, so I force my muscles to relax while trying to piece together where I am and what happened.
Sound comes next, distorted like I'm underwater. A steady hum somewhere to my left. My own threadbare breathing. But there's another sound, barely there. Another set of exhales, slow and uneven.
I'm not alone.
The effort to open my eyes costs more than it should. The world blurs, then sharpens in pieces. Dark wood panels. Brass fixtures gone green with artistic age. A massive desk that looks like it was carved from shipwrecks. Details from before I blacked out, when this was just another opulent torture chamber in Cassie's private quarters.
Cassie. Kaden’s daughter. The Siren’s Call suite.
Kaden.
KADEN.
The irregular breathing comes again, closer than I thought. I force my head to turn, fighting the wave of nausea brought on by the movement.
My heart stops.
Kaden lies crumpled on the floor beside me, his face turned away. Still. So still.
Any tactical gear he wore is gone. The feared Scythe is as naked as I’ve ever seen him—maskless in a black T-shirt, cargo pants, and bare feet.
I dig my nails into the carpet, dragging myself onto my elbows despite the extreme desire to lie down and go back to sleep. Blood oozes down the side of my face, hot and sticky, from where Cassie's blow sent me crashing to the floor. The room tilts and spins as I stagger to my feet, nearly losing my balance.
But I can't stop. Not when Kaden lies there so still, his chest barely rising with each shallow breath.
I half stumble, half shuffle to him, not trusting my legs to hold me up. Glass crunches under my bare feet from the shattered decanter that must have toppled during Kaden and Cassie’s confrontation, but I hardly feel the sting. All I can focus on is reaching him.
His name escapes my lips in a hoarse whisper, my voice foreign to my own ears. Frankly, I’m shocked I’ve retained the ability to use it after days upon days of screaming.
“Kaden,” I rasp again, collapsing to my knees beside him and ignoring the jolt it sends through my weary body.
But it’s all I can do. With my hands still tied behind my back, I can’t touch him. I’m stopped from feeling for injuries and checking for a pulse. And because of that, a quiet, keening wheeze soaks my lips, along with tears that should’ve dried up weeks ago.
Lowering my head, I rest the side of my face against his chest and hear a steady heartbeat. My shoulders sag, and I sob, staying there, soaking up his warmth and proof of life.
Time stretches, marked only by the thud of Kaden's heart against my ear and the tattered symphony of our breathing. But then, in a burst of movement too quick for my damaged reflexes, Kaden surges to life.
His eyes snap open, wild and feverish, pupils blown wide. I have enough time to lift my head and softly call out his name again before he surges forward, seizing me by the shoulders and slamming me onto my back, my tied hands crushed under the press of my body weight. Air whooshes from my mouth as he pins me with his body, one dirtied, bloodied hand clamping around my throat.
Kaden snarls above me, his eyes empty, all traces of the man I trust consumed by the instinctual killer within. His fingers tighten, seconds from crushing my trachea, and a vicious thrill slithers through me.
Because even like this—feral, brutal, reduced to his basest nature—he’s magnificent. Strands of his raven hair fall across his brow, and beads of sweat glisten above the taut lines of his face. His full lips are pulled back in a vicious snarl, revealing the glint of white teeth. The scar slicing through his brow to his cheek has turned a mesmerizing purple-white.
A traitorous part of me wants to lean into his violence, to let it consume me until I forget the nightmare we're trapped in.
He’s a fallen angel, a dark, avenging spirit, and at last, I have my escape. I’m ready to succumb.
I can’t. I shouldn’t. Because if I go, I’m leaving Kaden alone, and he’s been so stripped of life for so long.
“Kaden,” I command in a tight, strangled voice. “It’s me. It’s Layla.”
His fingers flex around my throat, digging into the mottled canvas of healing bruises and fresh contusions on my skin. The pressure builds until gray fuzz rings my vision.
Then awareness crashes over his expression between one labored breath and the next. His hand retreats from my neck as if scalded, leaving me coughing on flakes of dried blood and built-up saliva.
“Wraithling?” He chokes out my pet name. “Jesus, I could have?—”
“I'm okay,” I reassure him quickly, even as I cough, my abused windpipe protesting the words. “I've gone through worse.”
Kaden rises to his knees, one on either side of my hips. His eyes widen as he takes in the sight of me splayed underneath him. I can only imagine what he sees.
A patchwork of particolored bruises in sickening shades of purple and yellow, angry red lacerations crisscrossing my skin, dried blood peeling off in rust-colored patches.
Cracks of anguish break through his stone expression as he reaches out, his hands hovering over the injuries to my chest as if he’s afraid to touch me and cause more damage.
“Layla.” His voice shatters on my name. “What has she done to you?”
“Nothing I couldn’t survive.” I taste the tang of blood on my tongue as I respond. “I’m still here, Kaden. I-I didn’t break.”
The golden lamplight casts harsh rays across the planes of his face, accentuating the hollows of his cheeks and dark circles under his eyes. Those coldwater eyes shine before he blinks the emotion away.
It hurts to look at him, too, so I shift my weight and wince, my hands tingling with lack of blood flow.
Kaden notices. His brows come down, a line forming between them like a mark between heartache and fury. “Can you roll to your side?”
Nodding stiffly, I roll with the help of my legs and a hiss between my clenched teeth.
He seeks out the plastic restraints on my wrists, and I can’t help but shiver at his touch, his rare tenderness.
With a low grunt, Kaden manages to slip his fingers beneath the zip tie, his short nails scraping against my raw skin. He works at the plastic with single-minded determination, his brows keeping low.
After several agonizing moments, the pressure around my wrists suddenly releases with a soft snap. I fall onto my back and bring my arms forward with a grateful sob, my biceps protesting the unfamiliar motion. Pins and needles shoot under my skin, circulation returning in a painful rush.
“Th-Thank you.”
It takes so much effort to say it through the swell of relief.
“Your gratitude is nothing I deserve,” he murmurs as he shifts his weight off me, his breath stalling as he lifts his injured leg.
I shake my head, denying the subtext that this is his fault, not trusting myself to speak past the lump in my throat. Instead, I watch as Kaden remains on his knees and shrugs out of his T-shirt, gripping the collar and peeling it up and over his head in one smooth motion. A lifetime of conditioning allows him to power through the discomfort.
I can't help but stare, transfixed by the shift of his muscles beneath his olive skin. His sculpted chest is a work of art, all hard planes and ridges, decorated with scars and tattoos. A dangling square of gauze barely holds on at his shoulder, revealing the puckered, starburst wound he received from Cassie’s bullet. There’s another thin, precise line curving around his ribs, too clean to be anything but a knife. And a jagged gash across his right pectoral, angry, red, and recent. But what calls to me the most is the smattering of dark hair trailing down from his navel and disappearing into the waistband of his pants.
I’m prevented from losing any remaining saliva I have left by drooling when Kaden holds the shirt out to me, his expression unreadable, save for his eyes holding on to mine.
“Here,” he says, his voice rough. “Put this on.”
Rising into a pained sit, I reach for the offered garment with a trembling hand, my fingers brushing against his. The contact is electric, improper in this environment yet refusing to leave. I clutch the shirt to my chest, the fabric still warm from his body heat.
Averting my gaze, I slip my arms into the sleeves, ignoring the scream of my newly freed muscles at the movement. The collar catches on a gash across my cheekbone, and I wince, a small sound escaping through my teeth.
Kaden's hands are there in an instant, his touch gentle as he helps guide the shirt over my head until it pools at my thighs.
“Thank you,” I whisper once more.
I’m not just thanking him for the shirt, and he knows it.
His jaw clenches, and he gives a curt nod instead of denying the gratitude this time, his eyes raking over me and cataloging every remaining visible injury.
I pull the sleeves as low as they can go and wrap my arms around myself, savoring the sensation of being clothed and shielded from the voyeuristic gazes of Cassie’s men.
It wasn’t always Cassie who visited this room. Sometimes she’d send others to shove a water bottle against my lips, tilting it so most of it streamed down my chin instead of going in my mouth. A few would leer, quipping that soon it would be their cum dribbling down my face when they finished fucking my mouth.
It never happened. I’m grateful for not having to endure such indignity, but to be grateful to anyone in this situation messes with my mind, with what is good versus what’s terrible. I’m experiencing shades of gray I never thought possible.
Kaden doesn’t look away, watching every thought play across my face. Not once does he break his stare despite the clear effort it’s taking to control his expression.
“I’m getting you out of here,” he vows.
He pushes to his feet with a grunt and prowls around the suite, his weight distributed unevenly to avoid aggravating his injuries. The corded muscles of his back ripple beneath his skin, and I swallow.
Leave it to Kaden to quench my thirst when I’ve been nothing but parched for days. I don’t miss the chance to drink him in.
His keen gaze sweeps over every inch of the space, searching for any weakness, any chance at escape.
The walls are a rich, dark wood, polished to a high shine that reflects the light from the antique lamps and sconces. Intricate carvings of sirens and sea monsters dance along the edges of his fingers as he tests for hidden catches or loose panels but comes up empty.
I want to tell him I’ve shuffled around this room what seems like hundreds of times, and though I didn’t have the freedom of my hands, it didn’t take long to become certain Cassie wouldn’t leave me in a room with an escape hatch. But after an eternity of staring at nothing but this suite or Cassie’s cold face or sneering men, watching Kaden’s defensive skills and the grace with which he moves is nothing short of a gift.
He moves to the windows next, floor-to-ceiling panes of glass that offer a breathtaking view of the town’s skyline. The lights of Greycliff twinkle like fallen stars against the inky black of the night sky, and the distant sound of waves crashing against the cliffs is a mocking reminder of the freedom that lies just out of reach. Kaden tests the locks, the hinges, even the glass itself, but it's all reinforced and impenetrable.
Frustration emanates from him in palpable waves as he stalks to the far side of the room. But then he pauses, his posture going rigid. I follow his gaze to see what caught his attention. A door, nearly hidden in the intricately carved wall paneling.
He glances back at me.
I answer the question in his eyes. “The bathroom.”
Quickly, I break our connection, staring at the carpeting beneath my feet. On occasion, I was dragged into that decadent en suite, shoved into the shower, and sprayed down like an animal with ice water. Other times, I was pushed onto the toilet and told to relieve myself on command. At first, it was difficult, the humiliation so much that my bladder refused to comply. But it didn’t take long to overcome once necessity overtook dignity.
Kaden studies my face for a long moment, reading the unspoken trauma behind my features. His jaw clenches, a muscle ticking beneath the surface before he takes a deliberate step toward me.
“Wraithling,” he says softly, his velvet baritone caressing my name. “Come here.”
My throat constricts, but slowly, I get to my feet.
His large, calloused hand engulfs mine as he leads me to the bathroom.
I know what’s behind that door. The bathroom’s luxury feels like another form of mockery now. Veined marble in deep greens and golds that I've studied through tears, memorizing patterns while fighting to keep my composure during “supervised visits.” The massive soaking tub dominates one wall, its brass faucets shaped like siren heads, their patina matching the oxidized sconces. The shower spans an entire wall behind heavy glass etched with scenes of storms and shipwrecks. Fitting since that's where Cassie's men held me under the spray until I couldn't breathe. Even the heated floor was cruel, its warmth seeping into my bare feet while I waited for the shivering to stop.
Everything in there speaks of wealth and comfort, but all I can envision is another room where Cassie turned luxury into a weapon.
“Layla,” Kaden prods gently beside me. “It’s all right now.”
He squeezes my hand while he swings the door open.
The shower draws my eye first—all those multiple rainfall showerheads pelted me like frozen bullets. But…
Kaden turns the faucet until steam curls invitingly from the fogged panes.
He draws me closer, his touch impossibly gentle for hands that render so much violence. “The water's warm. And you're shaking.”
“I don't know if I can...”
My voice pitches, the admission burning my throat.
His fingers thread through mine, steady despite the bruises and cuts on them.
“You're safe with me.”
With infinite care, he helps me shed his shirt, his touch lingering on each new expanse of skin revealed. I tremble, though not from cold, as his fingertips graze the curve of my shoulder and the swell of my breast.
He sheds his own pants efficiently, uncaring of his own nudity. I can't help but take another drink. His body is incredible, my dark warrior god made into flesh.
Kaden guides me into the spray, his hands never leaving me.
I stop when my head is under the warm water, the water sluicing over my skin, turning pink as it swirls down the drain as the grime and blood wash away.
Kaden reaches for a bottle of shampoo—an incongruously delicate glass flacon I was never allowed to touch—and pools a measure into his palm. With tender fingers, he works the lather through my matted hair, careful of the tangles and tender spots on my scalp. I lean into his chest, my eyes fluttering closed as a sigh escapes my lips. The scent of sandalwood and amber envelops us, chasing away the lingering odors of blood and hurt and fear.
He guides my head back under the spray, his hand cupping my neck to shield the soap from my eyes as he rinses my hair clean. I keep my eyes closed, focusing only on the sensation of him against me and the heat of the water comforting us both.
When he’s satisfied my hair is rinsed clean, Kaden reaches for a washcloth and a bar of creamy soap. He works up a rich lather before smoothing the cloth over my skin in long, soothing strokes. It’s so needed that I ignore the sting of soap against my cuts.
Starting at my shoulders, he drags the cloth across my collarbones and down over the swells of my breasts. I shiver as he circles each nipple, the rough fabric a delicious contrast to his gentle touch. He continues down my stomach, tracing the ridges of my abused ribs and the hollow of my navel.
I hold my breath as he sinks to his knees before me, the washcloth skating over the V of my hips and the tops of my thighs.
Logical Me knows he’s not doing this for pleasure, that Kaden just wants to soothe and wash away what trauma he can, but when he looks up at me through a veil of wet lashes, his blue eyes molten, all I want is him. The tenderness in his touch ignites something deeper than our circumstances, something that makes me forget where I am.
His fingers still against my thigh.
“Wraithling.”
My name comes out as both a warning and a question wrapped in need.