He does.
My heart is pounding.
“Good?” I ask, praying the cinnamon masks any bitter trace.
He doesn’t get to reply. Not verbally.
He frowns, staring down at the drink.
My breath stutters. My heart slams against my ribs.
He looks up at me—then the shadows erupt.
He stumbles, the cup slipping from his hands, exploding across the floor.
And I feel so fucking sick.
I rush to him as he falls into Ezekial’s chair, and the second my fingers brush his arm, sharp terror slices me.
“I’m so sorry. So, so sorry, ” I babble in hushed words as he fights to keep his eyes open, his shadows curling around us.
Then it’s gone.
The terror snaps away. His eyes close. He slumps into the chair.
My hand falls, and I stare at the deadliest being I’ve ever met—one of my bonds—knocked out cold because I spiked his coffee with Henbane.
And it hits me.
I stumble. The ache in my chest ruptures as I feel the same abyss they once showed me, the one they drowned in when they thought I was dead. The hollowness, the ache, a void where something thrumming once was. But this… this is worse. Because I know they’re not dead. I can see Kane breathing, but our connection feels shredded, mangled, ripped out, leaving nothing but a gaping wound festering with static.
I reach for his arm again, just to touch, to feel, but even with his skin beneath my fingers—there’s nothing. No soothing chill.
The void doesn’t ease.
What have I done?
No. They’re alive, they’re fine.
Five seconds. That’s all I’ll give myself, just five seconds to have a complete freak-out.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck,fuck!
That’s it, five seconds up. I wrench myself back from Kane, press my palms to my eyes, force myself to breathe, then pull out my phone. I send a single, shaky text to Kace—running late.
That’s it. No excuses, no lies.
But my hands tremble, the ache indescribable. I still can’t breathe. I count to ten, each second heavier than the last as I stare at Kane’s unconscious body. I have to do this. I can’t go back now.
But I never want to feel like this again.
I close my eyes, and think back to the nightmare. The Pit. Or maybe just what I imagined it to be. Will that be enough?
Endless walls of fire in an abyss of uncanny darkness. Shadows skirting along the stone edges, crawling like living things.
And then the part that ripped me out of sleep, drenched in sweat—the reason I went through with this dangerous plan.
Julien. Smooth, dark skin bound in chains. Wrists cuffed in iron, rubbed raw, bloodied. Those horrific, guttural screams.
