Chapter 21 | Anna
I regained consciousness with the memory of being lifted. Then the drug smeared everything into gray.
I sat in an unfamiliar room on an unfamiliar sofa with a scratchy blanket around my shoulders while I shivered uncontrollably. My mind was still groggy from the strong sedative they gave me. And my reflexes weren’t where they should be. Better that way.
I still wore the hospital gown and nothing else. My feet and legs were still bare, the air cold against my skin, and I hated—hated—they’d stripped me of everything. Even the choice to cover myself.
Kincade moved through the room. Checking exits. Checking doors. Checking windows. Making sure everything was secure. Both of us pretending I was fine.
I wasn’t.
This was no high-rise five-star hotel. I had no idea where I was. Frankly, I didn’t care since I was out of the hands of the Brotherhood and the Knights and that man who called himself a doctor. He wasn’t a doctor. He was a butcher.
I heard rattling in the kitchen. The clink of a glass. Then his footsteps.
He sat on the coffee table in front of me, the wood creaking with his weight. Poured. Then placed a cold glass in my hand. Numb, I peered down into the amber liquid.
Whiskey.
We’d made a pact we’d drink whiskey during a tragedy. When my uncle died, we drank together. That was unmitigated raw grief.
But this wasn’t that. This was a theft.
This was a violation. This was erasure. This was breaking.
I flung the glass away, splattering the drink. It landed on the carpet with a dull thud and rolled away. Didn’t break. Because drinking it meant accepting this. Accepting what they’d done. And I would never accept that.
He sat in front of me, rigid. Not moving for a long time. I looked up at him and for one brief second that old fury flickered through his gaze. The kind that told me I was pushing him too far, and he was accepting it because that’s what he did. His jaw flexed once.
Then poured into the second glass and placed it in my hands, anyway.
“I don’t want it.” My voice was cold, calm. Calmer than I felt while the war raged inside.
“You should let me tend that cheek.”
Bandages wrapped around both of his wrists. I blinked at that, trying to comprehend.
He reached for me. I slapped his hand away.
Something cold flickered in the back of my mind. A reflex wanting to complete what I’d started. My muscles tensed, ready—
But the sedative kept it dulled. Distant. Like watching through thick glass.
His breath turned shallow.
“It looks swollen,” he said.
“I don’t give a fuck.”
And I didn’t. Nothing mattered. Not my broken cheekbone or the whiskey in my hands or the fact he was the one who got me out.
I looked down, back to the glass. Back to the shimmery amber there.
“Who did this to you?” he asked.
“No one.”
“Lie. Tell me.”
“No.”
“Yes, dammit, Anna.”
“No,” I said again and meant it.
Because I knew what he’d do. I knew he’d hunt him down and tear him apart with his bare hands.
That was the blood I wanted on my hands.
He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
He reached for me again. This time I didn’t slap him away. My body braced on instinct—waiting for pain that didn’t come.
He pulled away the bandage that did little to cover the wound.
His thumb landed on the cut across my cheek. A breath of a touch. Testing. I didn’t move.
Then he was gone. Banging cabinet doors. Then his booted footsteps as he returned and repositioned himself in front of me. There was a cloth in his hand.
He dabbed at my cheek. I flinched with the sting. My hand tightened around the glass in my lap.
But still, I didn’t drink.
“Stop touching me,” I snapped.
I didn’t mean it and he knew it. He’d feel the lie burning beneath his skin. But I needed… something. Distance. Control. Proof I could still refuse.
He froze. Like he didn’t know how to react to that. Didn’t know what to say.
I wasn’t sure why I snapped at him. He was trying to help me.
“It needs to be cleaned and dressed.” His voice was low, even. Like stating a fact.
I knew it did. I didn’t care.
I wanted to punch him. To lash out at something—someone—who could take it. One hand curled around the glass. The other curled into a fist. Because his calm was too much to bear.
He went back to trying to clean it. And I flinched again. His other hand came up to keep my face steady. Fingers firm on my chin. I gritted my teeth.
And then it was too much to bear. I closed my eyes and leaned into his hand. His warmth. His strength. His other hand stilled, the wound forgotten. Then his fingers were slipping into my hair. He pressed his forehead against mine.
“Don’t you let them win.”
A breath stuttered out of me.
“You fight this,” he said.
“I don’t know if I can.”
I knew what they did to me. But he didn’t. I couldn’t tell him. I couldn’t face it.
For a moment, we sat like that, the deafening silence all around. I strained my ears to listen but heard nothing. Not a car horn. Or the hum of traffic. Or the swish of a breeze in the trees. Wherever he’d brought us, we were some place so hidden, not even the outside world could intrude.
I fell into him then, slipping an arm around his waist. He plucked the glass out of my hand and set it aside.
As if he sensed what I was going to do next.
My other hand fisted in his shirt, grounding myself against him as I pressed my face to his neck.
Inhaled his scent. Sandalwood. The essence of him.
The only thing that could save me from myself.
He shifted, then. Picked me up. The blanket fell away from my shoulders. Held me against his chest as he walked out of the room. I was only aware of his breathing. The thump of his heart.
Then he tucked me into a bed. Kissed my forehead.
“Rest.”
And then he was gone.
I woke up screaming. The nightmare had me in its grip—tight, merciless—refusing to let go. Until Kincade was shaking me awake.
That cold place in my head flared. Instant. Vicious.
No—
I clutched him anyway, forcing myself through it. Fighting the instinct that wanted me to lash out. Pain burned through my head. His arms came around me and the cold receded. Not gone, but... muted. Manageable.
I tried to get my erratic breathing under control. Tried to force my pumping heart to slow to a normal beat. The programming hummed under my skin, waiting. But his hand was solid at my back, fingers warm, real. Keeping the cold at bay.
But all I saw was the man’s face looming in my dreams. The way he grinned. The way they hooked me up to IVs and machines. The way—
Cashiel.
He was there. I remembered then. He’d stood at the edge of my hazy vision as I went under. Telling me to anchor myself to something.
But it was too late. He couldn’t save me. No one could. I couldn’t even save myself.
Kincade pressed his cheek against the top of my head as he held me against him. I closed my eyes, inhaled his scent and pulled myself once again back to reality.
His touch was grounding me in more ways than one.
I reminded myself this was reality.
I knew he had questions. He didn’t know what happened to me in that hospital room and I hadn’t told him. I couldn’t. Because it would bring the horror back full force.
He hadn’t told me what happened to him with the Brotherhood. Had they let him go? Did he escape? Were they hunting for us even now?
And here we both were. Refusing to tell each other the truth.
Silence settled between us. The only sound was my ragged breathing. The steady beat of his heart beneath my ear.
I’d had nightmares before, sure. But those were Azriel-infested dreams. Dreams that came when I let my guard down. When the Fallen high lord could walk into them and torture me that way.
But these were different. These belonged to me. And I wasn’t sure banishing them would ever be possible.
The pain in my cheek throbbed. He was right. It needed to be dressed.
I pushed away from him and realized I was still in the grubby hospital gown. The moment I no longer wore it, I’d burn it.
“I need—” I halted, trying to figure out what I needed. “Are there clothes?”
He moved from the bed to the one chair in the room and picked up a folded pile of material. Like he’d been waiting, expecting. It was still dark in the room. I couldn’t make out his expression. I didn’t want to. Because if there was pity behind his eyes, I’d want to claw my way out of my own skin.
The last thing I needed was pity.
“Not your style,” he said, “but better than nothing.”
“Thanks.” I took the material from him.
Our hands brushed. It felt like the old days. Before we acknowledged there was anything other than heat and want.
He moved to an open doorway. Flipped on a switch. Light flooded a small bathroom. Then he stepped out, closing the bedroom door behind him.
I hated this… whatever this was that settled between us. But I didn’t know how to get past it.
Maybe I could figure it out under the spray of a hot shower.
After I dressed in the borrowed clothes—an oversized t-shirt and baggy sweatpants—I emerged from the room. Stood in the doorway and looked at the place we were calling home for the moment.
It was a small place. Living room with a worn sofa. Coffee table with the first aid kit still there. One chair. Shag carpet that had seen better days. A kitchen off to one side. Nothing fancy. Functional.
Faint light pressed through the crease in the blackout curtains of the windows. Was it dawn? Afternoon? I didn’t know. I’d lost all track of time.
He occupied the one chair. Eyeing me. Waiting. Patient. Ever vigilant.
Because that’s what he was. Vigilance wrapped in an ancient, immortal body. Wound tight and held in check.
“My cheek,” I said, finding my voice. “You were right.”
“I can clean it,” he said. Even. Clear. Calm.
Always so damn calm.
Then he added, “If you’ll let me.”
I nodded. I returned to the worn sofa where I sat before. He returned to the coffee table where he sat before.
Then he went to work. One hand on my chin trying to keep my head steady. His grip was firm, but gentle. Because every time he touched the wound with antiseptic, it stung and I flinched.
His jaw was set. All hard lines. He took his time. Careful, like he couldn’t stand the idea of hurting me. Like this was an excuse to stay close.
Then he dropped the bloodied rag. “Needs stitches.”
I cringed.
“The best I can do is butterfly bandages.”
He ripped into the package without waiting for an answer.
“It’s broken, isn’t it?” he asked.
“Yes.” Because why lie? He’d know anyway.
I’d felt it crack with the second hit.
He stiffened. Went still for a half a heartbeat. Then ripped the backing off one of the butterfly bandages.
I didn’t look at him while he worked. I couldn’t face the truth in his eyes. The fury. The murderous intent.
At some point, I would tell him everything.
“That’s the best I can do,” he said. “It’ll scar.”
“Battle wounds,” I said, flippantly.
He didn’t think it was funny.
Neither did I.
He cleaned up the trash and moved away, leaving me sitting there staring at the wood paneling on the wall.
God, what was this place?
“Where are we?” I asked.
“A holding place,” he said. “Silas got us here. He’ll move us when it’s safe.”
When not if. That mattered more than I wanted to admit.
So, what did we do until then? Dance around each other and pretend everything was situational normal? Or have it out with each other?
I glanced up at him. He stood in the doorway of the kitchen, leaning against the frame, arms folded over his chest, as he’d done so many other times in so many other places. His eyes were guarded. Sharp. Wary. Like he was deciding what to do with me.
“He hit me.”
I don’t know why I said it.
But when I did, he flinched. The movement imperceptible. But I saw it. Because I knew him so well.
He didn’t move. Not one muscle. He stood there staring at me. Waiting.
“The first time to get my attention,” I said.
His arm muscles went rigid.
“The second time to make a statement,” I continued.
I saw it then. The contained fury crawling up his neck. His eyes went flat green.
“The third time to make it hurt.”
He inhaled once.
Slow. Measured.
A warrior’s breath before battle.
“Who,” he said. Not a question.
Not are you okay.
Not where.
Not when.
Who.
I blinked hard. “A guard. I don’t—”
“That’s fine,” he said.
He unfolded from the doorway. One step forward. Then another. Not toward me—past me. To the window. He checked the street without looking like he was checking it.
“Because if Silas finds him,” he continued, voice eerily even, “it won’t be quick.”
My pulse stuttered.
“And if I find him,” he added, turning back to me at last, eyes gone black with promise, “there won’t be enough left to identify.”
Silence snapped tight between us.
I should have been afraid of that. Instead, something in my chest eased a fraction. Because I believed him.
Somewhere along the way, I decided I didn’t want him to go after the man who’d hurt me.
I needed him to.