Page 37 of Dark Flame

Torture me.

Hecate, please give me my powers back. Please, please, please, I’ll do anything. Let me get out of this space. This tiny, cramped space…

Maybe this is more punishment since I’m behind the blaze that took out two wonderful witches. She’s not interfering because She’s forsaken me. Maybe that’s also why the cure isn’t working right. The one feature of myself I’ve longed to be rid of, I now miss because it could have saved my life.

Maybe Alec will kill me and end my suffering.

Hecate, please. Please. Please.

At this point, I’m no longer sure what I’m even begging Her for. She won’t help, because She hasn’t so far. Maybe it’s time to stop asking. Perhaps it’s time to let Her go and beg the devil. At the very least, the one I know.

“Alec.” His name slips out between cracked lips, muffled with a sob. It’s low, and even with his enhanced hearing, who knows if it carries to him.

“Alec, please, get me out of here.”

“Alec, I can’t do this anymore.”

“Alec!”

Each plea, I raise my voice just a bit higher, hoping it makes it to him, even when he’d probably ignore me. Laugh at my pain.

Harlow.

The voice that once had me thinking I was insane is a reprieve. I manage to lift my head, seeking him even if I know he’s not here. I cling to how my name sounded on his lips—inside my head, anyway. The harshness of the H, the purr trailing from the W. Cling to it, begging for a repeat.

“Alec, Alec, Alec…please.”

Instead of my name, a sound from far away pushes through the deafening silence, the weight of the room crashing onto me, the feeling of not having enough space, and the endless shadows that taunt me with hisses. It’s the sound of metal, I think. Hard to tell, because everything is so muted with my head resting on the ground.

Then there’s a new sensation. Something cool but warm at the same time. Something that forces my head up, the touch expanding to my cheek bones and stroking beneath my eyes. I sigh, the weight of them too much to open and allow myself to check who’s finally come: my devil or the Goddess. My gaze, blurred from my lack of focus and exhaustion, tries to track the long fingers reaching for my face. It becomes too much effort, and my eyes slide shut once more.

“Sinclair, open your eyes. What’s wrong with you?”

Look at him? I can’t. Everything is too heavy.

“Hellion, look at me.”

Looking at him only gives him more reason to torment me. Haven’t I played enough of his games? I wore the pretty dress, attended the master’s party on his arm, paraded myself in front of his guests, and gave a piece of myself over to the top buyer. He sold me off, so now he can deal with my suffocating silence. It’s no different than the suffocation of this cell.

The cell…how did I forget how small the cell is? Right, it’s all in his voice. He’s a distraction, as much as he was a distraction in the past, when his existence was a mere voice in my mind.

I should ask him about that.

“Come on, Harlow. I’m demanding you open your eyes.”

With the next stroke of his fingers, the slithering falls away, disappearing inside my chest until the next time they want to bother me. With the weight gone, my lids manage to peel open. Eyes as black as the dungeon stare back, his brows furrowing like my panic is a shock to him.

“You came,” I breathe.

“You called.”

My eyes flutter shut again as his hands come around my body, and for better or worse, he’s the safest thing right now, so I let myself fall. He reaches one hand beneath my knees, the other around my back, before pulling me into his chest and standing, keeping me close.

His low murmur breaks through my mental barriers right as he carries me from the cell. “Let’s get you out of here.”

Even though he grips me tight, he doesn’t feel as suffocating as the cell. In fact, it’s kind of pleasant to be held by him. His arms feel strong, his body unyielding against mine. And he smells good. Not like death, blood, and destruction, but like a fresh flame once ignited. A campfire after it’s been extinguished and the smoke fills the area. Like summertime warmth, which is ironic.

“You smell nice.”