by Katie May
“They should’ve bonded over the fact that they liked the same dick—and I mean that in both ways. Rion is a massive dick,” she had said with a twist to her lips. “You know, this world would be a better fucking place if girlfriends and exes became best friends forever. Matching friendship bracelets and late-night wine talks just to bitch about the guy. Oh, you liked that ride? Me too! Now let’s get drunk.”
I’m grateful that Braelyn eliminated the threat, but I’m terrified of Nina’s reaction.
If she ever wakes up, that is.
Already, rumors are circulating in the prison about the new queen. The humble queen. The generous queen.
Queen.
Queen.
Queen.
It’s all I hear during those brief hours a day I’m forced to lead people. Her stand during the ring accomplished more than she expected. The people have found someone they can rally around, someone gracious and kind with a fleet of the most dangerous supernaturals at her beck and call. They know that by controlling her, they can control us.
Queen.
Fucking queen.
“You need to rest,” Braelyn says from where she stands sentry against the wall. There’s noticeable concern and wariness on her face whenever she glances at Nina’s prone, unconscious form.
“I’ll rest when she wakes the fuck up,” I growl, squeezing Nina’s cold hand. Some of the bruises have faded already while others have turned yellow and light green. The scars have all but disappeared leaving behind smooth, unblemished porcelain skin. Cain has been working around the clock to ensure she’ll wake up. The poor kid blames himself for leaving before the fight began. But I know that his appearance there wouldn’t have made any difference.
Nina’s a gentle soul, a kind one. It doesn’t make her any less weak, but it makes her strengths different. This strength, however, managed to gain her a kingdom.
A soft cough has my head whipping toward the corner of the room. Damien stands in the shadows, suit wrinkled and face covered in heavy black scruff. The man looks like shit, and coming from me, that’s saying something. He hasn’t moved from the corner since Nina was injured. Sometimes he’s sitting, sometimes he’s standing, but he’s always watching. Jenny has been bringing him food from the cafeteria. Without her, I guarantee you that the stubborn bastard wouldn’t eat. He’s too lost in his own thoughts, his own despair.
Is it healthy? Not at all. Do I dare say something? Fuck no, especially when I’m not behaving any better. I leave the room only when necessary to deal with matters of the prison, but I always come back to her. She’s a magnet, one I can’t resist. No matter where I go, she’ll always pull me back in.
Bronson has remained in his wolf form since that fateful day. Currently, his furry head is resting on the edge of the bed, eyes closed in sleep.
Abel has become a pseudo-nurse, helping his brother gather supplies and administering the necessary drugs.
Only Rion remains suspiciously absent. He claims that he has to deal with the shifters, but I know the truth: he feels guilty, even more so than Cain. It was Tessa’s obsession with him that caused Nina’s injuries. Though I know Nina doesn’t blame him, he carries the burden like steel weights on his shoulders.
Sometimes, I see his cat lurking in the rafters of my prison cell where we brought her when she was stable.
I turn her hand over and grab the nail polish I had Rebecca procure for me. Both Rebecca and Haley have been by numerous times to check on Nina and see her progress. They both feel immensely guilty for not seeing Tessa’s instability until it was too late. I worried Haley especially would want to seek revenge, and though the girl grieves Tessa, she doesn’t seem too distraught. If anything, she appears more worried about Nina than her dead friend. But that’s life here in the Labyrinth. People come and go every day. People die every day.
“You have to wake up soon, Baby,” I say softly, painting her pinkie a pearlescent pink. I trimmed the nails down a little bit earlier today. “I need to see those beautiful eyes. I need to hear your voice.”
Damien audibly gulps, but he doesn’t say anything. He never says anything, content to hide in the shadows until his light returns.
“We all miss you,” I continue, moving to her ring finger. I pause, tracing the length, and imagine my ring adorning it. She would make a beautiful bride.
My wife.
My fucking wife.
My heart swells at the prospect.
Shaking my head, I move to the middle finger and begin to paint that one.
“Rion and Cain blame themselves. They both love you, you know. It should bother me. I mean, technically I had you first. I had you all to myself, and ironically enough, those years at the Compound didn’t feel like hell. Maybe because you were with me.” After finishing her pointer finger, I move to her thumb, applying long, languid strokes. “But it doesn’t bother me. Sharing you, that is, at least with these men. Okay, maybe sharing you with Rion pisses me the fuck off, but I know he cares for you. Even Damien is mourning you in the only way the asshole knows how.” I drop her hand gently back onto the table and grab her other one. “You’re going to be okay, my beloved. We’re not going to let anything happen to you.”
After finishing her other hand, I press a soft, tender kiss to her clammy forehead. Soon, those white eyes of her will stare up at me adoringly. Soon, I’ll hear that sweet laugh again. Soon. Soon. Soon.
“It’s been two weeks,” Cain murmurs, scrubbing a hand down his face. A light, scratchy beard has appeared on his jawline, and his cheeks look thinner. Nina will beat our asses if she discovers how little we’re taking care of ourselves. Beat our asses...with love and hugs.
“You don’t think we fucking know that?” Abel asks irritatedly from where he’s sitting on the ground playing solitaire. He hasn’t so much as smiled in the two weeks that have passed. His lips are pressed into a tight, somber line.
“I’m not talking about Nina,” Cain snaps. “We’ve been so preoccupied with the fight and then Nina’s health that we haven’t had a chance to discuss what we all discovered.” He meets each of our gazes, including Rion’s in the rafters. At some point, he had shifted back to his human form, lying on his stomach with his chin on his hands.
“Lionel Green is obviously lying,” Damien speaks up for the first time in...who knows how long. Those glacial eyes focus on Cain. “He claims he didn’t kill Raphael, but how do we know it’s the truth?”
“We don’t,” I agree, reaching into my back pocket to grab out the two printed pictures I had my men procure for me.
The first one shows Raphael Turner. His dark hair is brushed back from his handsome, smiling face. He’s a strange combination of beautiful and terrifying. His blood-red eyes and sharp fangs give him a dangerous, lethal look despite the jubilant grin.
The second picture is the asshole Lionel Green. Fat, ugly, and insignificant in every way. He only won the Council vote through fear. No one dared to run against him. I hate him with a burning intensity, especially after I learned the truth about his relationship with the twins.
They confessed the truth to us a few days ago, while we held vigil around Nina’s bed. They told us that they were once slaves to the atrocious Boris, and Lionel was a frequent customer. Abel described his encounter with the slimy man, and I know that if I were to ever see him, I would kill him on the spot. True, undiluted fear had appeared on Abel’s face as he recounted the story. When he described the forced kiss, even Damien’s impassive mask cracked as raw rage flashed in his eyes.
“Do you think the client got another assassin guild to kill Raphael?” Abel asks Damien.
“No.” Damien shakes his head adamantly. “There aren’t any assassins who would take on such a high-profile case, especially after the last failed attempts.” He taps a finger to his chin contemplatively. “Of course, I can’t be certain, but from what I hear, the kill was too sloppy to be done by a trained individual.”
“Unless that’s what they wanted you to think,”
Cain points out, and we all fall silent again.
Reluctantly, I leave Nina’s side and tape the pictures to the stone wall. Raphael Turner and Lionel Green. We know their connection, obviously—political rivals.
But we also know that they’ve been serving on the Council for many, many years. What changed? Why would Lionel snap now and hire someone to kill Raphael? Damien’s right. The kill was sloppy. Was it the work of an expert or an amateur? And what does Nina have to do with any of this? Damien claims that the client discussed the Compound during the phone conversation with the assassins’ leader.
My mind continues to spin and spin like a carousel I’m unable to get off. Around and around and around...
“Cain?” a sleepy voice murmurs. “Kai? Abel? Damien? Bron? Rion?”
We all whip our heads in the direction of the bed. White eyes in a gaunt, pale face stare back at me. Or through me is a more accurate description. As she blinks at me, I find myself igniting and burning on a pyre. Heat rushes through me, white-hot.
“Baby?” I whisper, scarcely able to believe it. I feel as if I’m holding something precious in my hands, but any sudden movement will cause it to shatter.
Nina’s face, if it’s even possible, pales further. She trembles, tears filling her eyes.
“What’s the matter?” Abel demands, jumping to his feet.
Damien steps toward her with his dagger raised, searching for an invisible threat.
Her shaky finger, still wet from the nail polish, points toward the pictures I just taped on the wall.
“Why...?” She trails off, swallowing. “Why do you have a picture of Man in your cell?”
Chapter 46
Nina
Man was a regular around the Compound for as long as I can remember. I’m not exactly sure when I first saw him; time moved differently in the Compound—slow and sluggish like molasses.
I distinctly remember, though, when I met the real Man. I was eight years old when he revealed his true face, the face of a monster.
He never bothered to hide his identity from me, never bothered to conceal his grotesque face. Why should he? I was a blind, dumb child who still cried for a mother I never met. He took one look at me and dismissed me the way everyone did.
I remember that day vividly. The images have been tattooed into my mind, etched into the skin behind my closed eyelids.
It’s the first time I looked evil in the face. Even to me, a person who indirectly saw horrors every day of her life, he appeared monstrous, though I was under no misconception the others perceived him as that. I heard the ladies whisper about him when they thought I wasn’t listening. Handsome. Powerful. Rich. Three words that meant nothing to a prisoner like me.
What they saw was a charming man—dark, slicked-back hair revealing a proud and arresting face. High cheekbones, a strong jawline, and wrinkles around his eyes that betrayed his true, ancient age.
But what I saw in private, when we were alone, was the evil lying in wait just underneath his skin. Eyes red as fire and fangs that contorted his mouth when he smiled, showing the remnant of blood on his teeth.
When I first saw his reflection in the window of the torture room, I’d accepted the inevitable conclusion that I was kidnapped by a monster. An honest-to-god monster. He looked like something that could crawl out from underneath your bed.
He only got scarier over time, colder and meaner as the days dragged on. And as the years passed, his beatings became more frequent and took me longer to heal from.
Man was a monster, through and through.
I still remember his cold, grating voice; it’d slithered down my spine like a snake. “You’re mine, Little Monster. I made you.”
What he made was a trembling, terrified girl with an ingrained need to escape and make a name for herself. To become something more than his plaything and prisoner.
Seeing his face on Kai’s wall...
I am suddenly that scared child again, shivering beneath my scratchy blanket as I attempt to ward off the monster.
As I stare through my dragon’s eyes at the photograph, a ball of lead forms in my stomach. Even after all these years, his abuse still haunts me.
Kai stalks forward and points to the picture of Lionel.
“Him?” he asks, disbelief evident in his tone.
“No, him.” I point to the other man, the dark-haired, red-eyed one.
“Raphael?” Abel questions in disbelief.
Raphael Turner.
The man whose death I was arrested for.
The man who tortured and beat me to a pulp, leaving behind nothing but bruised, mottled skin.
The man whose face haunted my every waking moment.
Man.
“Fuck,” Kai murmurs, stumbling away from the pictures. He too experienced Man’s abuse firsthand, though, unlike me, he never saw his face.
Nausea causes my stomach muscles to tighten.
No. No. No. No.
“Trouble, you need to calm down,” Cain whispers, brushing at a strand of my black hair. “Your body is still healing, and you shouldn’t get so worked up.”
Healing?
Distant memories return in flashes of light. Tessa’s furious eyes. The ring. My refusal to fight. And pain. So much pain.
“How long have I been out?” I whisper, pulling out of Kai’s mind and sliding into Cain’s. The sex demon is staring at me intently, gaze sliding over the yellowing bruises on my face and then down to my wrapped ribs. The longest I have ever been incapacitated back at the Compound was a couple of weeks, and that was after being an inch from death. Only my unknown supernatural blood had saved me then. Apparently, it’d also saved me now.
At some point, the guys must’ve washed me. The blood and grime have been cleaned off, and I’m dressed in a comfortable white nightgown. Even my hair has been brushed and braided. My nails have a fresh coat of pink paint on them as well.
“Two weeks,” Cain answers, voice choked.
Two weeks.
Two weeks I have been unconscious and unresponsive, my body struggling to heal itself and repair the damage inflicted. Tessa really did a number on me.
Phantom pain cascades down my arms and legs, but it’s not overwhelming. It’s a dull ache, a pressure almost, like when you fall asleep on your arm causing the limb to go numb. The worst pain centers around my stomach where I have no doubt broken one or two ribs.
“And how’s Tessa?” I query. Does she regret hurting me? Is she sorry?
Silence descends in the cell, nearly suffocating me.
“Tessa?” I repeat somewhat desperately. But before they can even speak, I know the answer. They may be kind and gentle with me, but in their cores, they’re hardened, possessive men.
“I killed her,” Braelyn admits at last, leaving me stunned and slacked-jawed. “I pledged my loyalty to you. I promised that no harm would come to you when you’re under my care. She caused me to break that promise.”
My head reels with this new information as pain grips my heart, squeezing until all of the blood in my body rushes straight there. A part of me hated Tessa for what she did to me, what she wanted to do. I’m under no misguided notion that she would have spared me if Kai didn’t stop the fight. Another part of me grieves for her, grieves my friend.
“Don’t cry, Bambi. Please. You know I hate tears. They make me ragey, and you really don’t want to see me like that,” Abel pleads, moving to stand beside his brother.
“This is too much,” I whimper. “Raphael. Man. Tessa. It’s just too much.” I continue to mutter incoherent words and phrases. I don’t know if they understand me—heaven only knows I don’t understand myself—but the more I talk, the calmer I become. I no longer feel like I’m stuck in the vicious winds of a hurricane. Instead, I’m resting in the eye of the storm. I have no idea how long the peace will last, but I revel in it while I can.
Calmness cascades through me like a summer’s breeze, blowing the doubt and anger away.
Okay, Nina. Calm down. Yo
u’re no help to anyone if you allow your emotions to consume you.
“So, what do we do now?” I ask weakly. I push myself onto my elbows to move into a sitting position. Bronson’s whine has me pausing, turning in the direction of the noise gradually coming closer to me. A moment later, his wet nose rubs against my hand.
“I’m okay, Bron,” I whisper, petting his coarse fur. “I’m okay.”
The wolf steps away, and very human hands caress my cheeks. Gently, as to not disturb my numerous injuries, he parts my lips with his thumb.
“You’re okay. You’re okay.” He seems to be reminding himself as well as me. Still keeping his hands on me, he drags me into a sitting position on the table, allowing me to use his muscular, bare chest as a backrest.
Bronson. My shadow wolf. The man who has always—and will always—look after me. I feel so safe and treasured in his arms.
“So Raphael Turner worked in the Compound,” Damien mumbles harshly. He’s silent for a moment, contemplative, before he says, “That explains why they found your blood beneath his fingernails and his blood on you. Didn’t you tell me you guys fought during the escape?”
I swallow down a lump the size of an acorn. “He scratched me,” I admit. “During the escape, he scratched me, and I attacked him.”
There’s a long, potent pause as we all consider the implications.
“But you didn’t kill him?” Cain asks for clarification. I gape.
“Of course not!” Though the prospect of killing him had occurred to me numerous times during my stints down in the torture room. It was a fleeting thought, there and gone in only seconds, but it was a thought all the same. I had contemplated the fragility of life and how easy it was to destroy.
I don’t know if I was referring to Man’s life or my own.
“I’ve done months of research on Raphael fucking Turner and never stumbled across anything like this,” Damien snaps. I have a feeling, however, that his ire isn’t directed at us but himself. He no doubt blames himself for not seeing this connection sooner.
