34. Infiltration Strategies for the Injured, Sick, and Stupidly in Love #3
“You poor thing.” Matthias’s voice broke on the word thing. “My poor boy. I never should have insisted you go on your mission. You are too spiritually sensitive for the terrible things outside of our paradise. Come here. Come here, Cassiopeia.”
Cass’s breathing hitched— not crying, but close, the shallow catches of someone being held by the person they believed would keep them safe. Riot heard Matthias murmur something too low to make out, heard Cass’s small, choked response, and tasted bile at the back of his throat.
Calm down. Calm down. Don’t turn the Elysian infirmary into a fucking light show. Stay calm.
“I’m so sorry,” Cass whispered.
“You have nothing to apologize for.”
He apologized. He apologized to the man who—
Riot sat up. Slowly and controlled as the stitches screamed. He didn’t care.
“He’s right,” Riot said. “I found him at the roadblock and kept him safe through the rest of the Static Zone.”
The curtain pulled back.
Brother Matthias stood with one hand on the white fabric, the other still resting on the back of Cass’s neck in a light touch, like the gesture of someone who had been stroking hair and transitioned to stillness without letting go.
He was exactly as Riot remembered with warm eyes and a welcoming smile that landed on Riot like crosshairs settling into position.
But it was Cass that Riot saw.
He was facing away from both of them, completely nude with his head bowed and his hair still streaked with blood hanging loosely around him as he sniffled. His good hand gripped his injured arm just above where the sling should be.
Count the ceiling panels. Count them again. Be the seeker. Be humble. Be broken. Be everything this man wants to see because that is how you stay in this building long enough to get Cass back out.
“So you’re the one who found Brother Cassiopeia,” Matthias said.
Those calculating eyes swept Riot’s shirtless torso—the scars, the stitches, the musculature—and Riot watched him read the story the same way Brother Cyrus had, but with a different appetite.
Not academic. Acquisitive. “You have my genuine gratitude.”
Riot made himself nod.
“I found him in bad shape,” he said, his tone hollowed-out into the rasp of a man reaching for redemption. “Afterward, he told me about this place. About what you offer here. I want—” He let his voice catch. “I want to be something other than what they made me.”
Matthias studied him during a long silence in which Riot could feel himself being weighed, measured, and provisionally categorized. Then he smiled, and it was the warmest expression Riot had ever wanted to peel off someone’s skull with his bare hands.
“Brother Cyrus,” Matthias said, without looking away from Riot. “Thank you for your care. I’ll be taking over both patients from here.”
Brother Cyrus blinked, then withdrew with a murmured blessing.
“You’re clearly exhausted,” Matthias continued.
“And you’ve both been through significant trauma.
Given the negative energy you’ve absorbed, both of you, I think it’s prudent to keep you together during the initial cleansing period.
Brother Cassiopeia can serve as your spiritual advisor during orientation. He’ll help you adjust to our ways.”
His hand was still on Cass’s neck.
“Brother Cassiopeia,” Matthias said, gentler now. “I’ll have towels brought for you both. We’ll find something suitable for our new seeker’s frame. And I’ll want a full report on your mission when you’ve rested. We have much to discuss about your time in the outer territories.”
“Yes, Brother Matthias.”
Matthias gave the back of Cass’s neck a small squeeze—the kind a parent might give, or a lover, or an owner—and let go. The door closed behind him with a soft, perfectly engineered click.
Riot waited three seconds. Then five. Then ten, making sure the footsteps faded, making sure no one else remained in the infirmary so the next words he spoke wouldn’t carry to anyone who could use them.
“Cass.”
Cass didn’t turn around. His shoulders hitched once in a small, convulsive motion, quickly suppressed.
“Princess,” Riot said softly. “We need to wash up.”
Cass turned then. His eyes were red-rimmed but dry, his chin lifted at an angle that was pure stubborn refusal to break.
He looked at Riot—really looked, taking in the shirtless torso and the stitches and the bandaged hands and whatever was on Riot’s face that Riot was trying very hard to control—and his expression softened.
“There are bathing rooms off the east corridor,” Cass said. “They’ll bring towels first. Then we can...”
He trailed off as he crossed the space between them and pressed his forehead against Riot’s bare shoulder. Riot brought his hand up and stroked Cass’s back as a warm, brightness settled in Riot’s body, like sunlight on a bruise.
“Welcome home, princess,” he murmured into Cass’s hair.
Cass huffed a laugh and pressed closer.
Behind them, through the infirmary windows, Springfield Gardens caught the last of the afternoon light and glowed like the paradise it never was.