Chapter 35 9 AM
Chapter thirty-five
Greyson’s head tilted up as the sound of boots filtered through the air.
Slowly, one by one, Veyra came into view and lined the wall on the other side of the cell as Mikel followed them into the room.
Greyson knew it was him just by the way he stood.
He hesitated at the entrance for only a second before falling in line with his men.
His father stepped through the doorway next and Greyson stared at him, refusing to lower his gaze. A fresh wave of hate threatened to choke him.
“Good morning.” Maximus’s voice was pleasant, almost cheerful. “I trust you’ve had time to reflect on our conversation.”
Greyson said nothing. His silence was all he had left—the only defiance he could muster while bound to the chair.
Maximus punched a code into the cell door and it slid open with a hiss. Goosebumps spread over Greyson’s skin at the sudden stream of warm air and relief crashed over his body. The door was open. One step closer to getting out of this fucking cell.
“Today is a joyous day.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “Your ceremony begins in three hours. Captain Mikel will be escorting you and your intended back to your quarters to prepare for this magnificent union.”
Greyson’s jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.
“Remember our agreement,” Maximus continued, stepping closer to Greyson’s chair.
Close enough that he could smell the expensive cologne that clung to his suit, a scent that had haunted his nightmares since childhood.
“You will participate fully. You will speak the words as written. You will smile.” He leaned down, his golden mask inches from Greyson’s face.
“And you will consummate the Vow, as tradition demands.”
Bile rose in Greyson’s throat. The consummation—the final, degrading requirement of the Vow ceremony.
Still, Greyson stayed silent.
“I only came to wish my son luck on the most important day of his life,” Maximus said, turning back toward the door. “Remember, your cooperation today decides the fates of many.”
He didn’t say another word as he strode from the cell, passing Mikel. Mikel’s faceplate followed the President until he disappeared through the outer door, then his head turn back to Greyson.
“Remove his restraints,” Mikel ordered the officers. “Then bring out the Daggermouth.”
One officer stepped forward, a knife appearing in his hand. He began to slice through the cords binding Greyson to the chair, starting with those around his chest. Each severed rope eased the pressure, but as blood rushed back into his compressed muscles, pain flared like fire beneath his skin.
Greyson bit back a groan as the last cord fell away. His limbs felt foreign, leaden, refusing to respond properly as he tried to stand. The officer gripped his arm, not roughly but firmly, supporting him as his legs threatened to buckle.
“Slowly,” Mikel advised, watching him with an intensity that made Greyson uncomfortable. “You’ve been bound for nearly forty-eight hours.”
The information registered dimly through the haze of pain. Two days. Two days of thirst and hunger and Shadera’s muffled cries from the next cell.
Shadera.
His head turned toward the wall that separated their cells, straining to hear any sound from her. Nothing. The silence from her side was more terrifying than any cry could have been.
“Get her out,” he croaked, taking a stumbling step toward the door. The officer’s hand tightened on his arm, holding him back. “Now.”
Mikel nodded to the remaining officers, who disappeared from view, heading toward Shadera’s cell. Greyson heard the beep of the access code, the hiss of the door. Then silence again.
When they reappeared, two officers supporting a figure between them, Greyson’s world contracted to a single point of horror.
Shadera hung between the officers, barely conscious, her feet dragging on the concrete floor.
Her face—her beautiful, defiant face—was swollen beyond recognition, one eye completely closed, the other a slit in the purple black mess of bruising.
Blood had dried in her hair, matting it to her scalp in dark clumps.
Her lip was split in multiple places, chin crusted with blood both fresh and old.
But it was her body that made Greyson’s knees nearly give out.
Her shirt was torn, revealing glimpses of skin that was no longer skin—just a map of bruises, blacks and greens and blues and sickly yellows at the edges.
She held herself as if her ribs were broken, each breath a shallow, pained affair.
Her hands were a ruin, fingers swollen, knuckles split, nails torn and bloody.
Greyson’s vision blurred. The rage that exploded in his chest was unlike anything he’d felt before—hotter, sharper, more all-consuming than any fury he’d experienced in his violent life.
It filled his lungs like acid, burned behind his eyes like molten metal.
This was what they had done to her while he sat in his cell, nursing his anger, refusing to speak to her.
This was what she’d endured while he wallowed in his own pain.
They’d barely touched him. A few bruises, the cuts from the cords, the discomfort of thirst and hunger. Nothing compared to what they had done to her.
And he had left her alone with it. Had refused her when she’d reached out to him in her suffering.
“Shadera,” he whispered, the word breaking in his throat.
Her good eye flickered at the sound of his voice, focusing on him for a brief moment before sliding away. The deliberate avoidance sent a spike of pain through his chest, sharpening by the second.
“She needs water,” Mikel said, his voice neutral but something unreadable flowing beneath the current. “Both of you do.”
He snapped his fingers, and another officer appeared with two bottles of water. Mikel took them, dismissing the officer with a nod, then handed one to Greyson. He approached Shadera carefully, as one might a wounded animal, and held the bottle to her swollen lips.
“Drink,” he said, his tone softer than before.
Shadera’s throat worked convulsively as she gulped the water, some of it spilling down her chin and onto her ruined shirt.
Greyson watched, his own thirst momentarily forgotten as he witnessed her desperation.
When Mikel finally pulled the bottle away, nearly empty, Shadera sagged further between the officers supporting her.
Greyson raised his own bottle to his lips, the cool water a shock to his system after so long without.
He drank greedily, some distant part of his mind warning him to slow down, that too much too quickly would make him sick.
But his body’s demands overrode caution and he drained the bottle in seconds.
“We need to go,” Mikel said, checking his watch. “The Vow begins soon.”
Greyson’s rage surged again at the mention of the ceremony.
He wanted to lash out, to smash his fist into Mikel’s face, into the faces of every Veyra officer who’d watched Shadera be brutalized.
But he couldn’t. Not when she was in this state, not when the threat of the rings’ destruction hung over them.
“Can you walk?” Mikel asked him.
Greyson nodded once, sharply. His legs were unsteady, but functioning. More than could be said for Shadera, who remained suspended between her guards, head hanging forward.
“Then let’s go.”
Greyson fixed his gaze on Shadera’s back as they left the private prison, watching for any sign that she might collapse entirely. Each step she managed, however halting, however supported by the officers, was a testament to a strength he couldn’t begin to comprehend.
They emerged into his father’s residence, the opulence of it an obscene contrast to the cells they’d left behind. Thick carpets, elegant furniture, art that cost more than most Boundary residents would see in a lifetime.
It felt like an eternity before they made it to the elevator, before they made it to his floor. Mikel slid a key card into the locks that were unfamiliar to Greyson, new, high tech. He stepped in first and held the door open for his men.
The officers deposited Shadera onto the sofa, her body folding into it like a discarded doll. Greyson stood in the center of the room, unsure where to go, what to do, how to help her.
Mikel scanned the apartment before turning to Greyson, but said nothing.
Silence stretched between them, uncomfortable and heavy.
“Is there anything I can do for you?” Greyson finally asked, the words sounding strange to his own ears—formal, distant, nothing like the screaming rage inside him.
Mikel studied him for a long moment, then turned to the officers. “Wait in the hallway,” he ordered.
The officers filed out, leaving the door open at Mikel’s back. Still, he remained, standing straight, hands clasped behind his back in military precision.
Finally, Mikel cleared his throat as if snapping himself from some trance. “I’ll be outside if you need anything,” he said, his voice low. “I will step back inside at noon to collect you.”
He said nothing else as he turned to the door, closing it behind him with a finality that echoed in the quiet apartment.
Greyson stood motionless, staring at the closed door, feeling the seconds tick away toward the inevitable. Then he turned to Shadera.
Shame burned hotter than pain as Shadera forced her battered body to move.
Every cell screamed in protest, every breath a fresh agony as broken ribs shifted beneath her skin.
But she couldn’t stay here, couldn’t bear the weight of Greyson’s gaze on her ruined form a moment longer.
She had to hide. Had to get away from those eyes that held so much pity.
She would rather endure another beating than see that look on his face again.