Chapter 1 The Present #2
“If you were as selfish as you claim,” I counter, “you wouldn’t have let me go back then.”
No explanation needed.
We both remember.
The car.
Cassian and Talon had charged me to my limit, my body vibrating with too much power. Nathaniel right there, tense, with his cock hard and ready, and his eyes burning with want. I could feel it radiating off him, the heat and hunger. And yet… when I hit my threshold, when I said no… he let me go.
No resentment.
No pressure.
Not even a flicker of disappointment.
Truly selfish men don’t do that.
I know—firsthand.
“I never forgot it,” he says quietly. “That first second you appeared in front of us, in that body… like some biblical angel.”
“Biblical angel?” I scoff. “Bit dramatic.”
“Maybe. But it felt like it. You weren’t a rumor or theory anymore. You were—“ his voice drops, ”—real. Out of this world, and standing ten feet away. A dead girl walking.”
He leans even closer. I can make out the faint scent of antiseptic that never seems to leave him. Like he’s part morgue, part man. His voice drops, almost a whisper.
“And do you know the first thing you did?”
“Worry that I was naked?”
His mismatched eyes flicker over my face, pausing on my lips. “You thought we were going to kill you.”
My breath catches. Beneath the blanket, my knees press together, my belly tightens. Butterflies or dread, hard to tell. Either way, they’re alive.
“So what?” I wet my lips. It comes out careless, lighter than truth. Because the truth is ugly. I did think they would kill me. I was sure of it. Every blink felt like my last. I looked at Nathaniel, Cassian, Talon, and assumed they’d end me just to keep their secret clean.
And honestly, anyone would have. They barely told me anything back then. Not the plan, not the consequences, not who I really was to them. My only experiences with them were their violations of rules meant to handle human souls. Why would I expect mercy?
But none of that changes what I feel now.
He leans back an inch, just enough space to breathe, though his gaze stays sharp. “So don’t pretend I’m not a rotten man.”
“I’m not,” I say at last. “I just don’t think you’re being entirely honest.”
“Perhaps.”
Before I can push further, he’s already standing, already halfway toward the door.
Relief and disappointment twist together in my chest.
His hand hovers over the handle. “Cassian’s been wound tight. Talon keeps looking for excuses to hunt, just to get out of his own head. I made them wait a couple days so we knew where we stood. I’m glad I can tell them there’s good news.”
“Wow.” I sink further into the pillows. “Guess that means I’m officially part of the murderous gang?”
His shoulder dips in the smallest shift, almost amused, but not quite letting itself land.
“Don’t romanticize it,” he says without looking back.
“Oh, please. I’m not romanticizing anything.” My mouth tips into something halfway between a smirk and surrender. “I’m just… surprised my well-being suddenly ranks.”
Silence stretches. Long enough I’m sure he’ll leave without answering.
But his hand stays on the door.
“Surprised,” he echoes quietly, like he’s testing the word on his own tongue. “Not as much as I am.”
He opens the door, and cold air from the hallway creeps in.
“We meet downstairs in an hour,” he says. “If you can walk without collapsing.”
I consider telling him to shove his concern somewhere creative, but then he glances back. Just a flicker. Barely a look. One of those micro-expressions that say a thousand words.
Checking.
Confirming.
Caring…
He didn’t say it to mock. He said it because he genuinely thinks I’ll faceplant somewhere between here and the stairs.
“Make that war crime you call coffee,” I mutter, throat raw. “Or hell, just strap me to an espresso drip. I’m not picky.”
He doesn’t respond, but the corner of his mouth betrays him, twitching upward. Then he’s gone. Boots down the hall, posture locked. Distance reinstalled. Feelings zip-tied.
The door clicks shut.
I sag back, and the mattress swallows me like a carnivorous swamp. Everything aches. My bones feel like someone filled them with wet concrete. My lungs feel flayed, every breath dragging knives over what’s left of me.
But somewhere under all that scorched wreckage, something warm and bright is blooming, stubborn as a weed between tombstones. Is this… happiness?
Too bad I don’t get to enjoy it.
I brace an arm, grit my teeth, and haul myself upright as fast as I can. Then, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and wait until the world stops wobbling in my head.
An hour isn’t long.
But it’s long enough to remember exactly why I can’t afford to fall apart right now.
I wasn’t dragged back from the brink so somebody could tuck me in and fluff the pillows.
I was dragged back to finish this.
Death said more wraiths are coming.
He didn’t say when.
Could be minutes. Could be days. But either way, I have an agenda to fulfill in the meantime.
Mark.
Jessica.
The living corpse of a marriage that tried to gut me slow.
All the tiny humiliations stacked like bricks until they built a gallows.
Five years of dying by inches.
What’s a little exhaustion compared to that?