The Enforcers (The Inferno Saga #2)

Chapter 1 Jasmine

It’s been ten days.

Ten days since I found out what they were hiding from me. Ten days of knowing I’m bound to them. And every day, I feel myself slipping into something I don’t recognise.

Into something I don’t like.

I think Kacey sees it. I knew she was a nervous, skittish thing, a fuzzy ball of warm anxiety. But give her someone else to worry about and she morphs into something relentless.

During those first few days, she tried to explain bonds, but her answers were always patchy or too gentle. And I didn’t want vague possibilities or comfort.

I need the truth.

So with a laptop Kacey reluctantly gave me, I turned to research.

Ten days later, and I’ve consumed everything I can find. Articles, blog posts, scientific theories. Even reality TV. It didn’t matter the format, I read and watched until differentiating between opinion and fact became nearly impossible.

What’s strange is that I’ve looked before. Back in The Inferno, when I was told August had to find a mate, I tried to learn more about bonds. But the things I’m finding now, these detailed personal accounts, studies, even entire discussion boards—I could never access them then.

It’s as if someone had placed invisible blocks on what I could see.

Just another lie to add to the pile.

And still, I can’t get any real answers.

The lockdown on the district means I can’t post, can’t message, can’t contact anyone who might know more.

All I can do is read scraps of old conversations, watching other people get the answers I can’t have.

And the only other people who might have answers are the last ones I want to speak to.

But after days of digging, I’ve found four consistent truths:

Bonds are rare, mostly found in shifters.

Bonds can form between two people, but more is common. Four is the average.

Bonds are permanent. Even if rejected. Even if ignored.

Bonds can be familial, platonic or... intimate.

It’s the last two pieces that haunt me. Because it means not only are we forever connected, but it means my attraction to them, the way my body reacts, the way I ache when I think of them—is mine.

Not influenced by the bond, not magic, not a side effect, not a curse, not manipulation.

Just… me.

And I hate that.

I hate that I can’t make it go away, this hollow ache tugging at my chest. I hate the way their faces come back when I close my eyes. The way they looked at me before I left.

I hate that I flinch when I remember what I said to them. That I meant it… and didn’t.

I need to hate them. For keeping this from me, for taking away my choice. But with or without the bond, I was drawn to them. I liked how being near them felt.

Wanted them.

And if that was real, if it was mine, then I don’t know what to do with it.

So I lie to myself.

I pretend I haven’t come to the same conclusions a hundred times over the last ten days. I bury myself in research, chase the answers I want, try to explain it away, label it, reduce it.

Make it not mine.

Maybe the bond affects me differently because I’m not a shifter? Maybe it’s residual empathy? Maybe… maybe I need to research interspecies bonding—

“Hey, J.” Kacey’s soft voice filters under the door, halting my furious typing. “I’ve just finished baking some lemon cake, with my new and hopefully improved recipe. Fancy some?”

Her forced excitement only makes her desperation worse. She hasn’t checked on me in—my gaze darts to the time on my screen—three hours.

A record.

I release a long breath, leaning back in the squeaky desk chair, twisting my wrists and flexing my tight fingers. If only it were just my hands that ached instead of my entire body.

Probably didn’t help that I haven’t been sleeping properly, at all really, because I can’t stay asleep.

The nightmares were well and truly back.

Thankfully, waking up in a cold sweat, surrounded by swathes of black tendrils and Kacey’s wide, terrified eyes, was enough to trigger her innate need to fill any awkward silence.

Her mostly incoherent rambling included something about a plant that, once liquified, could sedate distressed animals.

A plant, one of the many, she happened to keep in her bedroom.

After much trial and error, to Kacey’s absolute horror, we learnt it worked on me. A couple of sips made me drowsy, several more and it knocked me out cold.

For nearly four hours.

You can imagine how Kacey reacted the first time that happened. I’d already told her, “If I’m still breathing, I’m fine. Don’t panic.”

I woke to her sobbing, phone in hand, seconds away from calling someone. I barely talked her down, swearing I wouldn’t take it again. But that was the only way I could sleep without waking in terror.

So, I took it again. Just once. She doesn’t know. And that was... how many days ago? Three?

I hadn’t slept in three days. I think.

And it wasn’t just the lack of sleep causing the aches, I hadn’t been eating either. Although Kacey tried, I just didn’t have the appetite.

Then there was the other ache, the one I had been too afraid to describe, let alone focus on for too long. It still gnaws at me, constant and unforgiving, keeping me tense during the day and in pain most nights, lying there as I stared up at the ceiling.

No amount of shifting or twisting can ease it. It just stays.

“J, is everything okay in there?” I hear her shuffle closer to the door. “I promise I haven’t burnt this one. I’ve actually really tried. I double—no, triple checked all the measurements. I mean, thanks to you, now I know the difference between a teaspoon and tablespoon! So I really think I’ve—

I open the door mid-speech. She startles, jumps back slightly, and I instantly feel bad. I’ve tried not to take anything out on Kacey, but it’s so difficult being an empath and staying with someone who constantly feels on edge.

Walking on eggshells doesn’t begin to cover it. More like tiptoeing across shattered ones whilst trying to salvage whatever pieces are still intact.

But this is Kacey’s coping mechanism: the baking, the hovering, the endless chatter.

While I’ve curled inwards, she’s done the exact opposite.

So she bakes, and I research.

“I mean this in the nicest way possible, so please don’t do that scary stare thing,” Kacey says, her gaze flickering all over my face.

I narrow my brows and stare at her, and the way her breath catches tells me I did exactly what she asked me not to do. I quickly stifle my expression.

“But you look... awful, J.” I also try not to flinch at the new nickname she’s given me, one she started using on the second day.

‘J and K,’ she calls us. Sometimes, she makes little rhymes.

I have to keep reminding myself that I was the one who asked her to be my friend first.

“Is that so?” I lift a brow. “Because I feel fantastic.”

I’m not sure if she picks up on the sarcasm because she just stares, those wide baby-blues drowning in concern.

Slowly, she raises the baking tray higher, like a barricade and peace offering in one.

And somehow, miraculously, it holds an unburnt lemon cake.

A pastel yellow drizzle glistens faintly, dripping in neat, uneven lines down the sides—lines she’s clearly fussed over, spent time making messily perfect.

“If you eat some of this, even just a crumb, I swear I won’t bother you for the rest of the day.”

The fact she’s using that as a bargaining chip to convince me to eat, makes me feel horrendous. Makes me realise how shit of a ‘good friend’ I’ve been. It was the one thing I’d promised her, and I’ve been the very opposite.

I hadn’t been a friend. I’d barely been a person.

“Kacey,” I say, but her shoulders drop at the sound of it. “K.” The nickname softens her, a little. “Please don’t think I don’t want to be near you. It’s just… it’s been a long ten days. Empaths struggle in new places, with changes and, clearly, they struggle being away from their b—”

I can’t say it.

The ache sharpens, becoming a tight, painful throb in my chest. My lungs constrict, my ribs groan, my spine burns. If this was how I felt barely saying the word...

How must they feel?

No. No.

I’m not doing this. Not again.

Why am I even thinking this? Why should I care? They didn’t care about me when they did those awful things. When they threatened me and my family, multiple times. When they lied to me, kept things hidden.

But that’s the funny thing about feelings: you can’t make yourself feel what you want. You can’t control how you react to something, even if you fool yourself into thinking you can. That’s the hard truth.

Even as an empath, I can’t hide from my own emotions. That’s the worst part, because half the time I don’t even know what I’m feeling. And when I do search deep, deep down to try and find a word that fits, I still come up empty.

Empty.

That’s the feeling.

That’s something else I’ve learnt over these ten days. Feeling too much is terrifying, but feeling nothing? Feeling empty? That’s the scariest thing of all.

Kacey doesn’t say a word while I churn over these thoughts. She just stares, hopeful eyes wide as she lifts her tiny tin tray higher, a silent offering wrapped in a soft plea.

I could tap into her emotions, find out how she really feels, but I won’t. I’m terrified of breaking the emptiness within, of what comes after.

“I’ll eat some.”

She clearly thinks I said something else, her tray lowering, eyes glistening with confusion. But then something clicks, and a slow smile begins to bloom.

She turns away, and I think she says something, but I’m barely awake. Barely present as I follow her into the kitchen, still in the long t-shirt I borrowed from her. I can’t remember if I’ve worn anything else, can’t remember the last time I washed my hair... or saw my reflection.

As Kacey slices pieces of lemon cake onto plates, I drag myself into the large living space and slump onto the sofa.