Chapter 8
In the blue-tinted glow of the monitor, I watch Sawyer Hansley trek through the forest—pace steady, posture strong, a man built for hiking. The wooden shades make it dark as night in my bedroom, but it’s bright outside, the sun’s rays glinting off the perspiration on Hansley's forehead.
Interesting that he didn’t wait for dark.
Thorne paces behind me—less like a tiger, more like an elephant. Every heavy clomp of his boots flicks at my attention.
“You need to calm yourself, my love.”
The clomps cease for the briefest moment of peace before he jabs a thick finger at the monitor. “He’s going for the mines.”
“He’s going for the money. The mines are merely in his way.”
“Exactly. He’s been here a day and has already proven we can’t trust him. As far as I’m concerned, we’ve learned all we need to know.”
Abandoning the monitor, I spin my chair to face Thorne, my lungs drawing in the sweet moonflower growing in the windowsill. I lift my lips in a comforting smile and stand. Reach my hand toward his. As our fingers intertwine, his agitation calms but it does nothing for the tension in my chest.
Thorne is a great soldier. He’s loyal, he’s strong, and he’s aggressive—his only kryptonite is a tender heart too easily squeezed.
He is not the kind of man who makes decisions.
“You let your emotions rule you.” My breasts brush his broad torso, chin tilting to look into eyes I once adored. He’s a giant, but when he’s like this, I feel taller than him. “Try to relax. All is as it’s supposed to be.”
“I don’t like his methods.” Agitation returns with a snap. I run two fingers down his jaw, massaging gently until it relaxes.
“I know. I don’t either. I don’t like any of this. But what exactly did you expect?”
“He’s making us out to be monsters.”
“I know. All is as it’s supposed to be.”
Thorne’s head jerks from my touch. His hand unthreads from mine as he shuffles to the desk; leans on the wooden edge; glares at the screen.
As Mr. Hansley cuts to a different angle, the cameras following his back swap to his front. He stops with his gaze pointed at the ground. Stares directly at a bear trap hidden by brush.
He retrieves a stick from a nearby fallen branch and uses it to shift dead leaves sitting atop the trap. As the metal chomps the stick in two, he flinches—the movement so sharp I can feel the blast through the forest, birds flapping their wings to get away. Even without sound.
I’d say Mr. Hansley is lucky, but…
Luck was not involved.
Thorne smashes the heel of his palm against the desk’s grooved edge. “How did he know it was there?”
“He set up that escape scenario. Someone must’ve told him to watch out for the traps.”
“He’s getting closer to the mines. If he sees what’s inside—”
“He won’t.” I roll the chair to the side and wedge beside Thorne. I lean toward the screen as Mr. Hansley continues forward, unperturbed by the trap, man on a mission.
I admire the perseverance.
“How do you know?”
Simple.
“Because Sawyer Hansley only sees what he’s looking for.”
We watch in silence for a beat before Thorne wanders to my bookshelf.
He lifts a decade old photo in its frame—the two of us as children: me twelve, him sixteen.
He’s the last generation of boys to have grown up here.
And though I’d never speak it… he’s part of the reason our offspring are no longer viable.
Generations of strict laws forbidding the initiation of “impure” women from the outside world—plus Sanctum-born boys like Thorne crisscrossing his genetics with the same line of feminine DNA…
It’s no wonder more babies are born with webbed hands than not.
It was inevitable that we’d require someone like Sawyer Hansley to solve the need for new blood.
If we were cruel, we would extinguish men like Thorne and allow only the initiated men to procreate. It might not solve our problem entirely, but perhaps more infants could live. Perhaps my own offspring would stand a chance.
“How do you want me to handle the initiate?” Thorne asks. Not Mr. Hansley but his associate, Thomas Wilcox. A weasel I would never allow into my home.
But I understand why Thorne is asking. I’m not one to go back on a deal.
“Make an example out of him.”
Thorne rests the photo back on the mantel and turns to me with an arched brow. I answer before he can ask the question.
“I want Sawyer to watch what will happen if he fails his test. I get the sense that he’s holding back.”
“Holding back?” Thorne puffs, incredulous. “Do you know how long it took me to get the cave ready? I worked all night building that cell.”
There’s a whine to Thorne’s voice that tugs at a muscle in my cheek. It’s a tick I seem to only have when he’s in the room. Funny how the ones we care for most conjure the least amount of patience.
“You mean the cell without a door?”
He opens his mouth but hesitates to speak.
I roll my eyes, bat a strand of hair off my face. “You made it disgustingly obvious that the cell was a test. Without a door, the shovel looks staged; you’d have to be a fool not to realize that.”
“What does it even matter?”
“What does it even…” My eyes widen with disbelief. Thorne shuffles.
I close my eyes, shut my mouth, compose myself. “If we’re going to understand Mr. Hansley’s methods, we need to give him a fair chance. Regardless of how you feel about it or the inconvenience it might impart on you.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“I know.” I hold up my hand. My tone is too sharp. It isn’t his fault that he doesn’t understand the seriousness of Mr. Hansley’s task. Genetic mutation is… Well, the Shadow Sanctum does not teach lessons in biology. Only life.
But I blame Thorne anyway. If I wasn’t putting him through hell dealing with the Devil, I’d ask him to leave.
“Let’s just get back on track… What is Mr. Hansley doing right now?” I ask, tone softer. I do appreciate Thorne, as pouty as he can be.
He goes to the screen as if it’s at all necessary. “He’s searching for the money.”
“Right… And what should he be doing?”
Thorne’s thick lips part. I do a slow count to six before the caramel in his irises warm with understanding.
“We need to help Mr. Hansley focus… Show him what happens to those who fail.”
Thorne’s neck cracks as he rolls it, a succession of tense joints that speak to the day—and night—he’s had.
I watch his face harden and his pupils constrict. Warrior Thorne. Dependable Thorne. My favorite Thorne.
“I’m on it,” he says, voice an octave lower as though he’s already stepped into the arena. It’s sick that it’s these moments I feel most turned on.
“Thank you, my love… Now go get ready.”
He starts toward the door. Pauses. Walks back to me. He kisses my cheek and rests his chin on top of my head. My arms wrap around him in an embrace that’s uncomfortably warm. He’s so large, so full of hot blood.
“I won’t let you down,” he whispers, planting one last kiss to my head before pulling away.
I wait until the door is shut before I fall into my chair. A sigh tips my head back. I reach into my pocket for the band of metal I found among Sawyer’s things, a green gemstone carefully blanketed on a gold ring.
Fingers stretched wide, I slip it onto my middle finger; turn it twice; close my eyes as I think about the man in the woods, holding our future in his hands. Silly words I’ve parroted since childhood flicker into my mind, and though I detest the idea of lying to myself…
“All is as it’s supposed to be.”