Chapter 38
Cillian
It’s been almost an hour since the blast, but it’s still echoing against my eardrums. Just like the sight of Electra’s body soaring through the air.
The awareness of her immortality did nothing to lengthen my breathing or ease the tightness in my chest as I watched the scene unfold from a vacant office in the brick teardown next door.
She’d just lain there—without moving—for so long that my pulse had flatlined. I began to question our knowledge of the Atlanteans. What if they weren’t all immortal? What if some of them could be killed despite their runes? What if Electra was among those some?
When blood gushed from her brow, and none of her people came to help her up, I’d almost blown my cover. But then she’d blinked those striking eyes of hers.
She’d blinked them at me.
I’d lunged backward, working on evening my breaths. If she saw me, it was game over.
I’d forced myself to back the fuck away and get into my car. It was torture driving back to the gym, my mind consumed by the red flash of the explosive and the shrill ring of splintering glass.
I damn Lucinda and Freddie for rigging the place. Damn Lara for showing up—again.
I no longer have any doubt that Trenton’s new girl is trying to sabotage me, because that’s three times she’s shown up without her balaclava.
A violent pulse blares in my temples. Even though I strive to keep contact to a minimum, I open up a chat and pound out a message.
ME: What the fuck was that?
MESSIAH: Funny. I should be asking you the same thing. You brought an Atlantean to a sacred Hunter drop point. It’s almost like you don’t care about destroying them and their mine. It’s almost like you’d prefer to destroy us.
I don’t bother trying to make a case about my loyalty. In truth, I’m only loyal to Quinn. The others could all rot in hell for all I care.
ME: Lara keeps showing up, bare-fucking-faced. Why?
MESSIAH: That naughty girl.
ME: Is she trying to ruin my cover?
MESSIAH: She’s a wild card, that one.
ME: Is she trying to ruin my fucking cover?
MESSIAH: Now, why would she do that?
I don’t know whether to believe him, but I doubt I’ll get a straight answer.
ME: Keep her on a tighter leash.
MESSIAH: I always do. When we’re naked.
MESSIAH: Same leash I used on Quinn. Maybe you should buy one and try it out on Electra? Women love domineering men.
Disgust curdles my insides. “Fuck you,” I breathe out but don’t type it. I refuse to indulge Trenton and his passion for getting under people’s skin.
Even though the chat’s encrypted, I erase every word on it, scrub my phone’s history clean, and then tap on Electra’s name.
ME: Home yet?
Rapping on my car window has me jumping so high that the seatbelt almost dislocates my shoulder. The blood deserts my face.
Electra is standing there, peering down at me, the gash over her brow as faint as an old scar. How long has she been there? Long enough to witness me text with Trenton?
It takes my unsteady fingers two attempts to unlatch my seat belt and click open my door. The inside of my mouth tastes like the bottom of a cast-iron skillet.
“Sorry for the fright,” she says around a crooked smile, taking in my bleached complexion and the sweat dampening my hairline.
My glasses slip. I shove them back up before thrusting my shaking fingers through my hair. “I think I lost a few years of life.”
“Well, now, I feel extra crappy about seeking you out.”
“Don’t. I’m glad you did.”
“Were you going somewhere?”
“Yeah. To see you. I just sent you a message.”
“I saw,” she says.
I pray that the place she saw it was on her screen and not on mine. “Should we go back to yours and have that dinner?”
“My place is a little crowded at the moment. But I’m starving. Restaurant?”
“Sure.” My heart finally finds its rhythm again—she wouldn’t have suggested a dinner date if she suspected me of ill intent.
What calms me even more is when she settles into the Volvo and reaches across the center console for my hand. I close my fingers around hers, anchoring myself to her. Anchoring her to me.
I feel unworthy to hold her hand, like I’m soiling it, yet I cling to her all the same.
I have no appetite, but I force myself to sample every dish at the tiny Thai eatery recommended by a line chef I used to work with back in Maine. The flavors coat my tongue without penetrating.
By the time the bill comes and I pay it, even though Electra tries to flash her virtual credit card, I can’t decide if the meal was any good, and look to Electra for confirmation that it was. She seems satisfied.
“Are you okay?” she asks as we stroll back to my car. “You seem…preoccupied.”
“I am.”
Wariness flickers across her face. “Why?”
“Because I feel like I’ll never be enough for you.” Not a lie. “You warned me not to catch feelings, but I’ve caught them. And now, I’m just bracing for heartbreak.”
She draws to a stop beside the Charles that ripples with moonlight, painting a sparkling backdrop behind her. But nothing sparkles quite as vividly as her upturned stare.
And not with magic, even though I keep expecting it to leap out and burn all the memories of us from my mind.
“I’m here, aren’t I? I chose you.” She steals her hand out of mine, but only to slide it around my waist and press herself against me.
Her hug feels like a noose that’s cleaving me in two—one half wants to run away before she sees my true colors; the other wants to gather her close and whisper the truth.
“Stop doubting me, Cillian.”
I press a kiss to her forehead and close my eyes, wishing I could confess that the person I’m doubting is myself.
Wishing that I could go back to when she was the heartless enemy and nothing more.
Wishing that she hadn’t shown me a softer, more vulnerable part of herself.
Wishing, beyond everything, that I hadn’t fucking caught feelings, because what do I do now?