Chapter 7
Ivy
Yelling started, shattering the fragile silence that settled over the old building.
My fingers pause on the can of fruit in my lap, my body still shaking from the encounter.
Zane's voice is the first to rise loud enough for me to make out clear words. “A human being!”
His voice is deeper and calmer than the asshole who gave me a can of old fruit with no way to open it. But his voice was definitely not calm just now.
“…went behind my back!”
That voice was unmistakable. Loud, sharp, like anger was his first language. Death—ironically, the owner of the kind of face you’d pray to.
Worry pulls on my face.
Are they yelling about me?
I press closer into the bars, not because I want to eavesdrop... because I have to. My survival might depend on what is said in that room. But I can’t make out all their words.
The words that follow are muffled, fast, overlapping. Something about a hero. Something about a blanket. Oh shit… my eyes drop automatically to the fabric still wrapped around my legs.
Something slams... a door? Something hitting a wall?
I flinch at every sound, my heart racing like it did when I first saw them.
Closing my eyes, I try to breathe, to go somewhere else in my mind. This isn't new. I know how to survive this, I tell myself. Not only have I survived worse; I escaped it.
This is manageable. I have shelter, and I can plan my escape over the next week before it’s time to meet Jade. Together we’ll get as far away from Bennett, and his deluded followers, as possible.
But Death’s face intrudes my mind. The way he looked at me this morning makes me shudder. The same way a cat eyes a mouse. As if I was his prey to toy with.
If he hadn't been looking at me with such predatory eyes, I might have been struck by how attractive he was.
Even without that haunting skull mask, I could recognise him by those tattoos. The designs snaking up his arms, from fingers right up into the sleeves of his tight white shirt.
His strong jawline was tense like a snake coiled back and ready to strike. And those fiery hazel eyes, intense and wild.
Goosebumps break out over my flesh at the memory of the chiselled god who crouched before me and made me feel things I shouldn’t have.
The way his fingers ignited my senses, trailing over my body like a lover. The reaction of my body had me questioning everything.
It shouldn’t have felt that good. And he shouldn’t look that good.
He was younger than I expected too. Mid-twenties, maybe. Sun-kissed hair in messy spikes, as if he cut it with a knife—having no business looking that perfect six years after the world essentially ended.
It's not fair that both of them are ridiculously hot. Statistically, the third one has to be hideous.
I haven’t seen the Devil since Death dragged me in here. He’s the only one I haven’t seen unmasked now. And maybe that’s a good thing. Because if he’s beautiful too, I don’t know what I’ll do.
No. That’s stupid. What am I thinking?
I can’t trust these guys. Who knows what sick shit they’re into… I heard the stories of groups who feed you before you become the feast. Who make you trust them just enough to relax before the real horror begins.
But my senses are confused, terror and desire mingled in an unnatural concoction.
Even now, fear coils tighter in my stomach as I sit back down on the cold concrete floor of the cell and refocus on the can of fruit—another one of his taunts.
Turning it over in my hands for the hundredth time, inspecting the rim, the lid, anything for a weakness.
The sun-faded label shows a picture of a peach, barely recognisable and peeling.
It might have been a kind gesture if he’d actually opened it for me.
Trying the edge of the bars again, I drag the lip of the can along the corroded metal.
No luck.
Only a scratch on the surface and another throb in my palm. I hiss under my breath and wipe the smear of rust on my shorts.
The sun has moved again, lower now. The stifling heat of high noon is quickly giving way to the cool of the late afternoon.
Slumped in the corner of the cell, I sit with my knees to my chest, as the iron bars slice the afternoon light into angled shadows.
There's been nothing but silence since that argument, and anxious anticipation is beginning to combine with the hunger in my stomach.
Footsteps echo in the hallway and my heart seizes. Every muscle tensing as I brace.
They’re measured. Careful. Not the threatening stomps of Death.
Zane.
I hold perfectly still as the door to the holding room opens slowly, his shadow stretching into the room. He slips inside, the door clicking shut quietly behind him. A bowl in his hand.
“Thought you might be hungry,” he says, cautiously taking another step toward me.
He's still in his cargo pants and combat boots from this morning, but now an olive-green T-shirt pulls tight over his muscles, hiding most of his scars.
The closer he gets, the larger he appears. His powerful frame and imposing height is a reminder of just how trapped and at their mercy I truly am.
Backing up to the concrete wall behind me, he falters and slows his steps even more.
“It's ok. I'll move slow,” he says, raising a hand slightly and nodding gently, causing the black strands of hair over his brow to sway. “I don't want to frighten you.”
His green eyes hold the most tender expression, as if it's a crime against nature to scare me. I almost want to believe it.
But I know better than that.
He crouches slowly, setting the bowl down outside the bars. Then he moves back again and sits on the concrete floor,
The distance doesn't make me more comfortable, but I appreciate the way he seems to think about every movement. Measuring how close is too close. As if he’s trying not to spook a caged bird.
“We made some rabbit stew,” he says. “It's still warm.”
I make no move toward the bowl, unsure if it's just a trap to get me to reach out through the bars.
But his strange gentleness is a stark contrast to Death’s volatility. I want to trust it. But that’s how they get you. A soft voice. A warm smile. Then the door shuts behind you.
“You don't have to talk,” he says after a pause. “But I'd like it if you did.”
I rub my lips together as my heart hammers in my chest.
Zane might not be like the other guy. But there's still something in him. Something dangerous. I can feel it between his calm. Like a blade tucked in its sheath. Docile, but still capable of harm.
I open my mouth. Then close it again.
In that fraction of a second his eyes widen, face softening with a look of pure innocence as he waits for me to speak. Then he deflates slightly when I don't.
No one has ever held their breath to hear me speak before.
Who is this guy?
Danger doesn’t usually wait. It grabs. Forces. Hurts. This… stillness? It’s disorienting.
I don’t trust it. But part of me wants to.
Zane doesn't rush at me like the other one. He just sits there, arms resting on his knees, watching like he's waiting for a signal I don't know how to give. I can't decide if it makes me feel exposed or... seen.
“I have a bottle of clean water as well,” he adds gently. “If you're thirsty.”
God, am I ever.
I nod, ever so slightly, my tongue wetting my lips automatically at the mention of water.
He slowly moves his hand to his pocket, the plastic bottle crinkling as he pulls it out.
“Do you want me to roll it to you? Or can I come closer?” he asks cautiously.
Oh, I see what he’s done there. Nodding or shaking my head could be taken either way. He’s coaxing me to speak.
Speaking is far less threatening than him coming closer. I can do this.
Swallowing back my fear, I whisper, “roll it,” my voice husky from under-use.
A small smile creeps onto his face before he controls it again, then lines up the bottle on the floor and gently pushes it.
It rolls until it hits the bars, thankfully not bouncing back out of reach. I glance at it, nervous to move.
“You can do it,” he encourages. “I promise I won't move.”
How do I know this isn’t a trick as well? I’ve heard similar lines before. ‘I promise I won’t hurt you.’ But they always do.
He doesn't sit turned away this time. He’s watching me with so much curiosity, waiting to see what I’ll do. And he’ll probably take everything back before he leaves—whether I eat or not.
Gathering my confidence, I shift on my knees.
He’s a good distance from the bars. I should have enough time to back away if he comes at me.
Keeping my eyes locked on him, I inch closer to the bars. He stays still, watching as I reach for the bottle and pull it through. Then as I drink desperately.
Gasping for breath, I force myself to stop drinking before I take in too much. Zane still doesn't move, but something in his face softens, as if he's finally stopped holding his breath.
Eyeing him cautiously, I reach out again and pull the bowl through the bars. The warmth of the bowl brings comfort all on its own. But the smell makes my stomach knot. It’s rich, salty and flavourful.
Real food.
Not a ration or a biscuit—or an unopened can someone tossed at me like scraps.
Lifting the bowl to my lips, I tip it back and let the stew pour into my mouth. The broth slides down my throat and a soft moan escapes my lips before I can stop it.
It's the first real food I've had in days. There are pieces of tender meat, soft carrot, and what might be slivers of wild onion.
It tastes like a memory. Like contentment. Like a Sunday afternoon as someone hums while stirring a pot on the stove.
I hate that it makes me feel anything. But that warmth fills somewhere deeper than my stomach.
That should be terrifying. But something in me wants to believe it isn’t a trap. That this could be… safe.
Watching him from the top of the bowl, I see the corner of his lip pull up as I finish off the entire thing. Placing it back on the floor, I lick my lips, savouring the taste that lingers on them.
“Thank you,” I murmur, my own voice sounding foreign. “For the blanket too.”
He has no reason to be nice to me. Unless of course, he’s buttering me up. But he's made no suggestions.
Zane blinks in surprise. “You're welcome,” he says, a smile in his voice this time. “You looked cold last night.”
“Did you… get in trouble?” I say softly, still finding my voice, unsure if I should even bring up the argument that I overheard.
A smile lights up his face. “Nothing I can't handle,” he chuckles, the sound softening his dangerous appearance. “You don't need to worry about me.”
In this moment, he doesn't look like a killer. The warm evening light from the windows cuts across his face, turning the lines of his jaw and cheekbones golden.
His eyes sparkle with something unreadable. “I'll keep coming to check on you, don't worry, sweetheart.”
The promise releases some tension in my stomach.
What is that feeling?
Hope?
No. That’s ridiculous.