But from the look in his eyes, it’s not so clear. For some reason, he’s letting me decide.
“I want to fight,” I say.
Talon freezes mid-step like someone hit pause. Nathaniel doesn’t speak. Silence settles over us, broken only by the boy’s shaky inhale and the hum of the hospital light overhead. Then something shifts. Talon swears under his breath and slams a dagger into his boot with more force than necessary.
“I don’t know what Skye thinks she’s about to pull off, but not everything can be handled with magic. We’ve got legs. We’ve got weapons. And we’ve got more rage than even Death can deal with.”
He stands tall, every line of his body tight, his energy sharp and volatile.
“We won’t make it in time,” I say, cutting through his frustration with my own. “If she’s already moving toward Cassian’s mother, then the chances are—”
“I don’t give a damn about the chances,” he snaps. “Let’s go.”
Cassian’s nostrils flare. He exhales sharply and springs into action.
“Skye and I will take the bike,” he growls. “You two take the car. I can cut the travel time in half if we skip the freeway.”
“You’re not going in alone,” Nathaniel starts, but Cassian doesn’t let the thought breathe.
“Our best shot is getting Skye there as fast as possible. The bike’s our only real option.”
There’s no room to argue with that tone.
Talon exhales. “Alright, Rambo. We’ll push the gas. Turn on your ping so we can track you.”
Cassian pulls a small GPS locator from his pocket, switches it on, and nods.
“Let’s go,” Talon says.
A breath later, we’re already moving.
We burst out of the hospital like we’re on fire. The moment we hit the outside air, damp wind cuts against the sweat on my skin. Cassian veers left, glancing over his shoulder to check if I’m keeping up. He’s fast, and I’m tired, though I’m not sure I’m more tired than him.
Blood is seeping through his clothes from his wounds. Yet he moves like he doesn’t feel a thing.
As I catch up, he stops abruptly and catches me off guard. One arm hooks under my knees, the other around my ribs. Before I can react, he’s picked me up and started running again, carrying me like a bride.
“What—what are you doing?” I gasp, arms instinctively wrapping around his neck.
“Saving time.”
“I can run, you know.”
“You’re slow,” he snaps. “And I don’t want you passing out halfway there. I don’t know what that kid did to you, but it didn’t look strong.”
My body still hurts. Walking hurts more. But still...
“I wouldn’t faint—” I start.
“Skye,” he cuts in, voice low and sharp. “Don’t argue with me. Not now.”
And just like that, I stop. Because this awful, stabby, soul-fractured serial killer suddenly just looks like a man.A very stressed, bleeding man who is about to try and save his mother, a woman I didn’t even know existed until, like, a moment ago.
What am I supposed to do with that?
If a monster shows you the cracks of something soft and pretty underneath, something warm and tired and weirdly noble; how the hell are you supposed to keep pretending it’s just a monster?
No. That’s not even it. I’ve been spiraling into this mess ever since he and Talon and Nathaniel saved that drowning girl who was very much supposed to stay drowned. My brain’s been doing backflips ever since I realized why they’re killing. Not for sport. Not for chaos. But for some twisted middle-ground moral code that makes my own look like a preschool coloring book. In a world screaming for black and white, they’re the greasy, bloodstained smudge in the middle.
