Chapter 40 Eliana
ELIANA
but·cher: /?bo?oCH?r/: verb
I wake up on Sunday morning with my knee still throbbing and my pride still bruised. The bandages Bastian wrapped around my palms are wrinkled from sleep, and when I flex my fingers, the bloody scrapes pull tight enough to make me wince.
I could stay in bed. It would make all my dreams true if I could order takeout, binge Netflix, and pretend yesterday never happened.
But I’ve never been good at staying down. Even when I should. That’s not what Eliana Hunter does.
So I drag myself out of bed, shower carefully around my injuries, and pull on a fresh pair of leggings and my most comfortable sneakers. The white cane sits in the corner where I dropped it last night, folded and accusing.
You can do hard things, the sticky note on my bathroom mirror reminds me. I’ve got them everywhere—at work, at home. This one has been there for years. It’s yellowed and curling at the edges.
“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter at it. “Real motivational.”
But I grab the cane anyway.
The park near my apartment is mostly empty this early on a Sunday.
A few joggers pass by, their breath pluming in the February cold.
A woman walks three dogs that seem steadfastly determined to go in three different directions.
An old man feeds pigeons from a bench, scattering breadcrumbs and cooing under his breath.
I find a stretch of paved path that’s relatively clear and unfold the cane. Arc left, arc right, I remind myself. Two steps ahead. Shoulder-width. Easy as could be.
I start walking.
The rhythm comes back faster than I expected. Maybe muscle memory is a real thing, even after just one disastrous attempt. The cane sweeps left, taps the pavement. Sweeps right, taps again. My steps follow, cautious but steady.
A runner skirts way around me, and I appreciate that, unlike the businessman yesterday, she doesn’t make a big show of it. No pitying looks or exaggerated concern. She simply gives me room and keeps on moving.
I think of what Sage said about his wheelchair yesterday. Everyone wonders. Most people just stare and pretend they’re not curious.
Disability is a funny thing like that. It sets you apart.
Makes it glaringly obvious to the world that you are different in some way.
Aren’t we all, though? We’ve all got something that makes us us.
The gawker is as unique as the gawkee. It’s the shame of the difference that stings, not the difference itself.
It’s the painful thought that our stories are something that must be hidden.
Screw that.
I need to stop hiding mine.
So I keep going. The path curves gently around a small pond where ducks paddle in lazy circles. The cane finds the edge where pavement meets grass, and I adjust my trajectory without thinking about it too hard.
The sun breaks through the clouds for a moment, weak and watery but there. I pause to feel it on my face.
Seventy-nine days ago, I wouldn’t have noticed this.
The particular quality of February sunlight, thin and pale but still warm enough to matter.
I would’ve been too busy checking my phone, mentally running through my to-do list, planning my next move, forever worried about the next thousand things in my life.
Now, I notice it all.
Light glistens on the pond’s surface. Ducks chatter to each other. Someone’s coffee rises into the air from a nearby bench, rich and dark.
It’s a beautiful world, if you just stop and soak it up every now and then.
I open my eyes and keep walking. The path takes me past a playground where a dad pushes his daughter on a swing. Her laughter rings out, pure and un-self-conscious. That’s a nice sound, too.
I make it around the entire loop without falling, panicking, or phoning my boss in tears. When I reach my starting point again, I’m actually smiling. It’s a small victory. Pathetically small, really. I walked around a park with a stick. Toddlers accomplish more impressive feats before breakfast.
But it’s mine, goddammit.
I’m folding up the cane, still congratulating myself on not dying, when a car door slams behind me.
“Eliana Hunter?”
The voice is male, unfamiliar, and way too close for comfort.
I spin around, and there it is: the black sedan with the blacked-out windows that’s been haunting me all week.
A man steps out. He’s wearing a dark suit and dark sunglasses despite the overcast sky.
He’s built like he spends way too much quality time with a heavy punching bag.
Every instinct I have screams run, but my stupid knee is still messed up from yesterday’s concrete kiss, and the cane in my hand feels about as useful as a pool noodle.
“Who’s asking?” I croak.
The man doesn’t answer. He just moves. Fast.
Before I can process what’s happening, his hand clamps hard around my upper arm. The cane clatters to the pavement.
“Let go of me!” I yank backward, but his grip is iron.
He drags me toward the sedan’s open rear door. My sneakers scrape against the pavement as I try to plant my feet, but my injured knee buckles and I collapse forward instead.
“Help!” I scream. “Somebody help me!”
The dad at the playground looks up. The old man feeding pigeons stands. But they’re too far away, and this is happening too fast.
The man shoves me toward the car. I grab the door frame with my bandaged hands, ignoring the pain that screams through my palms. I won’t make this easy, even if it kills me.
“Get in the car,” he growls.
“Fuck you!”
I kick backward with my good leg, aiming for his shin. My sneaker connects, and he grunts, but his grip doesn’t loosen. Instead, he pushes harder. My ribs slam against the car frame. The world reels as he tries to fold me into the backseat.
I’m still clawing at the door frame, ribs screaming where they’re crushed against metal, when I hear the footsteps.
I recognize them—because I heard the exact same ones yesterday.
The man’s grip on me loosens just a fraction, just enough for him to turn his head—and then he’s gone.
I mean gone gone. Ripped away from me like a tornado snatched him up.
I stumble backward, catching myself against the car, and watch as Bastian tackles the man to the pavement. It’s not like the movies. There’s no dramatic music, no slow-motion choreography. It’s fast and brutal and horrifyingly efficient.
Bastian’s fist connects with the man’s jaw with a sickening crack. The man tries to block, but Bastian is relentless. He moves like someone who’s done this before. Someone who knows how to hurt people.
A knee to the ribs. An elbow to the temple. The meaty, thudding smack of knuckles on flesh. Bastian kneels on the man’s torso, one hand fisting in his collar, the other pulled back for another strike.
“Touch her again,” Bastian snarls, “and I’ll fucking kill you.”
The man spits blood. “You don’t know who you’re—”
Bastian hits him again. The man’s head snaps to the side, and he goes limp.
Just like that, it’s over.
Bastian stands, chest heaving, knuckles already swelling. There’s blood trickling down his split lip and some more on his shirt, though I don’t know if it’s his or the other guy’s. His hair is wild, his eyes wilder. He looks like something feral that’s been caged too long and finally broke free.
He turns to me—and I flinch.
I don’t mean to. But I do.
That triggers something in him. A flinch of his own, sort of. Like a wince of regret as he comes back down to earth.
“Are you okay?” That savage harshness is gone now. All that rage is bottled back up. But I can see his hands shaking.
The dad from the playground has his phone out, probably calling 911. The old man with the pigeons stands frozen, mouth hanging open. I should answer Bastian, I know I should, but I just can’t make my lips move.
Bastian approaches me and puts both hands on my shoulders. “Eliana. Did he hurt you?”
I shake my head. My ribs ache where they hit the car, and my knee is screaming again, but I’m okay. I think.
“I’m fine,” I manage. “I’m— How did you— Where?”
“I was—”
On the ground, the man groans and tries to roll over. Bastian’s foot lands on his chest, pinning him down. “Stay,” he orders, like the man is a disobedient dog.
Sirens wail in the distance, getting closer. Bastian looks down the road and frowns. Then he drops to a knee next to the man’s prostrate body and starts digging through his pockets.
I recoil. “Bastian, what are you—?”
“Hush.” He finds the man’s wallet, pulls it out, and removes the driver’s license. Whatever he sees there makes his scowl deepen.
He tucks the ID in his own pocket, then rises again. There’s this smooth, dark nastiness to his motions that is making my skin crawl. I don’t know how to explain what it is or why it gives me that reaction. It’s just the lack of hesitation at any part of this.
He hit the man so hard. He didn’t hesitate.
He took the man’s ID. He didn’t hesitate.
And now, as he turns his attention on me again, he doesn’t hesitate. He grabs me by the wrist and drags me, half-jogging, down the path. We plunge into the wooded part of the park, veer off the path, then emerge from a copse of trees and find his Range Rover parked on the curve.
I try to dig my heels in. “Bastian, I’m so lost. What is happening? How are you here? Who was that? I’m—”
He whirls on me, and there it is, physical proof of the aura he’s emanating. His eyes are black. Straight-up pits of hell black. It’s like a different soul has come to possess the body of Bastian Hale. The man who bandaged me so sweetly yesterday is nowhere to be found.
There’s a devil in his place.
That devil puts one hand on my hip and uses the other to open the passenger door of his car. “No more questions,” he orders. “Get in the car.”