Chapter 10
The new shoes don't hurt.
That's the first thing I notice as I walk through the dimly lit hallway toward the reinforced massage suite—my feet don't ache, my arches aren't screaming, and the high-quality athletic sneakers cushion every step like I'm walking on clouds instead of concrete.
It's disorienting in a way I can't quite articulate.
I'm wearing real athletic gear now—moisture-wicking fabric that doesn't cling with sweat, a premium sports bra that actually supports my chest, leggings that didn't come from a clearance bin.
My rent is paid through the next three months.
My student loan payment cleared without bouncing.
My credit card balance is zero, and I have a savings account with an actual balance instead of just overdraft fees.
The cognitive dissonance is staggering.
I unlock the suite door and step inside, the volcanic heat washing over me immediately.
I set my bag down on the supply station counter and pull out the bottle of premium orange juice I bought on the way here—actual cold-pressed organic orange juice that costs eight dollars for a tiny bottle, not the store-brand concentrate I've been choking down for years.
I twist the cap off and take a sip. It tastes like liquid gold.
I should feel relieved. I should feel grateful. I should feel like I can finally breathe after years of drowning in financial panic.
But I don't.
Because removing the financial stress didn't make space for peace. It made space for something else entirely.
Obsession.
I'm not worrying about bills anymore. I'm worrying about him.
I check my phone. 12:47 AM. Cyprian's appointment is scheduled for 12:30 AM, and he's never late—not once in the three weeks since I started working exclusively for him.
He arrives exactly on time, walks through the door with that formal, controlled precision, and lies down on the table without a word.
But tonight, the suite is empty.
I start prepping the table anyway, my hands moving through the routine automatically while my brain spins in tighter and tighter circles.
Fresh linens. Heated volcanic stones arranged along the edges.
The high-heat oil warming in the glass container.
I glance at the clock again. 12:52 AM. He's twenty-two minutes late.
My chest tightens.
This is stupid. He's probably just stuck in traffic or dealing with some corporate security crisis, except Cyprian doesn't do traffic and he sure as hell doesn't miss appointments without warning.
I sit down on the edge of the massage table, my new shoes squeaking slightly against the heated stone floor.
The suite is too quiet—just the low hum of the heating system, the faint crackle of the volcanic stones, my own breathing getting shallower with every passing second.
I check my phone again. 12:58 AM. Nothing. No text. No call. No message through the clinic's intake system.
My stomach twists hard.
This isn't like him. Cyprian is methodical.
Precise. He doesn't just not show up. I stand up and pace across the room, my new shoes cushioning every step in a way that feels wrong—too comfortable, too easy, like I'm walking on someone else's life while mine is somewhere else entirely, spiraling into panic I can't name.
1:00 AM.
The reinforced door explodes inward.
Not opens.
Explodes.
The heavy steel frame slams against the wall with a deafening metallic crash, and Cyprian stumbles through the doorway like a collapsing building.
My professional composure shatters instantly.
"Jesus Christ—"
He's not walking. He's lurching. His frame tilts forward at an unnatural angle, his left arm locked completely against his chest, his hand frozen in a rigid claw. His wings are extended halfway, the membrane pulled taut and trembling, locked in a position that looks agonizing.
His face is gray.
Not his normal slate-gray skin.
Darker. Denser. Like stone that's been left in freezing water.
His jaw is clenched so tightly I can see the muscle definition through the calcified skin, and when he tries to speak, all that comes out is a low, strained grunt.
"Cyprian—"
He takes another lurching step forward, and I see it.
His crystalline amber veins.
They're not glowing their usual warm, steady gold.
They're flaring.
Dark orange-red. Pulsing erratically. Flickering like a dying lightbulb beneath the gray slate of his skin.
Oh fuck.
Oh fuck.
This isn't normal stone-lock.
This is something catastrophic.
I sprint across the room, my new shoes skidding slightly on the heated stone floor. I grab his right arm—the one that's still mobile—and guide him toward the reinforced massage table.
"What happened?" I demand. "Cyprian, what the hell happened?"
He grunts again. His jaw is locked too tightly to form words.
His eyes meet mine.
And I see the panic.
Raw, unfiltered terror.
He's not just in pain.
He's afraid.
My hands are shaking as I help him sit on the edge of the table. His wings scrape against the wall, the rigid membrane unable to fold properly.
"Okay," I say, forcing my voice to stay steady. "Okay. I need you to try to tell me what happened. Can you nod?"
He nods. Barely. The movement is stiff, like his neck is already starting to lock.
"Was it an attack?"
Another nod.
"Corporate?"
Nod.
"Did you get hurt? Are you bleeding?"
He shakes his head. Slowly.
I step back and look at him properly.
No blood. No visible wounds.
Just stone.
His entire body is calcifying in real time. I can see it spreading. The gray density creeping up his neck, across his shoulders, down his torso.
His left arm is completely frozen. His fingers are locked in a rigid claw against his chest.
His wings are trembling with the effort of staying semi-extended, the membrane stretched so tightly I'm afraid it's going to tear.
And his veins.
Those crystalline amber veins that usually glow with steady warmth are flickering like they're about to go out completely.
My brain shifts into emergency mode.
This isn't a massage situation.
This is a medical crisis.
If the stone-lock reaches his chest cavity—if it locks around his heart, his lungs, his core—he's going to be permanently paralyzed inside his own body.
Forever.
The realization hits me like a freight train.
I don't have time to be gentle.
I don't have time to ask permission.
I don't have time for clinical boundaries.
"Lie down," I say, my voice sharp. "Now."
He doesn't argue. He shifts his weight, trying to maneuver his frame onto the table, but his locked arm and rigid wings make it nearly impossible.
I grab his right arm and help guide him down, positioning him on his back instead of face-down. His wings splay awkwardly beneath him, the rigid membrane pressing against the padded surface.
He grunts in pain.
"I know," I say. "I know it hurts. Just—stay with me."
I move to the supply station and grab the largest container of high-heat volcanic oil. My hands are shaking so badly I almost drop it.
Focus.
I set the container down on the table beside him and look at his chest.
He's still wearing his tailored button-up shirt. The fabric is stretched taut across his massive torso, the buttons straining against the calcified muscle beneath.
I don't ask permission.
I grab the collar and rip.
The fabric tears easily, the buttons scattering across the heated stone floor. I peel the shirt away from his body, exposing his chest.
And my stomach drops.
His entire torso is gray. Dense. Calcified.
The crystalline amber veins are barely visible beneath the stone, flickering weakly like dying embers.
I can see his heart.
Not literally. But I can see the faint, erratic pulse beneath the calcified skin. The rhythm is wrong. Too fast. Too irregular.
He's running out of time.
I rip off my own hoodie—the premium one I bought last week, the one that actually kept me warm—and toss it aside. I'm left in just my sports bra and leggings, my skin already slick with sweat from the volcanic heat.
I grab the container of oil and pour it directly onto his chest.
The liquid steams on contact, the heat radiating off his calcified skin like a furnace. I don't wait for it to settle. I climb onto the table, swinging my leg over his torso, straddling his lower body.
My knees press into the padded surface on either side of his hips. My thighs bracket his waist.
I lean forward, pressing my palms flat against his chest, and drive my full weight down through my forearms.
The stone doesn't give.
I press harder.
Nothing.
Panic claws at my throat.
This isn't working.
Standard massage protocol is useless. I need more heat. More friction. More contact.
I shift my weight, repositioning my hands over his heart. I can feel it hammering beneath the calcified skin, the rhythm erratic and desperate.
"How long?" I ask, my voice cracking. "How long until you lock completely?"
A grunt. Low. Pained.
"Minutes?" I press harder, using my elbows now, driving the heels of my palms into the dense muscle. "Seconds?"
"Minutes," he manages. His voice is strained, barely audible. "Eight. Maybe less."
Eight minutes.
I have eight minutes to break through stone that's been calcifying for who knows how long.
"Okay," I say, more to myself than to him. "Okay. We can do this."
I shift my weight, repositioning my hands over his shoulders. I can feel the rigid tension in the membrane where his wings connect to his back, the way his body is fighting against the petrification.
I press harder.
Harder.
My tears mix with the sweat dripping onto his chest.
"Don't you fucking dare," I say, my voice breaking. "Don't you dare lock on me. Don't you dare leave me like this."
"Tamsin—" His voice is strained. Desperate. "Stop. You are burning yourself."
I look down at my hands. The skin is already reddening from the heat, the volcanic oil scalding against my palms.
I don't care.
"I'm not stopping," I say. "Not until you're free."
"Your hands—"