Ben’s voice carried from behind me, strained by exertion and wind.
Cove jerked in my hold at the sound, perhaps because he thought it meant help, perhaps because he understood it meant the opposite. I turned my head to see Ben crossing the terrace toward us, rope looped over one forearm, his expression pale and set.
Cove saw the rope and went rigid before fighting even harder than before.
“No,” he gasped. “No, no, no, don’t—Ben, please, don’t.”
Ben flinched.
It was quick, but I saw it.
For all his loyalty, for all his steadiness, he had grown fond of Cove too. It was there in the way his jaw tightened, in the brief flicker of pain that crossed his face when Cove looked at him like betrayal had arrived wearing a familiar smile.
“I’m sorry,” Ben said, and for once, there was no charm in him at all. “I really am.”
“Don’t touch me,” Cove sobbed.
Ben looked at me.
I do not want this.
That was the first thought, useless and childish as it was. I did not want rope on Cove’s wrists. I did not want him restrained on the ground, shaking and wet-eyed and broken open by fear.I did not want Ben’s hands on him, did not want the practical necessity of knots and leverage and control.
But wanting had become irrelevant.
“His wrists first,” I forced out, my voice sounding like someone else’s.
Cove bucked against me as Ben approached. He got one arm free, swung blindly, and caught Ben hard across the cheek with the side of his fist. Ben cursed, more in surprise than pain, then caught Cove’s wrist before he could strike again.
“Careful,” I snapped.
“I am being careful,” Ben bit back, breathless. “He’s fighting like a feral cat.”
“Don’t call him that.”
“Then hold him still.”
Cove flailed at the sound of our voices, trying to get his wrist free from Ben’s grip. I shifted behind him, pinning him harder against my chest with one arm while catching his other wrist before he could claw at my face or Ben’s.
He cried out again.
Not loudly this time.
Worse.
A small, devastated sound that seemed to fold inward around itself.
“I’m sorry,” I murmured near his ear before I could stop myself. “I’m sorry, Cove. I’m sorry.”
“Then stop,” he begged.
I could not.
Ben worked quickly, his movements efficient despite the blood rising on his cheek where Cove had caught him. The rope slid around Cove’s wrists, soft enough not to cut too harshly into his skin, but strong enough to hold when Ben cinched it with the grim competence of a man who had done many things he preferred not to discuss.
Cove’s breath hitched as his wrists were drawn together.
“Please,” he whispered pitifully, and the word went through me like a hook.
