Chapter 18
Nyx
The door clicked shut behind Cain. For a long moment, I just sat there, feeling like he’d kicked a hole in my chest.
Somehow, even after everything that had happened last night, I’d been holding out hope that he wouldn’t send that text. That he’d leave me out of this, find another way to get to my father.
I dropped my face into my hands, digging my fingers into my temples.
Too late.
Because Cain was right. My father would come for me. Not out of concern, but because the idea of his spawn under the protection of another syndicate—especially the Maritime Syndicate—would be a stain on his pride, a shame he couldn’t stomach.
Luna knew what he’d do to me after he “rescued” me—and he would get to me. Cain and Brien might think this island was locked down, but my father had gotten to Brien’s mother, hadn’t he?
I brought my hands down, blinking rapidly.
You’re so screwed.
Even my stupid little seduction had blown up in my face. The plan had been to distract Cain long enough to snatch my phone from him and smash it. To take myself out of this game.
But Cain hadn’t been distracted, I had. He’d stayed in control, and I’d melted like chocolate on a hot stove.
I squeezed my inner thighs together, still wet for him. Still wanting him.
Even when reality slammed back into me—who he was, why I was here—I hadn’t made an attempt for the phone. I’d forgotten everything his mouth on mine, his body hard against mine.
The last thing he’d said reverberated in my brain. Words he’d gritted between clenched teeth, like they were torn from him against his will.
“You’re wrong about me and you. I fucked you because I couldn’t stay away…. That was real. Believe that if you believe nothing else.”
“Damn you,” I rasped
Because I wanted to believe him. Even locked in the dungeon of his syndicate’s castle, I wanted to believe it had been real. That we were real.
But we weren’t. Because that would mean we were mates, and a vampire mate wouldn’t be able to lock his woman in a cell. He couldn’t. The bond would tear him apart if he treated me like that.
I wrapped my arms around myself, uncaring of my wrists, fighting a soul-deep, aching hurt.
Focus, Nyx.
Escaping was all that mattered, getting out of this cell and finding a way off Lilith Island. Not to Quebec City. Brien was right—I could never go home.
But maybe I could still have that life I’d dreamed about?
Then it hit me. Those texts—my father had sent me to meet Cain’s uncle, not Cain himself. So why, when I’d disappeared, had he immediately assumed I was with Cain?
Fresh pain fisted my stomach. This whole thing had been a set-up—there was no other explanation. My father had found out about Cain, had sent me to the meeting to watch me squirm.
If I’d come back saying it was a no-go, he would’ve accused me of double-crossing him.
And if I’d gone through with the deal? He would’ve had the satisfaction of forcing me to arrange the kidnapping of my own lover.
Either way, he won.
But instead of an aging human, Cain had come instead. And now Jerome was in his final grave, and I was trapped on Lilith Island with a syndicate that didn’t trust me…and a man who didn’t love me.
That last part cut deeper than anything my father had planned.
The lantern flickered and died, plunging me into darkness. It was the final straw. I threw up my hands, cursing my father—and myself for getting dragged into one last game instead of leaving when I had the chance.
My cursing ended in a moan. Everything inside me just…gave out.
I let myself collapse back onto the mattress, staring up at the dark ceiling. The fever, the cell, my burning wrists—it was all bad enough. But the betrayal? That was the part that hollowed me out. Every person I’d ever trusted had either used me, lied to me, or handed me off like I was nothing.
And now here I was, sick in a dungeon, proving them right. Proving I wasn’t worth choosing.
The weight of that settled on my chest, like the whole castle was sitting on my ribs.
I didn’t care what Cain said; it was hard to believe he hadn’t planned something like this from the start. He was that ruthless. I’d heard the stories.
Na?ve, thinking he wouldn’t turn on me. I felt like that firefly he liked to call me, drawn too close to a torch and somehow surprised when my wings caught fire.
Maybe he’d even been the one who leaked that we were secretly meeting. Nazaire paid well for any scrap of intel on the Maritime Syndicate, and that would’ve been monumental.
How well did I know Cain, after all? I flashed to those photos behind his couch, the ones he’d taken—the dark, understated romanticism they had, like French New Wave. Who would’ve guessed the controlled Maritime lieutenant had a romantic streak? There was so much more to him than he’d let me see.
But then, I hadn’t told Cain much either. He hadn’t even known that I was a painter, let alone The Haunt.
I huffed a laugh.
Gods, we were pathetic. Sharing bodies but no real trust.
One thing was clear. He wasn’t on my side. He could’ve let me go last night when he’d realized it was me, not one of Nazaire’s men. But he hadn’t. No, he’d taken me prisoner.
Maybe my father had been right all along. Maybe I wasn’t the predator I tried to be.
I was the rabbit.
Soft… vulnerable. Toothless in a world built for wolves.
Sleep pulled me under like a suffocating wave, dragging me into a feverish dream. I saw Lilith Island from the sea—the coal-black castle crouched on its cliff, unnatural vines snaking down its walls, its four towers soaked in a blood-moon light.
Then I was running through the castle halls—arched ceilings, torchlit corridors, the echo of my own footsteps—but every door I opened landed me back in this same small, airless cell.
Someone was coming. Nazaire… Cain… I didn’t know, but whoever it was meant to hurt me.
Goosebumps prickled my skin. I was running out of time. I had to escape. Panicked, I pounded on the thick, silver-reinforced door until my fists were raw. It didn’t budge.
I crumpled to the stone floor, breath ragged—and jolted awake to find myself huddled against the wall next to the cot.
The door banged open. Cain stood framed in the doorway, legs apart, hands fisted. “Nyx?” he asked hoarsely, his gaze sweeping the cell.
“Cain?” I squinted up at him. Was it really him—or was I still dreaming?
“What the—?” He scooped me up. Cool lips touched my forehead. He swore under his breath, saying, “Your fever’s up again.”
I shivered. “Cold,” I whispered through chattering teeth in case he was real. Too miserable to care if it made me appear weak.
“Get a fresh lantern,” he barked at someone in the hall, then tucked me into bed with a rough care.
After that, I drifted in and out of consciousness. His voice pierced the fog, ordering me to drink, and I swam to the surface to feel a metal cup against my lips. I turned my head, too listless to swallow whatever it held.
With a muttered curse, he put the cup down and got into the bed, pulling my shaking body against his. I pushed fretfully at his chest, trying to get away, but he murmured, “Hush. Relax.”
His warmth seeped through my clothes, his arms felt strong, safe. With a sigh, I subsided into him.
He sank his fangs into his wrist and pressed the holes to my mouth. “Drink.”
But I didn’t; the effort was too much. I closed my eyes and floated away again, until the blood touched my tongue. My whole body contracted with thirst, and I latched my lips around the vein he’d opened, sucking hungrily.
“Is it really you?” I asked against his skin.
His mouth touched my temple. “Shut up and drink.”
I exhaled, a ghost of a smile on my lips. “Yeah, you’re real.”
Between his blood and the heat of his body, my shivers stopped. I drank until I was sated, then dropped into a deep sleep, mouth still on his skin.
When I woke again, the inner clock all supernaturals are born with told me it was an hour before sunrise. I opened my eyes to find myself tucked into the covers, and Cain pacing in front of the open door, head lowered, hands clasped behind his back.
He halted mid-stride and rotated his head. “You’re awake.”
At my mumbled assent, he entered the cell, crouching next to the cot. “How d’you feel?”
“Better.”
His eyes closed, a flicker of genuine relief softening his face.
My heart clenched, but I warned myself not to read into it. He might want me alive, but only because he needed me.
He lifted the covers. “Let me see your wrists.”
I lifted them without a word. The burns had healed, leaving only two pale pink bands.
He touched a fingertip to one of the scars. “It doesn’t hurt?”
“No.”
He nodded. “Your fever broke, too, about an hour ago. You thirsty?”
“Yeah.” My throat was parched, my head ached, and my mouth tasted like I’d swallowed rust. I felt fragile, not quite well, like my body was trying to find its balance again.
Cain filled the metal cup and helped me sit up. When I gulped the first cup down, he brought me another, and I drained that one, too.
As he took the cup from me, I caught his arm. “Tell me something once and for all, no bullshit, because I'm screwed no matter what. Why are you doing this? Is it only about my father?”
His dark brows pulled together. “Why am I doing what?”
“This.” I gestured at the cot, the cashmere sweater. “Would you still be taking care of me if you didn’t need me to get to Nazaire?”
Something flickered across his face—something that looked almost like hurt. Then his expression shuttered, his walls slamming back into place. “We can get to him without you.”
“Then why am I here?”
Instead of answering, he rose to his feet. “Try and get some sleep. I’ll have them bring you something to eat in a few hours.”
And then I was alone in the cell.
I stared at the closed door, bereft and confused. I forced my shoulders back.
I would not break. I would not care.
When I woke next, it was mid-morning. I washed up and sat on the cot, bored and hungry.
Wishing I had a paintbrush.
And some paint.
And a canvas.