Her feet are bare and bleeding and her knees are scraped raw.
She looks like she was crawling through hell right up until someone knocked her out.
She's not moving and if it wasn't for her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, you'd think she might be dead.
I stand there, staring, my brain trying to reconcile what I'm seeing with what I expected.
I take a step closer, my boots scraping against the concrete, and her head lifts slightly. Slowly. Like it takes everything she has just to move.
Her face comes into view and I see her eyes. They are glazed over and ringed with exhaustion and pain. They're green. Bright green, even in the harsh fluorescent light.
She looks at me and something shifts in her expression.
She opens her mouth, but no sound comes out. Her lips are cracked and bleeding.
I don't move. Don't speak. Just stand there, taking her in, trying to make sense of this.
This is who the Romanians pulled out of Germany?
This is who they thought I'd be happy to see?
I turn slightly, looking back at Tommy standing in the doorway. He shifts his weight, uncomfortable, and I understand now why he looked at me the way he did.
This isn't what any of us expected.
6
CALLUM
Iturn back toward her.
She stirs again, more this time. Her eyelids flutter, her breath increases. Whatever drug Matei pumped into her is starting to loosen its grip.
Her arms pull against the restraints and the movement draws my attention down, past the torn fabric of the robe, past the bruises and dried blood.
Her right forearm slips into the light just enough to reveal a mark burned into her skin, perfectly healed.
An M.
My stomach tightens.
The same fucking M that was carved into Keira's skin. The Morrígans.
My vision tunnels and for a split second, I'm not in this basement anymore. I'm outside in the driveway, standing beside Keira, her face pale, her eyes hollow, looking at that same mark on her.
My hands curl into fists. The rage that floods through me is instant, volcanic, and it burns away every shred of doubt I had about this woman being connected to my father's death.
She's not just connected.
She's one of them.
I don't see a broken girl in a chair anymore. I see the people who hurt my sister. I see the fire, the feathers, the prophecy bullshit. I see the symbol of everything I've wanted to destroy since this all started.
The fucking Morrígans.
My breathing steadies. I straighten my spine and let the cold settle over me and let out a slow breath, forcing my muscles to loosen, forcing my voice down into the low, even tone that belongs to the Don. Not the brother, not the son, not the man who wants to rip that scar off her arm with his teeth and ask why.
I take a step closer and she flinches.
