The bed framecreaks in the dark, followed by a ragged gasp that slices through the quiet. I’m awake instantly, heart slamming against my ribs, hand already reaching for Ares.
He whines at the bed across the room, where I can see Arianette sitting upright in her bed. She’s been sleeping with DK at night, but after everything, we decided to give her space to stretch out without pressing on the welts. Moonlight cuts through the curtains, painting silver across her sweat-slick skin. She’s breathing like she’s been sprinting for miles, chest heaving, eyes wide and unfocused.
DK’s already swinging his legs off the edge of his bed. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t need to. He heads straight for the bathroom, flicking on the low light. I hear the medicine cabinet open, the soft clink of the ointment jar, water running into a glass.
I’m out of bed before he comes back.
“Let me,” I say, voice rough with sleep and something heavier. Guilt. Regret. Confusion. One or all three, I don’t know. I block his path, hand out for the jar and glass. “I owe her that much.”
DK studies me for a second, reading everything I’m not saying. The scar on his throat seems extra ghoulish in the pale light. He nods once and hands them over. He shuffles back over to his bed, running his hand over his face to wake up. He sits on the edge, arms crossed, watching. I move next to her, careful not to jostle the mattress too much. “Drink,” I murmur, holding the glass to her lips.
She takes it with shaking hands, gulps half, then lets me take it back. Her skin is hot, feverish from sleep.
“Roll over for me,” I say softly. “On your stomach.”
She hesitates, then obeys, slowly, wincing as the sheet pulls away from her back and ass. The bruises are in the shape of my palmagainst her brown skin, swollen and raw in the moonlight. My stomach twists.
I uncap the ointment, cool and herbal smelling, and dip my fingers in the jar. This kind of touch is always the hardest part for me. The monster lives right under my skin, whispering how easy it would be to press harder, to turn care into cruelty. My hand hovers for a second, anxiety spiking, but I push through.
She gave me what I needed. I can give her what she needs in return.
I start at the top welt, spreading the cream in light, careful strokes. She flinches at the first contact, then relaxes by degrees, breath evening out.
DK watches every move, ready to step in if I falter.
After a minute, her voice comes, small, distant, like she’s still half in the dream. “I was underground,” she whispers. “When I started waking up… after they took me. Dirt floor. Cold. Running water somewhere close, like a stream or pipe. Old rusted bars on the cell door.”
My fingers pause. DK straightens and we look at one another. It’s hard to know when Arianette is here or lost in her mind.
“I don’t know how long it was before someone came. A day at least. Then someone brought food,” she continues, eyes fixed on the wall. “Trays slid through a slot on the floor. I never saw their faces.”
I continue to rub the cream into her wounds but when she shudders, I don’t think it’s from the pain.
“I’d been there for days when someone came right up to the bars.” Her arm reaches up to hover over her face. “They were wearing a mask. Not like yours. It was… wrong. Scorched black with a hint of bronze. It was metal, including the horns that protruded from the sides, like a ram, thick and ridged. The eyes were just holes, deep and empty.” She shivers. “I don’t think there was a person behind that mask.”
“Then what?” DK asks.
“A demon,” she whispers.
I realize I’ve stopped moving and force my hand to move again, spreading ointment lower, but my blood’s gone cold.
“The voice… it was distorted. Said we, the girls taken in Forsyth, were part of something bigger. An old cycle. That it was an honor to be chosen. That everyone else was just on the surface… but we were the roots.”
Her words trail off, voice fading like the memory is slipping away again.
The room is silent except for her breathing and the faint tick of the clock.
DK and I share another look over her back, confusion, and unease. I finish with the ointment, cap the jar, and pull the sheet gently up to her waist.
“Anything else?” DK asks.
She shakes her head, exhaustion settling back over her.
“Sleep,” I murmur, brushing damp hair from her forehead. “We’re here.”
She curls onto her side, facing away, and within minutes her breathing evens out again.
DK exhales, rubbing a hand over his face.
