Page 2 of Exile (Dance with My Demons #4)
Grey
Warm blood seeps down my knuckles, cascading like a waterfall along my wrist and landing somewhere on the floor.
But despite the obvious pain I should be feeling from repeatedly punching the metal door in my room, I feel absolutely nothing except unbridled rage and the aberrant, uncomfortable sensation of panic.
Along with the fresh, copper scented blood that's freely flowing from my split skin, there's sticky, dried patches of murky red on the palms of my hands. And it kills me to know it's not mine.
It's Deadman's. No—I can't call him that right now.
I slam my foot against the door, changing tactics.
Except for the loud banging, it achieves nothing, other than sending a shooting pain through my leg.
I don't care though. I have to get out of this fucking room.
The irony isn't lost on me that I've spent the majority of my time in Lilydale being able to come and go as I please from this cell, and suddenly, when I need to leave it the most, I'm trapped.
Mental images of Avery and Damon are firmly implanted in my mind, burning a hole in my fleeting sanity—if there was any left to destroy before the events of today. They replay over and over, and I just know Avery's hands are covered in Damon’s blood as well.
Her small, pale hands were frantically pumping Damon's chest, trying to perform CPR before the guards grabbed both of us and ripped us away from Damon's gunmetal pallor, still frame.
The fuckers tasered me after I swung at one of them.
The last thing I remember before my mind blanked out temporarily is Avery shouting at the top of her lungs—repeatedly calling out mine and Damon's names, before suddenly Theo's was added into the mix with a new air of frenzy.
I could make out her threats and pleas, doing everything she possibly could to get control of the situation.
But what even is control? We had it for so long, used to being able to roam freely, making the guards bend to our will. Now… that apparently no longer exists.
We were forcibly pulled apart in the hallway and shoved back into our own rooms. And for the first time, I couldn't get back out.
That old cunt must have shut down the building’s entire system, blocking our ability to override their efforts and open doors, even with Byrone and Jillian's talents.
They frisked me before throwing me into my personal prison box, confiscating my staff access card and cell phone.
And because of that, I have no doubt they did the same to the others too.
No contact, no exit, no way of knowing what is happening in that hallway .
Fuck. I have no idea if Avery is okay or if Damon is still alive. Not to mention our other members who joined the fight before all hell broke loose.
There's a blinding madness inside me and I can't seem to get a grip on it. I've always been good at wielding my anger, being in control of it instead of the other way around. But now I'm a prisoner to my own emotions, spiraling more and more as the minutes pass without freedom or updates.
I keep punching and kicking the metal door non-stop, desperate to break it down or find some reprieve—even if that means seeking out pain to stop me from losing my shit.
The last time I blacked out beyond saving, I came to in a pool of blood—one of my favorite places to be, only second to being buried inside Avery.
My father was dead underneath me, unrecognizable, nothing more than a mangled corpse reflecting my built-up rage that had finally imploded and exploded into violence.
It took me five whole minutes before it dawned on me that the dizziness I was feeling was due to my own blood loss, my neck slashed open and red liquid drenching my shirt.
A neighbor had heard everything and when paramedics and cops arrived at our front door, that was the end of the ordeal. I blacked out again, waking up handcuffed to a hospital bed.
I relive the pool of blood often in my dreams. Which is how I know that the amount of blood that surrounded Damon is serious—life threatening even.
He was left bleeding out on the floor, and when Avery was dragged away toward the female dorms, I didn't see anyone else step in to continue CPR administrations.
Every rational part of me is trying to prepare for the worst. People don't survive that—not often. I should know. I’ve spent all my time in Lilydale perfecting my craft, learning the limits to draw out suffering if need be.
And although Damon has one hell of a stubborn-ass nature, not even he is immune to the finality of death.
Fuck! How did things get this far?
We didn't just stir the pot with our little matrimonial surprise—we blew everything into a million tiny pieces. Alexander and Arthur will be out for blood now. Literally. Vultures like them scavenge and hunt ruins, picking up the leftover pieces for their own personal gain.
Now Avery is defenseless and alone, a sitting target—and fuck, I don't even know if my best friend is still alive.
Alexander would be more than happy to watch his son die on the floor of Lilydale on his birthday.
Arthur too. Especially with them now knowing that Avery is Damon's legal heir and she’s within reach for the kill—an easy target they seem all too keen on taking out.
Alexander will stop at nothing to reclaim what he believes he is entitled to.
She's just an obstacle in his obsession, in enemy territory while we're wounded and caged inside their prison cells. He’ll want her out of the way as soon as possible.
I have to get out of this fucking room. Now .
In the distance, I can hear the sound of sirens surrounding Lilydale.
I'm not surprised—this is one situation that they can't sweep under the rug.
They can't exactly claim it was a suicide or some other bullshit story when multiple witnesses saw the smoking gun in Alexander's hand.
Not only that, but guards are dead too. I know because I killed a few myself, the sweet sounds of bones cracking under my weight as their blood spilled onto the floor.
Death is inevitable in Lilydale—a hazard of the job. It's probably listed as a risk in their job description.
They will blame the deaths on us—the unruly, mentally deranged patients. As for Alexander, with money comes influence and power, and they will believe his and Arthur's word against ours.
"It was an accident. It was self-defense. My hand slipped because they were attacking us. We had no choice—it was life or death. I tripped over. I was pushed. He was coming for me."
I need Damon to be okay. He can't be dead. I refuse to believe that he's gone.
Even though I saw his eyes close, his breathing falter and skin turn a shade of pewter, there's no way he is dead.
It was supposed to be the other way around—Damon was meant to kill Alexander.
Fuck, if there's a God out there, he can take me.
I'll gladly give up my life if it means saving Damon and Avery.
Theo too. At least if he's around, Avery will be protected.
I know he'd give his life for her as well .
We had finally gained the upper hand, surprising them with our wildcard move.
Agreeing to let Damon marry Avery was the most humbling experience ever.
I wanted it to be me marrying her one day, somewhere far away from this hellhole.
I have no idea how that would have worked, or if marriage would even be on the cards with our interesting situation, but it was a reverie nonetheless.
I wanted to tie her to me in every way possible, short of infusing our bodies together like some fucked-up version of Frankenstein.
We could have played rock paper scissors to decide who gets to marry her, even if I'd be awfully tempted to chop off their hands to win by default.
Regardless, the impromptu marriage was our only chance, the loophole we needed over Alexander.
I'd do anything to keep her safe and to fuck Lilydale's financial leverage into the ground—even giving up the chance to marry her myself.
Having them all with me, that's the only thing that’s important.
We're a family now. And maybe it was our opportunity to also get out of this hellhole.
We could use Damon and Avery's positions as shareholders to fight back legally, expose Lilydale for the corrupt empire that it is.
But apparently, Alexander felt as strongly about it as we did—just the other end of the emotional spectrum.
All the lights are out, and with the sun now sitting somewhere on the other side of the building, the looming darkness that approaches does nothing to calm me.
With every second that passes, it's a second more they have to potentially hurt Avery.
It's more time to make sure Damon is well and truly dead, to wipe out the only person who is capable of freeing us from their corral.
How the fuck do I get this damn door open?!
Surely, a building would have to have some kind of emergency switch.
In the event of a power outage or fire, there would legally have to be a way for people to escape otherwise it would be a building code violation.
Even if Arthur has blacked out the whole building—electricity, access pad settings, and security measures—there has to be a back-up.
I hope Byrone is working on it. And Jillian too.
Maybe they can find a way to override their security, infiltrate the systems and turn the power back on.
Then, they just have to unlock the doors—just for a split second—like they have done so many times before.
Hopefully their devices have enough battery charge.
We're relying on too many hopes and maybes for my liking.
Byrone was there—he knows what went down.
He is as loyal as they come, so I know they are working on doing something.
Someone would have gotten a message to Jillian, or she put two and two together like the smart cookie I know she is.
Right now, they are our only hope unless something happens or changes.
There's no doubt in my mind that Arthur's IT people are fighting our advances, but we can't afford to fail here. I need to get to Avery and Damon.
A sickening crunch reaches my ears when I punch the door again, and this time, the pain does manage to catch me by pleasant surprise.
I stumble back slightly, clutching my fist. Looking down, it's easy to tell that through the blood one of my knuckles is probably broken.
I'll just switch hands. I can punch just as well with my non-dominant one—Ambidextrous overachiever of vengeance.
As I start to pound the door with my other fist, it takes me a second to realize some of the banging I'm hearing back isn't an echo of my own actions.
Pausing, I listen, eyes narrowing as the door rattles in front of me.
Someone is on the other side and whoever it is, they are kicking it equally as hard.
"Who's there?" I question with a raised voice.
There's no response, and immediately I'm back on edge. Turning around, I try to find something I can use to slam into the door. Everything is bolted down, but before I can figure out Plan B, the lights suddenly flicker on.
Low, deep humming confirms that power is now surging through the building, my heart hammering in my chest. Quickly, I rush back to the door, slamming my foot into it as whoever is on the other side does the same.
Come on, Byrone…
Seconds tick by, torturing me as our window of opportunity grows smaller and smaller. Bile threatens to rise up my throat as I wait, throwing my whole weight into the door for good measure. And to make it hurt .
Just as quickly, the lights turn off again, sending me back into growing darkness—but not before the sweet sound of a click grabs my attention.
Just in time. Good fucking job, guys.
The metal door creaks open ever so slightly, and I lunge for it, my fingers prying themselves into the tiny gap as I yank it toward me. It swings open forcefully, a body barreling into the room and colliding with me.
"Christopher?" I murmur in disbelief, glancing over him as he pants heavily, business shirt disheveled and hair a mess.
He straightens up, running a hand down his lower face in relief—which I instantly notice has no traces of blood unlike mine. Besides his hair and clothes being unkempt, he's oddly clean, not at all reflective of the bloodbath that just went down.
"We don't have much time. Come on," he says, jerking his head in a gesture for me to follow him into the corridor.
There’s no need to tell me twice. I'm out the door a second later, hot on his heels.
If they think it was a massacre before, they haven't seen anything yet.