Page 2 of Martyr (Sterling Falls Rogues #3)

My head is killing me.

My mind keeps churning, spitting out cherished memories of Elora. And then confusing thoughts about Artemis. And then back to Elora.

Like how I tattooed her for the first time, close to the beginning of Olympus. When she became a regular fighter, and I started designing masks for Jace, Apollo, and Wolfe, we were free. We moved in together. I opened Starlight with the money from Olympus.

Dreams were happening.

But then the next moment, it’s not Elora I’m tattooing, but Artemis.

I slam my palm to my forehead and try to clear the thought.

Antonio and a guy I didn’t know came to the hospital after I screamed at Artemis to leave. I’ll never forget her expression when I asked for Elora.

Heartbroken .

Her face shouldn’t be familiar. It wasn’t familiar, not really. I only knew of her as Elora’s friend and Apollo’s twin sister.

That’s it. She was no better than a stranger.

And yet… something in her expression hurt me, too.

When Antonio and the stranger, who introduced himself as Reese Avery, asked if I wanted to go somewhere safe to heal, I somewhat readily agreed. It was better than going back to a life I didn’t know.

They failed to mention she would be here.

Isle of Paradise is both familiar and strange.

It seems to exist in its own reality. It’s a comfort to be away from Sterling Falls.

Outside of the most haunting memories. Maybe I’m imagining it, but there seems to be a cavernous void in my mind, and all the old memories—of Nyx, of happiness—bounce around.

But Artemis .

Everywhere I look, there she is.

Even when I most desperately need to be alone, she finds me.

I soak up her words about Starlight and try to imagine that I could keep existing after Elora died. I must’ve—I’m here. I’ve seen a calendar. Reese Avery showed me his phone, and the date on the screen was undeniable.

Starlight flourished in my grief.

And I…

I seem to have been through a war. I have more scars than before, including an hourglass-shaped one in the center of my chest. Bruises everywhere from the accident, although it’s hard to see with all my tattoos.

Most of them, I’m familiar with.

There are a few new ones, though.

Like the little scales of justice on my upper thigh. It looks like my work, which is crazy. I’ve tattooed myself before, of course. But it’s generally not my favorite thing to do. It’s other artists’ work that I want on my skin.

I don’t know why I picked the scales. They’re even, and each one has a flower on its plate.

Artemis grasps at my arm and pulls me from my wandering mind. Her hand on me, even through my sweatshirt, is like a branding iron.

I whirl around, and it’s not hate that rises swiftly inside me, but something closer to craving.

Which cannot happen.

Not now, not ever.

I push her. Just to get her arms off me.

But the dock is icy, and her face immediately conveys her surprise. She slips, and she hits the water before I can stop her.

Fuck .

The fabric shoes issued by the center are the fucking worst. The walk here soaked mine, just as surely as they did hers, and all it did was make it easier for her to lose her balance.

Because I fucking pushed her.

It’s freezing out—the water has to be worse.

Without waiting, I jump in after her.

Yep . Ice water surges over my head, and my muscles automatically lock up. This dock is meant for boats—it’s already deep here, a few yards from shore. I open my eyes in the dark water and force my body to move.

I angle down and kick, searching for the feel of her.

My fingers touch something soft. It slips through my grip.

Deeper still.

Finally, I feel her hair. Then her head, her neck. I grab her by the upper arms and surge for the surface. My lungs burn, my muscles scream. Everything in me needs to save her.

If she dies, Elora will never forgive me.

We breach the surface, and I hoist her into my arms. I angle her head so it’s propped on my shoulder.

Her skin is nearly blue. Instead of going for the dock and struggling to get her onto it, I swim us to shore. Drag her through the fresh snow until she’s out of it completely. I put my fingers to her throat. They’ve nearly gone numb, but her pulse taps at them.

Her heart beats.

I watch for the rise and fall of her chest, only to realize that there is none.

She’s not breathing.

I can almost hear Elora’s voice in my head saying, Mouth-to-mouth, idiot .

I pinch her nose and press my mouth to her cold lips. Another flash surfaces of kissing her so hard, my heart felt like it was going to explode.

The concussion is messing with me .

I blow into her mouth.

Once, then again.

Her body convulses, and water comes up her throat, out of her mouth. She coughs and gags, and I roll her onto her side. She expels the remaining water from her lungs.

But she’s blue .

And she doesn’t wake up.

Fuck.

I peel the wet coat off her—it’s probably the reason why she didn’t immediately surface. It’s heavy . She flops, completely unconscious, as I get her arms out. And then I lift her into my arms.

Why does she fit so perfectly?

With her head against my shoulder, her wet hair strewn across her face, I just want to scream. At myself, mainly.

I run back to the trauma center. Banging through the doors, I’m met with shocked faces. And then, an eternity later, Dr. Hawthorne appears.

She takes one look at me and Artemis, soaked to the bone, and her face goes white.

“With me,” she barks.

I follow without comment. My heart slams my ribs, and I hold her tighter. I’ve lost feeling in my fingers and toes, but I refuse to let her fall. Water streams off us. Her hair, our clothes. We leave a trail. My shoes—those blasted, stupid fucking shoes—squeak on the tile.

We get to the small medical wing, where a nurse quickly directs me where to put her. Except I can’t uncurl my fingers. I can’t seem to release her at all.

When the nurse approaches, I growl at her.

Like a wild dog. The sound just pours out of me, and I keep Artemis to my chest.

“It’s okay, Saint,” Dr. Hawthorne says.

We’ve had a few sessions.

I’ve only been here for two weeks.

I’m not ready for this.

The rapport she probably needs time to build, to get me to trust her, just isn’t there. I want to snap at her, too, but she circles around the bed so she can face me. With the nurse at her side.

“We need to get you both looked at, all right? We need to warm both of you up. The faster we can do that, the better.”

It makes sense in my head, but my body refuses to obey. Not until the nurse and Dr. Hawthorne make me. They carefully peel away my hands and tug her body from my grasp. She slides fully onto the bed, limp.

With a gasp, I stagger backward.

“Sit,” Dr. Hawthorne orders, pointing to a chair beside the bed Artemis now lies on.

I drop into it without question.

The nurse must’ve paged someone, because three others come sprinting into the medical wing. One splits off and comes to me, dragging the curtain closed between Artemis and me. With her out of my sight, it’s simultaneously more painful and easier to breathe.

“Undress,” she says.

Wordlessly, I strip down to my briefs. They’re wet, too, but there’s no way in hell I’m going to flash some strangers.

I don’t know what they’re doing to Artemis on the other side of the curtain, and it’s fucking killing me.

It isn’t until she procures new clothes—identical to the sweats and white t-shirt I shed—and turns her back that I strip the last bit of fabric from my body.

I change fast and clear my throat when I’m done.

The nurse turns back around and puts a heated blanket around my shoulders. She checks me over and eventually gives me a clean bill of health.

Guilt gnaws at me, and my gaze keeps going to the curtain separating me from her .

“Saint?”

I jerk.

Dr. Hawthorne rounds the curtain. “Can you tell me what happened?”

My throat closes. “It’s my fault. She slipped and fell in…”

I don’t blame the coat for being too fucking heavy. I don’t blame her for trying to reach me.

I blame myself.

“It’s my fault,” I repeat.

The doctor frowns. “Because…”

“I went outside without my damn coat. I went out onto the dock. She tried to bring me back in.”

She just keeps trying to reach me, even when I push her away. Over and over. When am I going to fucking learn?

“Saint?” Her voice drifts past the curtain. “Is he okay?”

A nurse answers, “He?—”

I launch out of the chair and swipe the fabric out of my way. Only her face is visible under the pile of blankets, but she’s awake and trembling like a leaf. I swallow sharply and ball my hands into fists. There’s color back in her lips, although the rest of her face is still scarily pale.

She’s normally golden.

Glowing.

How do I know that?

Her expression softens. “I’m okay.”

Her teeth are chattering.

“I didn’t ask,” I reply quickly.

She winces.

I step closer. “Don’t try to save me, Artemis. It won’t end well.”

I watch her face.

It shifts as my words sink in. But she doesn’t cower—if anything, I only provoke her.

She struggles to rise, and if I cared— I don’t care —I’d put my hand to her shoulder and keep her down.

But touching her seems dangerous, so I just clench my fists and wait until the blanket has slid down her chest.

Bare chest.

My gaze drops without my consent. First to the tattoo blooming across her collarbone, black ink reaching for the ball of her shoulder.

Scales of justice.

Wildflowers.

It’s my work. I’d recognize my design anywhere, even if I don’t remember doing it. I can almost picture standing in front of her, my hand on her hip?—

She yanks the blanket back up, but not before I also catch the glint of metal in her nipples.

“Your nipples are pierced?” I blurt out.

She rolls her eyes. “Y-y-you’re so f-fucking dumb.”

That stops me.

“You think I haven’t d-done this song and dance with you, Saint?” Her shivering, chattering only seems to be getting worse. “You think anything that comes out of your mouth this time around, you haven’t already said under worse conditions?”

What?

I’ve seen her nipples before?

I must’ve, if I tattooed her…

No, that’s a lie. I could’ve done that with her in a strapless shirt, easily. It means only one thing.

You fucked Elora’s best friend?

Self-loathing hits me like a sucker punch.

I did. Of course I did.

She swings her legs out of bed. Bare toes feel for the floor, then make contact. I sway toward her, then freeze, while she just laughs under her breath. She holds the blankets to her chest and comes right up to me. She has to tilt her head back to keep her gaze on my face.

“Don’t go thinking we aren’t inevitable, babe.” Her eyelashes flutter, and her dark-brown eyes bore into mine. “Even with all the guilt trying to crush you from the inside out.”

It’s like she can see my soul.

And I think it makes me hate her even more.