I can fix this.
Releasing him, I take in his stuttered breathing, his damp brow. His eyes are closed against the pain and my hands follow the trail of blood along his side until I find the bullet hole.
“Jesus,” I breathe, the wound giving under my touch. “You’re shot.”
Hayes nods, grabbing me close again. “Just a little one. I’m better now.”
My stomach clenches, warmth spreading out from my heart. This relationship was supposed to be fake, but it’s not now.
Because Hayes is my home, my soul anchored with hope.
“See? I told you, he’d be fine.”
“He wasshot, Killian,” Maeve retorts, turning toward the reaper.
“Mostlyfine.”
Pressing a chaste kiss to Hayes’ forehead, I grab his shoulders.
“Come on. Let me clean you up.”
Killian lifts his arm over his shoulder with such ease, my mouth drops open. They hate each other—what is happening?
“Don’t pass out on me now,Prince.”
Grunting, Hayes shuffles down the hall to the med lab. “Like I’d give you the pleasure.”
Maeve retreats to her office without another word as I follow. It doesn’t occur to me where we’re going until my hand is wrapped in Hayes’ larger one and the elevator doors reveal the basement. In the distance, I see the medical room—med lab—with its steel doors, bullet proof glass port holes and the flickering light overhead that screams of old horror movies.
A ball of dread drops into my gut and it gets hard to move, practically being dragged down the corridor. Those steel doorscan be locked from the outside and the noise haunts my dreams. Breath hitching, I stop at the door as Killian moves a limping Hayes to the metal table. He’s gentle as he lowers him, but like the true reaper that he is, he slips and elbows the wound.
Hayes groans, swatting at him. I can’t enjoy their antics—my breath comes in rapid puffs and my heart is ready to explode. Blood rushes through my ears, muting everything. All I see is theroom.
The room, made for corpses and quick life-saving surgeries, is sterile, with white cabinets full of stolen medical grade equipment and gleaming silver fixtures. Nothing about it is comforting or friendly—it’s all removed, emotionless.
Gulping, I fidget in the doorway as I try to get a full breath. Everything is tight—hot. I can’t think.
Killian blocks my view, brows lowered. “You okay, Coli?”
Flashes of my time here, the screams of men dying, the feel of wet flesh being ripped apart, and the harsh Irish brogue of clipped orders echo in my ears like a drum. Pounding, drilling into me to be better—to be smarter—to feelless.
My heart slams in my chest and my hands shake.
I’m back there. Watching my father cut into a still breathing man and instruct me on what to sever, to pull, to sew to optimize his torture. Because this was my job—I was meant to inflict pain. To endure the worse and cause more of it.
It left a branding on my soul, one that cripples my sense of self and my appearance. Who could look at me and not see a monster?
I sniffle and I swear I can smell the inside of a chest cavity—the light smell of raw poultry, bodily gases and hot blood—before Hayes groans and I blink, memories gone.
Stepping back, I jump away before Killian’s hand falls to my shoulder. “I’m fine.”
I can’t describe to him what this room means to me—why a cold sweat breaks out on the back of my neck any time I have to be in the basement. I spent years in this room, dissecting still living bodies under the guise of my father teaching me to be a doctor.
But he wasn’t—not really.He was breaking me.Breaking me into someone he can use. Someone that would follow him willingly.
I was too blind to notice it. Too desperate for his approval. Too desperate to survive. But he never had to touch me to hurt me. I still see the faces of those men, hear their cries, and remember their final words.
It’s those lessons that warped my soul—tainted me so now blood and violence turns me on. Ferguson took something from me that I’ll never get back, and I gave it to him willingly under the assumption I would besafe.
