Chapter Twenty - Three
Chapter
Twenty-Three
GIDEON
The past...
Pain is an old friend.
It settles deep in my ribs, curling around every breath, a dull ache that reminds me I'm still alive. For now.
I press my forehead against the damp, blood-slick floor, forcing myself to stay conscious. My hands are tied behind my back, the rope rough against my wrists, slick with my own blood where the fibers have rubbed my skin raw.
The concrete beneath me is freezing, damp from the storm rolling in through the broken warehouse windows. I can taste iron, taste the grit of my own blood between my teeth.
The room stinks of sweat, gasoline, and old rust. A perfect place to die.
I grit my teeth, exhaling slowly through my nose. No. Not yet.
The men standing around me talk in low voices. I stopped listening to them hours ago. Their words don't matter. The deal is done. I lost.
One of them—Jensen—kicks me hard in the ribs.
A sharp crack, pain radiating up my side.
I barely grunt.
He sighs. "Still conscious? Damn, Cross, you're one stubborn bastard."
I don't respond.
Jensen crouches beside me, fingers digging into my hair as he yanks my head up. "Tell me something," he muses, eyes glinting with amusement. "Was it worth it? All that moral superiority? All that big talk about loyalty and honor?"
I glare at him through bloodied eyes. "Go to hell."
He grins. "Oh, you first, soldier boy."
His fist connects with my face, another sharp burst of pain. My vision blurs.
I was ex-military. I was supposed to be one of the good ones.
But that was before.
Before the war, before the dishonorable discharge, before I had nothing left but the skills they beat into me and a world that didn't want me anymore.
I made mistakes. Took jobs I shouldn't have. Aligned with the wrong people.
And now, here I am, on the floor of some back-alley warehouse, waiting for the bullet that'll put me down.
Jensen stands, shaking out his fist. "I'd say it's been fun, but honestly? It really hasn't." He nods toward the guy by the door. "Let's end this."
I brace myself.
Then something strange happens. The rage I've been suppressing starts to burn hotter, deeper. My skin prickles with an unfamiliar heat. For a moment, the lights overhead flicker, and I feel... something... stirring inside me. Power I've spent a lifetime suppressing, telling myself wasn't real.
But before I can understand what's happening, everything changes.
A sharp gust of wind rushes through the warehouse, slamming the doors wide open. The temperature drops instantly, freezing air biting at my exposed skin.
And then… the lights flicker out.
For a moment, silence.
Then a voice. Smooth. Controlled. Dangerous.
"Step away from him."
Jensen and his men react instantly, weapons drawn.
"Who the fuck?—"
Before he can finish, the first man goes down, a sickening snap echoing through the room.
A shadow moves.
Another man screams. Then silence.
Jensen stumbles backward. "What the?—"
The dim emergency light flickers, just enough to catch a glimpse of the ghost as he steps forward. Unbothered. Calculated. His tailored coat barely shifts as he moves, as if he's completely unaffected by the bodies on the floor.
He tilts his head, dark eyes glinting beneath the low light. "I gave you a chance to walk away."
Jensen fumbles for his gun. "You're making a mistake?—"
The man sighs, bored. His fingers twitch.
Jensen chokes.
He grabs at his throat, body spasming as invisible force constricts around his neck. His eyes bulge, face turning red, then purple, then white.
I watch, dazed, as power ripples through the air.
I can feel it. It's the thing I've tried to convince myself wasn't real my entire life, despite the unexplained events that followed me since childhood. The kind the military psych eval had labeled "combat-induced hallucinations" when I'd once slipped and mentioned it.
The man lets him drop.
Jensen hits the ground hard, body twitching once before going still.
He exhales sharply, rolling his shoulders before turning toward me.
"You look like shit," he remarks.
I grunt. "You think?"
He sighs and crouches beside me, his dark eyes scanning the damage. His expression doesn't change. Not at my injuries. Not at the blood. Not at any of it.
Then his eyes narrow slightly. "You were trying to use it. Right before I came in."
I stiffen. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Yes, you do." He studies me with renewed interest. "You've been suppressing it for years, haven't you? The power inside you."
I don't answer. Decades of denial are hard to break, even now.
Then, without another word, he pulls out a blade and cuts me free. He straightens, sliding the knife back into the sheath inside his coat. Then, he offers his hand.
I stare at it.
"You can stay here," he says simply, "or you can stand up and come with me."
I glance around at the bodies, the blood pooling on the floor.
I know what staying means.
I know what leaving means.
Neither is a good choice.
But one of them is a death sentence.
I follow this man out of the warehouse, the cold air biting into my torn skin, the scent of blood and gunpowder still thick in my lungs. The city is dark beyond the alley, streetlights casting long shadows against the wet pavement.
The man moves like he's already forgotten the bodies behind us. Unbothered. Efficient. Like this was just another night for him.
For me, it's something else entirely.
I should be dead.
I was dead the moment I got caught up with Jensen, the moment I made one too many bad calls.
But now, I'm alive.
And I owe him.
I glance at him as we walk. His pace is unhurried, the faint glow of streetlights flickering over the sharp planes of his face.
He's dressed like someone untouchable—an expensive coat, black gloves, everything in place.
Nothing about him looks like the kind of man who should be dragging someone like me out of a bloodstained warehouse.
And yet, here we are.
We stop by a sleek black car, the kind that looks too clean, too refined for someone like me.
"Get in," he says, already opening the driver's side door.
I hesitate.
He notices.
"You planning to bleed out on the street?" he asks dryly, arching a brow.
I huff a humorless laugh, shaking my head. Then, with what little strength I have left, I slide into the passenger seat.
The moment I sit, exhaustion slams into me. I feel it everywhere—the bruises, the cracked ribs, the dull burn of my split lip. My hands rest in my lap, still shaking slightly, coated in dried blood.
Some of it mine. Some of it not.
He starts the engine, the low hum filling the silence between us as the city moves past in a blur.
Neither of us speak for a long time.
I stare at my reflection in the window, barely recognizing myself. The man staring back at me looks—hollow. Worn down.
Maybe I am.
Finally, he breaks the silence. "You'll clean up when we get there."
I let out a slow breath. "Where's 'there?'"
"My estate."
Of course. He would have an estate.
"You make a habit of picking up half-dead men from abandoned warehouses?" I mutter.
He smirks slightly, eyes still on the road. "No. Only the ones with untapped power."
I stiffen, my hands clenching into fists. "What do you mean?"
"You're a warlock, Gideon." He says it simply, matter-of-factly. "You've been trying to live as a human, but that's never going to work. Not for our kind."
A bitter laugh escapes me. "Our kind. Right."
"You don't believe me?" His voice is mild, but there's an edge to it. "You think what you felt back there was just adrenaline? The lights flickering, the temperature dropping? That was you, starting to tap into your power."
"I was hallucinating from blood loss."
"Is that what you told yourself in the military too? When things happened that you couldn't explain?"
I go silent. Because he's right. There were moments—when I was in combat, when my team was in danger—when impossible things happened. Enemies who suddenly couldn't see us. Bullets that missed by millimeters. Storms that came out of nowhere, providing cover when we needed it most.
Things I convinced myself were coincidences. Luck. Anything but what they really were.
"Why me?" I ask finally.
His fingers flex on the steering wheel. "Because I make it my business to find warlocks who don't know what they are. Especially those with raw talent. The High Council would rather you remained ignorant—easier to control that way. I prefer to build my own allies."
I pause.
Because for the first time in a long time, someone isn't calling me a failure.
A drunk. A disgrace. A waste.
No. He's looking at me like I still have something left.
Something valuable.
I glance at him, studying the way he drives—calm, controlled, unreadable.
"Why'd you do it?" I ask finally. "Why risk yourself for someone like me?"
He doesn't answer right away.
Then—a simple truth.
"Because you remind me of me. Denying what you are. Fighting against your nature. It never works, Gideon. We are what we are."
The words hit harder than I expect.
Because this man isn't a good man. He isn't some savior. He's dangerous. Ruthless. A man who plays with power like it's a tool designed for his hands alone.
"What's your name?" I finally ask him.
"Malachi Black."