Page 14 of The Survivors (The Children of the Sun God #4)

Ioannis

“Why? Why, Helios, Why?”

The joy I thought Ciara’s suffering would bring me never came.

“In the morgue,” Ciara gasps with her final breath, her voice a dagger that slices through me. Her head falls forward, her life extinguished, leaving me in a deafening silence.

I stare at her lifeless form. The words “In the morgue” pounding in my mind—each syllable striking like a thunderclap.

I whip around to Phylis. My hands grasp her shoulders with force, and she winces. “Tell me she lies!” Deep down, I already know the answer.

Phylis’ lips quiver, and her gaze drops, unable to meet mine. “She felt it,” she murmurs, her tone hollow like a funeral bell. “That witch… she died of a broken heart. Not from anything we did here.”

“No! ”

The denial tears from my throat, a scream that shakes the very foundations of the labyrinth. The walls tremble, and stones crack under the force of my rage and grief. Dust and debris rain down. I don’t care if the entire cavern collapses and buries me alive. A death like that would be a mercy for someone like me—someone whose mate rejected him.

Ambrose steps forward. “We’ll find her and bury her,” he says, offering a lifeline in my storm of despair.

“I’ll not rest until we do,” I vow, my voice low but brimming with unrelenting determination.

The promise becomes my purpose.

The days that follow blur into weeks, the weeks into months. Grief fuels me. A fire that never wanes. I scour every morgue, every city, every lead, hunting for her. For Persephone.

The search consumes me. Every Jane Doe I examine twists the knife in my heart a little deeper. The lifeless eyes, the cold flesh, the nameless death—it’s a parade of horrors, each one a potential end to the torment of not knowing, and yet I dread the moment it will end.

Every morning, I wake to the same gnawing emptiness, the knowledge that I failed her. That I couldn’t hold onto her. I tell myself that finding her will bring closure, but the truth is, I fear it will only confirm the depth of my failure.

When I finally find her, I’m not ready.

None of it prepared me—not the months of grieving, not the countless nights spent awake, reliving every moment with her, every word, every touch. None of it could have braced me for the sight of her.

Her lifeless yet beautiful body lies on a cold steel table under harsh fluorescent lights. A tag marked Jane Doe dangles from her toe . The name cuts me to the core. She had a name! A soul! A life!

I stagger forward with knees threatening to buckle. My hands shake as I pull the sheet back, revealing her face. She never saw herself as beautiful. She let those lies eat at her confidence. If only I could have shown her what I saw when I looked at her.

Her hair, once vibrant and alive, now lies limp and dull against the stark white of the morgue slab. Her lips are pale, devoid of the warmth that used to light up her smile. But her features are unmistakable.

It’s her.

“Persephone…” Her name escapes my lips as a broken whisper, a plea to the heavens that I know will go unanswered.

My legs give out, and I fall to my knees beside her, clutching the edge of the table as though it’s the only thing anchoring me to this world. The tears come, hot and unrelenting, carving tracks down my face.

I reach out, and with trembling fingers, brush a strand of hair from her face. Her skin is cold beneath my touch. The finality of her death sinks into my chest like an anvil.

“I’m sorry,” I choke out, my voice breaking. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve loved you better. You wouldn’t be here if I had been enough.”

The reality of her death suffocates me. She was my mate, my other half, the light that made life worth living. And now she’s gone, taken by a car.

Ambrose steps into the room, his expression grim. He places a hand on my shoulder, his grip firm but gentle. “We’ll honor her,” he says softly. “We’ll make sure she’s never forgotten.”

But his words feel hollow.

How can I honor her when I failed her? How can I keep her memory alive when the thought of her shatters me into pieces?

I lean down, pressing my forehead to hers, ignoring the coldness of her skin. For a moment, it feels like she’s still here, like I can feel the faint hint of her spirit lingering in the room.

Nothing will ever bring her back. Nothing will ever fill the void she’s left behind.

All I can do now is carry her memory with me, no matter how much it hurts.