Page 51 of Cerulean Truth (Sapere #1)

TWENTY-FOUR

JAMES

After Emma stormed out of our training session—again—without any apparent reason— again—I felt the urge to punch or kick something for the next few hours.

Ever since the attempted bloodtheft, I had trouble regaining control over my darkness or whatever it was, as if that whole incident had opened up the inner gate to my rage.

Training her every day tested the limits of my patience to their extremes. And fuck, if that didn't turn me on.

Every time I pushed her to the ground and my body completely covered hers, I heard her breathing become slightly erratic.

Every time I held her down, I tried not to notice how warm and soft she felt under my touch, how her cheeks blossomed under my stare and how her lips parted every time mine came close.

Every fucking time my body enveloped hers, my blood streamed downward and I had to keep my manhood in check. Would’ve been pretty awkward if my Skindo wasn’t the only stick poking her.

Fuck, she made me feel like I was hitting puberty all over again.

So yeah, once I realized I’d have my hands on her body every time we trained, that I’d feel hers wriggling beneath mine, have her intoxicating smell up my nose every fucking day, I erected my walls so high, nothing else could get erected.

I had to keep my distance or it would’ve gotten very awkward very quickly. I did what I had to and turned into what I considered was the best version of myself: James, the First Offensive. Cold and seemingly indifferent but invested in her training.

I gave her hell but it was the only way to ensure she’d become the best.

What I hadn’t counted on was her stubbornness and constant desire to fight me on literally everything.

That woman could not take an order if her life depended on it.

Which frustrated me, which in turn frustrated her and before I knew it, every interaction between us had boiled down to inane bickering.

Which turned me on for some inexplicable reason. To be fair, there wasn’t much about Emma that didn’t turn me on.

The last six weeks, my days had been filled with all-things Emma, training her mostly physically and in translation, which hadn’t been going great. Or at all.

Aside from training her, which had become an almost full-time occupancy, I’d spent all my time down at the Bastille.

Because what Emma remained blissfully unaware of was that ever since her incident, I spent a minimum of an hour each day in the chilling depths of the cave beneath the Bastille, where the soon-to-be-dead Radicals?who tried to bleed her out?were being held.

All three of them were still alive, for which I congratulated myself every single day.

This subterranean cave was made of twenty-something holding cells, all linked to a central area, only accessible to a select few. As one of those privileged individuals, I possessed an unrestricted pass.

Each holding cell replicated the others—uniform square rooms furnished with a bed, bathroom, and dinner table.

Books were at their beck and call, and the cells were all bubbled in to make sure no sound could travel and no translation could happen.

All prisoners stayed in solitary confinement, as any contact with another could result in an attempt to escape.

The general area was divided into a few rooms, depending on its necessities. Not entirely unlike The Cube, we’d translate the room into whatever our needs required.

While walking down the stairs to the cave, I focused on tamping down the anger I felt, every time my mind wandered back to that night.

They did the unthinkable in harming Emma, and although I realized as a future Leader, I could not let my emotions cloud my judgement, touching Emma without her consent was unforgivable and one hell of a trigger for my rage.

When I reached the general area, I had the first prisoner, Radical Number One, join me in the smallest room available. Interrogation in the magi world wasn’t easy, the techniques were complicated and there were few who really mastered those techniques to perfection.

I turned the room into a color palette of purple walls and flying drops of blood, a small table at the center, with two chairs on opposite sides.

Number One was an imposing figure, with small scars crisscrossing his face, black eyes, and a gaze that could chill the soul. However, his stare resembled a warm and cozy winter’s cabin compared to mine.

I didn’t bother with any formalities, only motioned him to sit down.

“Why do you need her blood?” I questioned in an icy tone, as I had every single day for over a month.

No answer. Just an empty gaze.

“How did you know where to find her?” I pressed.

He didn’t answer but I didn’t need him to. I only needed him to think about the answer.

Translation made it possible to invade someone’s thoughts.

It was highly illegal for those unauthorized and it took years to get the right qualifications.

The trick was to distract or confuse or torture them enough so they would lower their mental walls during a moment of weakness in order for me to get in and extract the information I needed.

For now, all three of them weren’t talking and still successfully blocking me out.

As I sat there, locked in a silent struggle with the unyielding Number One, images of Emma and what they’d done to her kept popping up. It’d been over a month but the memories of that night were as fresh as they were the day after.

He hurt her . I clenched my fists.

He tried to take her from me . My jaw tightened.

Fuck, I wanted to kill him. More than I had ever wanted to kill anyone in my life.

The urge to take his life consumed me. I’d been struggling with these thoughts for weeks on end and I was slowly starting to lose control.

It wasn’t like he was giving me any usable intel… so what was the harm in killing him?

I kept staring at this asshole, who was still wrapping himself in silence, and I hesitated, as I always did.

Killing this lowlife, when unsanctioned by the Council, would jeopardize not only my role as Leader but possibly the delicate balance between us and any resistance, we had fought so hard to maintain these last few months.

The weight of responsibility pressed on me as I debated my choices, torn between duty and the firing rage within me. Thoughts of Emma, bound and vulnerable, flooded my mind again. Her whimpering, the spilled blood, her suffering, me being unable to protect her... Fucking hell.

Number One shifted uncomfortably in his chair, clearly unsettled by the waves of rage I was surely emitting. This was the point I usually resorted to torture. But today, it wasn’t enough.

The potential consequences to my leadership started fading into nothingness, gradually becoming overshadowed by the raw, unrelenting desire to avenge Emma’s torment. They had dared to touch her. They had hurt her. They had …

I could torture him again. That could take the edge off. It has before.

I took a deep breath, flexed my forearm, and shot out my Skindo. My fingers tightened around its hilt. The room seemed to grow colder. I was starting to lose control.

The Radical’s eyes widened, a flicker of fear crossing his face as he began to grasp where my struggles lay. I could see the desperation sinking in, the realization that the continuation of his life now solely rested in my ability to maintain self-control.

Ignoring the surge of conflicting emotions still coursing through me, my mind homed in on Emma’s face, her voice echoing in my mind, pleading for justice, as I imagined she would’ve done had she been conscious.

"Last chance," I rasped, my voice roughened by the primal growl clawing its way out of the depths of my being.

When he didn’t answer, I closed my eyes, trying to find a hold against the pull of darkness.

It burned like a wildfire, fueling my determination.

Everything else seemed so insignificant compared to the pain Emma had suffered.

I still had no idea what she meant to me, but I knew she was important. Too fucking important.

And if it meant sacrificing my position as Leader to protect her, then so be it. My jaw tightened again, as I succumbed to the overwhelming need for revenge.

With a newfound resolve, I opened my eyes, meeting the Radical’s pleading stare head-on.

I rose slowly to my feet, my voice steady and resolute.

"You’ve made your choice. You are no longer of use to me, so you will now pay for what you've done," I declared, my words carrying the weight of my conviction. The Radical’s defiance wavered, and for a moment, so did his mental walls.

But it was too late, my mind was made up.

He had underestimated the lengths I would go to and he would pay for this miscalculation with his life.

As I raised my weapon, time seemed to stand still, the world holding its breath for no longer than a few seconds.

With a swift motion, I struck, the sound of metal meeting flesh reverberating through the room.

There were no screams of pain. No pleadings for mercy.

There was only death. The Radical’s body crumpled to the ground, his chair untouched.

Standing there, surrounded by the crimson aftermath of my decision, I felt strangely re-energized.

I translated his bloody head, now detached from his body, onto the interrogation table, keeping it in clear sight for the next person entering the room.

As the blood dripped from the table onto the floor, I summoned the second Radical, hoping the visible fate of his friend would generate some much-needed motivation in giving me what I needed.

When Number Two walked in, noticing the fleshy remains of his friend on the table, clear terror crossed his features. His eyes flickered from the severed head to my face and I returned his panicked gaze with a wicked smile.

“Welcome back.”