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Chapter Twenty-Five

Joy

I sat in Zoe’s room, exhausted and sunburned, but all that mattered was Zoe. She suffered so much more than I did.

I patted her face gently, my fingers trembling as they traced the devastation the box had wrought. Where her body had pressed against the scorching metal, angry red welts formed intricate patterns across her arms and back.

Zoe’s lips were split and cracked from dehydration, and dried blood crusted at the corners of her mouth.

Even unconscious, her face was contorted in lingering pain, her body still remembering the sizzling heat of metal against flesh.

Her fingertips were raw and bloody, nails broken and torn from her desperate attempts to escape.

I could almost hear the torment she must have endured—the claustrophobic panic, the suffocating lack of air, the relentless burning as Louisiana’s merciless sun turned her prison into an oven.

“I’m so sorry I couldn’t control my shadows better,” I whispered as a lump formed in my throat, wishing I could heal her. The contrast between my simple sunburn and her torture was staggering, filling me with both gratitude and guilt.

Zoe opened her eyes then licked her split lips, wincing as her tongue caught on the raw, broken skin. Her eyes—normally vibrant with life—were clouded with pain as she clasped my hand with her shaking ones. Her fingers felt like brittle twigs against my skin, terrifyingly fragile.

“It’s not your fault,” she whispered, her voice a haunted echo of its usual melody. The words seemed to scrape against her throat as she forced them out, each syllable a testament to her suffering.

I blinked back tears that burned like acid, my chest constricting so tightly I could barely breathe. Powerlessness crushed down on me, draining away my hope.

“I’m so tired of them making me do these things.” The admission tore from somewhere deep inside me, raw and bleeding. My shoulders hunched forward as though trying to protect what little remained of my breaking heart. “Next time someone might die. I have to get us out of here.”

My hands trembled as I clung to hers, searching for an answer in this storm of helplessness.

“I saw something before they...” Her scorched voice faltered, the memory visibly washing over her like a toxic wave.

A shudder ran through her body, making the bed creak beneath her.

She twisted her head on the pillow, her movements jerky with fear, and looked at the door as if she was afraid someone was listening.

The terror in her eyes was primal, visceral—the look of someone who had stared into an abyss and seen something staring back.

"I have to tell you something," she whispered, so softly I had to lean closer, close enough to smell the sharp scent of overheated skin and dried tears still clinging to her hair. Her pupils dilated with a fear that seemed to drain what little color remained in her face.

Cold dread pooled in my stomach as I read the urgency in her ravaged features. “What?”

More sweat broke out across her forehead. I picked up the cloth and gently patted her slick skin. “Before they put me in the box, I saw…something. I still can’t believe it.”

“Tell me. What did you see?” I leaned closer. My hands tightened around hers without thinking, causing her to wince. A flash of guilt shot through me, but I couldn’t release her—the connection between us felt like the only solid thing in this nightmare.

Zoe’s eyes darted nervously around the room before settling back on mine.

Her cracked lips parted, trembling slightly as she struggled to form the words.

“Henry...” she began, her voice barely audible, “he had black wings.” She swallowed hard, the movement visibly painful against her raw throat. “Then they were gone.”

The confession hung in the air between us, absurd and chilling all at once. My brow furrowed as I tried to process what she was saying, a cold knot of doubt forming in my stomach. The desperation in her eyes made my heart ache, but the words themselves...

“Zoe,” I said gently, pulling back slightly as I studied her face. My thumb traced circles on the back of her hand, a nervous habit from childhood. “Did they drug you before they put you in the box?”

The question landed like ice water on her raw wounds.

Hurt flashed across her blistered features, quickly followed by indignation.

Her fingers stiffened in my grasp, and for a moment, I saw a glimpse of her old fire breaking through the haze of pain.

She tried to pull her hand away, the movement sending a visible wave of agony through her burned body.

“No, they didn’t.” Tears welled in her bloodshot eyes, catching the dim light as they threatened to spill down her blistered cheeks.

“You have to believe me.” Her fingers clutched at my sleeve, trembling with a frantic urgency that belied her weakened state.

“He’s not...” she swallowed painfully, her throat working with visible effort, “...he’s not human. ”

The conviction in her voice sent a chill down my spine despite my doubts. I wanted to believe her—needed to trust that her mind was intact—but fear and logic waged war within me. My gaze dropped to our intertwined hands, unable to bear the naked plea in her eyes.

“Zoe,” I said softly, trying to keep my tone neutral even as concern tightened my chest. “Maximo’s men were human. The other supernaturals—wolves, Unseelie or vampires—none of them have black wings.”

She shook her head with sudden vehemence, wincing as the movement aggravated her burns.

A tear finally escaped, cutting a clean path through the grime on her face.

“I know, but...” her voice dropped to a whisper so intense it seemed to vibrate in the space between us, “I swear I’m not making this up.

” The last words caught in her throat, strangled by emotion and the lingering effects of dehydration.

The desperate sincerity in her eyes made my heart hurt. I wanted to comfort her, to promise that everything would be alright, but the words died on my lips. Instead, another thought flickered to life, a possible explanation that didn’t require questioning her sanity.

“Did Marsha possibly cast a spell?” My fingers drummed nervously against my thigh as I waited for her answer, clinging to this potential lifeline of logic.

She rubbed her forehead with a trembling hand, leaving behind smudges where her fingertips pressed too hard against her tender skin.

Her eyes unfocused slightly, turning inward as she sifted through the traumatic memories.

“She was there...” she admitted slowly, each word carefully considered, “...but I didn’t hear anything. ”

This was adding another mystery to what Marsha and Maximo were doing, but my mind reeled as I tried to process the implications.

A cold dread crept up my spine like icy fingers, settling at the base of my skull.

Why would they need to have their men display black wings?

The question pulsed in my head with each frantic heartbeat, a rhythm of confusion and growing fear.

Maybe Zoe was hallucinating. But what if she did see something?

I ran my fingers through my hair, tugging at the roots in frustration.

The shadows in the corners of the room rippled in response to my agitation, stretching and contracting like living things.

I forced myself to take a deep breath, willing the darkness to settle before Zoe noticed. I didn’t want to frighten her.

Did Henry having wings have anything to do with my shadows?

The thought struck me with the force of a thunderbolt, sending a jolt of adrenaline through my system.

My breath caught painfully in my throat as pieces of a terrifying puzzle threatened to align in my mind.

The darkness that I commanded, that answered to my will—could Marsha and Maximo be attempting to harness something similar with Henry?