Page 111 of Phantasm

Standing by her hospital bed in our secret location, the sun streaming in through the window, I stare at the fading bruises on her face. One day soon, I’m going to avenge each mark on her body.

She hasn’t woken up yet, and I’m grateful for every moment she stays asleep and lets her body heal from the ordeal she has suffered through.

Every time I think about what they did to her—nailing her to a cross, whipping and beating her pale skin before suspending her upside down from the ceiling—the putrid hatred inside me expands.

In a way, it’s good. I’ll need it to survive what’s to come. But as I stroke my finger over her bandaged hand, I wish I could go back in time and take it all away.

I should’ve killed the Bishop when I had the chance.

Why didn’t we take him out years ago? What was I waiting for? He doesn’t have a soul, never mind a heart, and he proved as much when he killed his own brother-in-law for refusing to sell his daughter.

We’re all collateral damage in this war, our hearts blackened and tarnished from the heartbreak we’ve suffered at the hands of greed for power.

“How is she doing?” Sinclair asks from the doorway.

“She’ll heal. There might be some nerve damage in her hands and feet, but she’ll survive, and that’s what matters. The same can’t be said for the Bishop and his son.”

“You know this was a warning, right?” he says, approaching the bed. “A declaration of war.”

I raise my dead glare; my wife’s bandaged hand is the only thing keeping me grounded.

“Trust me, I’ll make him regret the day he looked at my wife wrong.”

Sinclair nods, glancing at Cecilia. “You will need to keep your head in the game.”

I listen to the sound of the heartbeat monitor for a moment before I lean down and press my lips to her forehead. When I straighten, I say, “Whatever it takes to keep her safe.”

“Good. Because I have a plan.” Smiling mischievously, he holds out his hand. “Head in the game?”

A smirk curves my lips, and we do our secret handshake from youth. “Let’s kill the Bishop.”

“And burn the Exodus to the ground.”

ONE YEAR LATER

As I trace my fingers over the intricate detailing on the oil painting, my eyes catch on the pale scarring on my hand. There will come a day when I can look at my scars without a knot forming in my throat, but I’m still a long way from healing emotionally. At least we’re safe for now, living in a new house, far away from the Exodus’s clutches, while Darian and Sinclair are the head of their new society.

“Are you going to throw that?” Darian’s deep timbre downstairs has a spark of joy bubbling up inside me, but instead of spinning around and beaming like he’s the sun in my universe, I bite back my smile and hum.

“Will you be mad if I do?”

“Why don’t you try me?”

My smile slips free, and my lip escapes the confines of my teeth. I turn on my heel and step up to the banister.

Looking as handsome as the day I first met him in a shirt and dress pants, Darian stares up at me from the bottom floor with so much admiration it takes my breath away.

His dark hair is interspersed with more gray strands than a year ago, and the smile lines around his eyes are more pronounced, yet he’s more attractive than he’s ever been.

Maybe because he smiles freely now.

Yes, he has his dark moments, especially in our war against the Exodus, but he’s also happier.

“Maybe I should,” I tease, walking my fingers along the wooden banister with a flirtatious smile, and then before he can reply with a witty remark, I turn back around and lift the large painting off its hooks. It’s a lot heavier than it looks, and by the time I’m precariously balancing it on the railing, Darian is biting back an amused smile.

“You’re a lot stronger than you look for such a short woman.”

I scoff, pretending to be offended. “How dare you call me short? I’ll have you know, I’m five foot two.