“You’re burning up,” she says, her voice tight with worry.
I force a smile, even though it takes everything I have. “It’s just an upset stomach. Probably something I ate. I need to get home, take something for it.”
“Kain—”
“I’m fine, really.” I catch her hand and bring it to my lips for a quick kiss despite the tremor running through my fingers. “Go get some rest. I’ll call you later.”
She studies my face, clearly not convinced, but then, I see the moment she decides to trust me. She leans in, pressing her lips to mine in a soft, worried kiss.
“Call me if you need anything,” she says. “I mean it.”
“I will.”
We both get out of the car. I wait until she’s safely inside the building before I climb into the driver’s seat, my hands shaking so badly, I can barely grip the steering wheel.
As soon as I’m sure she can’t see me, my carefully maintained composure shatters. A wave of pain crashes over me so intensely that I double over, gasping. It feels like someone’s jabbing knives into every nerve ending, like my blood has turned to acid in my veins.
I force myself to sit upright and start the engine. Just need to get home. Just need to make it to my place.
The drive is a blur of agony. Every bump in the road sends fresh shocks through my body. Sweat soaks through my shirt and drips into my eyes. I can barely see straight, but I keep driving because stopping means giving in, and I can’t afford to do that.
Not yet.
My building finally appears. I park haphazardly, not caring if I’m taking up two spaces. Getting out of the car takes more effort than it should. My legs barely support my weight as I stumble toward the entrance.
The stairs are torture. Each step sends jolts of agony radiating through my legs, my back, my entire body. I grip the railing hard and manage to drag myself up to the next landing.
Finally, my door. My hands are shaking badly enough that it takes three tries to get the key in the lock.
Inside, I go straight to my desk and yank open the bottom drawer, where I’ve hidden the industrial-strength painkillers.The kind that would knock out a human but barely takes the edge off for shifters.
I dump a handful into my palm—four, five, six pills—and swallow them dry. My throat protests, the pills scraping on the way down, so I weave my way toward the kitchen.
Water. I need water.
I wrench the fridge open and grab the first bottle I see. I drain it in seconds, the cold liquid doing nothing to calm the fire in my chest. I grab a second bottle and drink that one, too, gasping for air between swallows.
The pain doesn’t stop, but after a few minutes, it dulls to an almost manageable level. I slide down to the floor, my back against the cool metal of the fridge, and close my eyes.
Has it really been three months already?
Three months since they sent me back here. Three months since the poison they put in my system started its slow, agonizing countdown.
Every operative gets poisoned before they leave on a mission. It’s how the organization ensure loyalty. How they make sure we can’t defect, can’t run, can’t choose anything except obedience.
The antidote must be administered every four months. Miss the window, and you die. Slowly. Painfully. A death so excruciating that most operatives would rather complete a suicide mission than risk it.
I learned all of this during final training. They poisoned us several months before our first assignments, then made us wait. Made us experience two full weeks of symptoms before they finally gave us the antidote.
Two weeks of suffering. It felt as if my body was being torn apart from the inside, as if my bones were splintering and my blood was boiling. I spent those two weeks praying for death, believing that any form of relief would be preferable to the excruciating pain.
And then came the relief when the antidote hit my system. The sudden, overwhelming absence of agony. The reminder that they controlled whether I lived or died, suffered or survived.
A living hell designed to burn into our minds just how trapped we were.
I’d blocked it out. Pushed it to the back of my mind because thinking about it meant acknowledging that every moment with Anne was borrowed time.
This past week and a half with her has been perfect. Every smile, every laugh, every stolen kiss felt like a gift I didn’t deserve. I’ve been living in a fantasy, pretending I could have this. Pretending I could make her happy long term.
