Chapter Thirty-Three #2
What I wouldn’t give for some beautiful boredom , I would think.
And I had it for a bit there. With Alice, my job at Zen, my cozy little studio apartment on Killian St… But of course it didn’t last. Because I’m not meant for it.
I’m destined to be forever immersed in pure, unadulterated anarchy.
Byron, however, is struggling with this. After all, he’s gone from prison— the ultimate tedium —to constant unrest. And because he’s Byron, he’s dealing with it in the only way he knows how… By shutting down.
Byron is an island. He’s this rock we’re existing on personified.
My gorgeous warrior has retreated into himself, returning to the quiet, sullen lump of isolation he was before I opened him up. I can’t say I blame him… I just wish there was something I could do.
Something that doesn’t involve infecting him with the disease of my existence, that is.
A flurry of voices and noise, more excessive than usual, draws our attention up the hall, and we rush to go see what’s happening.
Bloody hell, what now??
It’s coming from the study, which has been converted into something of an infirmary to treat wounded soldiers .
I wish I was exaggerating, but bullets have been flying around the woods between the mansion and the prison for the better part of a week.
Not to mention, Felix Darcey is still at large, creeping around out there, attacking The Ivory’s men like some adorable rogue guerrilla assassin.
Because of that, it’s become necessary for the East Wing doctors to have a designated area where they can act as combat medics.
I swear to God, lately it feels like I’m living in a Francis Ford Coppola fever dream.
“Get the fuck off me!” an aggrieved male voice snarls amidst a mess of other shouting as we round the corner.
“You two, keep him still,” the young doctor with the black hair—I think his name is Hassan—says, crowding around a body lying on a makeshift gurney. “I’ll check for an exit wound.”
“One-forty-four over ninety-five,” Dr. Johansson says, attempting to read the man’s blood pressure while he jerks around.
“Let me go, you pricks!” the guy hollers. I still can’t see who it is…
“Shut up, bitch,” one of the guys holding him down growls. “Or we’ll leave you to bleed out.”
“I have an exit wound,” Dr. Hassan gasps. “Put pressure on this… Love, bring me the sedatives.”
I push farther into the room, eyes widening when I spot Dr. Love. He’s at their sides, as if he’s supposed to be assisting them, though he doesn’t look happy about it in the slightest.
“Hancock…?” Byron grumbles, the unease in his tone drawing my attention.
The wounded man is Officer Hancock, dirty and tattered and bleeding from his right shoulder.
Christ, this gets better and better…
He’s clearly in pain, having apparently been shot. But that’s the least of his worries… Because now he’s in enemy territory.
Fucking hell… He’s a bloody prisoner of war.
Byron appears sufficiently disturbed, and he’s not the only one.
Dr. Love brings over an IV drip and some other medical dressings while eyeing the bloke in concern, jaw straining tight.
Hancock’s fearful gaze stays with his as they share a wordless sentiment that’s not difficult to read.
It looks like Byron wants to say something to Hancock, but there are too many of the Warden’s guys around.
And then the familiar clack of dress shoes straightens all of our spines. The Ivory stalks into the room, making a beeline to Officer Hancock, everyone scattering to make way for him.
“Hi, Simon,” he croons, brushing Hancock’s damp hair away from his face. “It’s been a while, darling.”
Hancock tries to jerk away from his touch, but he’s still being held down, poked and prodded by the doctors as he spits, “Fuck off, Ivory.”
Manuel Blanco sucks his teeth, shaking his head with a smugly devious smirk resting on his lips. “Now, now. Is that any way to speak to someone who’s saved your life? Multiple times now, by my count.”
“Your men fucking shot me,” Hancock hisses.
“Yours shot first.” The Ivory shrugs casually.
Hancock winces when an IV needle is jabbed into his arm. “Sure, Han Solo. Keep telling yourself that.”
The Ivory’s grin widens, fingers still sifting through Hancock’s hair as the bloke’s lashes flutter, his eyelids drooping. “Relax, Simon. You’re back where you belong.” He leans over him as Hancock visibly loses consciousness. “And you will make a purely wonderful bargaining chip.”
The Ivory straightens, spinning away. “Johansson, Hassan, get him patched up. Oh, and make sure he’s collared, please. Can’t have this one getting away.”
On his way out of the room, he drops a hand onto my shoulder. “Wait for me in my office.” He tosses a brief, sinister glance at Dr. Love before whispering by my ear, “We have much to discuss.”
Once he’s gone, I find Byron peering at me, to which I shrug.
What could he want now? What do we have to discuss…?
Regardless, I have no desire to keep him waiting. I run my fingers along Byron’s lower back. “Are you coming?”
“He didn’t say he wanted to talk to me…” he mutters, forehead lined as his gaze lingers on Hancock’s unconscious form. “It’s fine. I’m gonna… stay with him.” He swallows visibly.
I truly despise his endless melancholy, but there’s nothing I can do about it right now. I’m at The Ivory’s beck and call. We all are.
Marching out of the room with my stomach in knots, I make my way to the stairs, on a mission I don’t understand. The door to his office is open, so I meander inside. He’s not here yet, which gives me a golden opportunity to snoop.
Wandering around the room, I examine things on his shelves and on his walls. There are framed pictures of him with people, degrees and plaques that indicate someone intelligent and successful in walks of life outside of the criminal. It’s quite curious…
Who is this man… Really ?
Is The Ivory just a persona he puts on? Or is that the real him, hiding in plain sight beneath the impeccable disguise of Manuel Blanco ?
His voice from up the hall startles me out of my snooping, and I creep closer to the door.
“They’re weak. Exhausted and running on fumes,” he says to someone. “Low on food and ammunition. Sooner or later, he’ll have no choice but to come crawling back on his hands and fucking knees—”
“So the plan is to starve them out?” someone else says— I think it’s Kent. “If so, why not pull our men out of the woods?”
“Because Felix Darcey is out there,” The Ivory barks. “That little psycho is ballsier than I ever gave him credit for.”
“It’s a fucking slaughter every time we even creep west—”
“Listen to me. I want him back . I don’t care what you have to do. I don’t care how much blood we have to spill. I want The Carver back in chains.” His voice is a low, sinister command that’s obviously not to be argued with any further.
I imagine Kent nodding like the good soldier he is. “What about Russo? Yari’s been holding him off as best he can, but he’s becoming rather… insistent. He wants answers we don’t have—”
My stomach twists painfully. Governor Russo…?
“Under no circumstances is he to set foot on this island. Do you understand me?” The Ivory seethes. “Not until I have Dascha back.”
“How much longer will that take?” Kent asks hesitantly.
“You tell me,” he bites back, tension in his tone. “You’re the one who lost eyes on him in Mexico.”
“I have my best guys on it, but he’s a slippery one. We might need to call in your contact…”
“Trust me, that’ll be a last resort.” He sounds like he’s getting closer, so I tiptoe over to a chair and take a seat, trying to act like I haven’t been eavesdropping.
“One we might need to explore.” Kent sighs.
“I have faith in you,” The Ivory grunts. “Just get it done.”
He stalks into the office, closing the door in Kent’s burdened face. I watch as The Ivory crosses the room, striding behind his large desk.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he hums as he takes a seat, settling in.
I wave my hand in lieu of a response.
Leaning in on the desk, he folds his hands, staring at me for a few seconds in silence. It takes everything in me not to squirm.
I can’t put my finger on it, but something about him seems…
off . I mean, more off than his usual foreboding persona.
Yes, he’s less composed than he was before the prison fell, and he’s actively rocking the aura of someone who’s living each day on the edge of whatever sanity he had left. But it’s more than that.
There’s an imperceptible difference in his demeanor that’s unsettling me. He’s almost glowing in a way—dark eyes sparkling and some flush in his pale complexion.
Is that a… bite mark? On his collarbone?
My head slants as I zero in on it.
He clears his throat, and I jump. “I’ll cut right to the chase. If you know where Felix Darcey is, tell me now. Keeping secrets at this juncture in our relationship will ensure you, and Byron, suffer far greater than you need to.”
I’m frozen for a moment before I snap out of it. “I don’t know where he is… Byron said that Velle told him he’s out in the woods somewhere?”
He narrows his gaze. “Don’t play coy, Trevel. We both know you wouldn’t have gotten Lemuel without also going for The Carver.”
I shouldn’t be surprised that he knows more than he was letting on initially. I’m just wondering why he’s only bringing it up now…
I’m sure there’s a reason. Every move is calculated.
“We did…” I mumble, guilty like I’m being scolded by Daddy. “I mean, we grabbed them both and were holding Darcey in Dr. Love’s bedroom. But he… escaped. I’m still not clear on how…”
“He’s an obsessive little monster, that’s how,” The Ivory breathes out, pursing his lips.
“Only one thing to live for and a myriad of knowledge he’s putting toward that singular objective.
Which brings me to our next order of business…
” He sits back in his seat, pulling something out of his pocket.
It looks like a knife… “I’m putting you in charge of Lemuel from here on out. ”