Chapter 22
Chapter
Twenty-Two
When I wake, my head is spinning. I’m only aware of muffled, unintelligible voices and a vague sense of movement.
Everything is dark beneath the sack still tied around my head.
I spend a while fighting it, trying to free my hands or at least my eyes, but all I do is rub my wrists raw on the rope and nearly suffocate myself on the rough material of the sack.
Finally, I slump, exhausted, and save my energy for when it will actually be useful.
Eventually, that movement stops. There’s a sound of a trunk opening, and then rough hands drag me up and out.
“Where is he?” I snarl, digging my heels into the ground and struggling for all I’m worth.
I kick out wildly, and my boot meets flesh, earning a satisfying groan from one of the bastards holding me.
“Where have you taken him? What are you doing? I swear to God, I’ll fucking—”
Another blow lands on the still-tender side of my head, sending me reeling. I’m dragged, struggling, and shoved into a room, where I stumble forward and fall onto my knees on a cold, rough floor. A door slams shut behind me, and the muffled voices recede.
I breathe heavily, on my knees in the darkness, feeling utterly helpless. Fighting the urge to slump to the floor and give up. What is the point, if—
A muffled sound reaches me.
My head jerks up. “Hello?”
Another unintelligible mumble, but—the tone is pleading. Familiar. I remember the gag Cain was wearing when I last saw him, and my heart surges.
“Cain? Oh, God. Where—” I force my weak legs to straighten beneath me, and I reach out blindly with my bound hands. “Where are you? I can’t—”
I follow the clink of metal and more muffled sounds, feeling along the wall until my half-numb fingers brush against warmth.
“Cain,” I gasp, dropping to my knees beside him.
My hands fumble along his clothes, his skin, the metal chains and cold cuffs that must be keeping his wrists trapped.
I can’t tell if he’s hurt. My bound hands travel up over his bare chest, his neck, until I feel the gag in his mouth.
For a moment, I hesitate. If I ungag him, he can command me. He can force me to kill him.
But I can’t leave him like this. I have to trust him. I press his head to the side, and he is pliant under my grip, turning to let me undo the leather strap and tug the gag out of his mouth.
He gasps for air, and then says, desperately, “Willow.”
I cradle his face, wishing I could see him. “Are you hurt?” I ask. “Did they—”
“They only sedated me. They… They knew what to use, and how much. They knew what they were doing.”
Of course they do. They must have been planning this since Ellis sent word of Cain’s location.
There’s a queasiness in my stomach as I think about the events of the last few days.
The plan to transport Cain, Barnes being attacked and quarantined, me being pulled in as an escort.
Is fate to blame for Cain and I being forced together again, or has the cult been pulling the strings this whole time, setting us up for whatever comes next?
I’m certain they had a reason for trapping me here with Cain. Yet I can’t stop myself from being grateful that he isn’t alone.
“Bend down a little further,” he says. “I think I can free your head, at least.” I follow his instructions, and after a moment his clumsy, handcuffed hands manage to grab the edge of the fabric and yank it up over my head.
I blink, eyes adjusting to the dim lighting.
I look around to take in the room—small, bare, concrete, windowless.
One exit, up a flight of stairs. We must be in a basement somewhere.
“You’re hurt,” Cain says, and I turn back to him.
His hands are bound in front of him in thick metal cuffs attached to a chain that restrains him against the wall.
His ankles are bound, too, forcing him to kneel.
His wings are folded tightly on his back.
There’s dried blood on his face from tears he must’ve shed earlier, but he looks otherwise unharmed.
He tries to reach for me but struggles to lift his hands high enough. A soft, frustrated sound escapes him—edged with an inhuman growl.
“Shh,” I say, unable to fight a jump in my heart rate. If he has an episode right now, I suspect it would be the last. His teeth are so sharp now, his eyes fully red, his veins pulsing black. I fear his transformation must be nearly complete.
Still, I lean forward, pressing my forehead against his, since that’s the closest touch I can manage.
We stay like that for a moment, heads touching, noses brushing, sharing breath. We’ve never been this close before, I realize. What awful irony, that it has to be under these circumstances. That we still can’t touch each other freely.
“Don’t you dare ask me to kill you,” I murmur.
He shuts his eyes. “I won’t. Because if you do, I’m sure the cult will kill you.”
I smile despite the bitter twinge in my chest. “So you’d sacrifice yourself to save the world, but you wouldn’t sacrifice me?”
After a moment, he simply says, “Yes.”
I let out a huff that’s not quite a laugh. “Funny. I feel the same.”
The effects of the drug are clearly wearing off, its sluggish sedation replaced by an excess of nervous energy as Cain’s body catches up with what’s happening.
He shifts on the floor, metal chains clinking as he tries to adjust, only managing to sink from his knees to a cross-legged position. Each breath is ragged against my lips.
“Shh, it’s all right,” I say, but the words don’t seem to reach him.
He shakes his head, shuts his eyes, and lets out a long, almost pained groan. His shoulders hunch, and I see black pulsing beneath his skin, spreading. The dim lights overhead flicker.
“Calm, Cain,” I say, but he shakes his head again, as if trying to shed something physically.
“I can’t,” he says, and there’s an edge of a growl to his voice. “I— God. I can’t. Willow, please get back. Stay away—”
Instead of retreating, I press closer, nudging my nose into his cheek. He tenses, and then lets out a shaky exhale, leaning into me. God, I want so badly to soothe him. I flex my hands in the ropes, straining against the bindings.
He pulls back to look down at them, his expression distraught. I glimpse sharp teeth again, which gives me an idea.
“Open your mouth,” I say. He blinks but obeys—oh, he is always so eager to obey—to show me how long and sharp his canines have grown. “Could you bite through these?” I hold my wrists up, pulling the ropes taut.
His brow furrows. “It’s not safe,” he says.
“I trust you,” I say, still holding my wrists up.
He stares at me for a moment. His shoulders slump with his exhale, along with his wings, black feathers drooping against the dirty concrete floor.
Then he nods and lowers his head, mouth opening.
It’s an awkward position for both of us.
I stay perfectly still as he takes the ropes into his mouth and carefully, carefully tilts his head, sharp canines working, breath hot against my palms.
And though I am choosing to trust him, I am all too aware of those sharp teeth so close to my fingers, the threat of Cain losing control.
Maybe that’s what the cult is hoping for, locking us in here together.
Maybe in the morning, they hope to open this cell door to find a bloodstained Cain, too far gone to come back, ready to enact their apocalypse at long last.
The ropes snap, and I blink, refocusing on the present moment. Cain leans back, and I shake out numb fingers and work to discard the rest of the ropes, finally freeing my hands.
“There,” he says, and I can tell his self-control is still frayed. He’s still very much in that dangerous zone, teetering on the edge of an episode. “Now you should go to the other side of the cell—”
Instead, I climb into his lap, lifting his bound wrists so I can duck underneath them and press myself against his chest, arms around his neck.
Holding him close in a way I’ve never let myself before.
I’ve tried so hard to keep him at arm’s length, but I don’t know if either of us will get another chance at this. “You’re not going to hurt me.”
Little by little, he relaxes into me, letting himself be held.
I cradle his jaw, savoring the way he leans into my touch, the furrow in his brow smoothing out as his features soften. I hold him for a moment, thumb rubbing over his cheekbone.
Then I slide my hand down to grip his throat. He stiffens for a moment, but just a moment, before he tilts his head back and shuts his eyes, surrendering to me.
I think about what it would feel like to tighten my grip, dig my fingers into his flesh, cut off his airflow. Choke him until he dies. I know that he’d let me.
Instead, I lean in to press my lips to his.
He kisses me immediately before his mind seems to catch up and he jolts, pulling away. He stares at me, his lips slightly parted.
“What?” he asks, dumbfounded. “But… I…”
I arch a brow. “You don’t want to?”
Color floods his pale face, a shade of red that makes him look infinitely more human. “Of course I do,” he says, his eyes dropping to my lips. “But…now?”
I can’t help but smile, bittersweet. “When else?”
The silence hangs heavy for a moment. We both know the truth: there might not be a tomorrow.
“You don’t have to do this for my sake,” he says. “Not when I’m…like this.”
“Like what?” I run a finger over the top of one wing, and he shivers under my touch, the eyes scattered over his arms and torso rolling with pleasure.
The bones feel fragile, the black feathers soft as silk.
I stroke my fingers downward, following the natural pattern of the feathers. He shudders, and I stop.
“Too much?” I remember how sensitive they are.
“No.” His voice is thick. “I mean, yes, but— Good. It feels good. Like when you ran your fingers through my hair, but…better.” He swallows hard. “Don’t stop.”