Page 6

Chapter 6

EZEKIEL

D eath.

I can feel it.

Taste it.

Like metallic earth and salt as it burns me from the inside out, clawing at my skin and stomach. My lungs fill with acid fire as my breath battles against the thief that is the sea, lapping at my freezing, unmoving body. Am I suffocating, or have I already? All I want to do is sleep, though the cold won’t release its grip on me. The lower part of my body is in the water, and the other is clinging to something solid.

I’m half alive.

Wait, am I alive?

I’m trapped here, and every attempt at moving has me falling deeper into the ocean. If this is Hell, and I have to die like this over and over again, I’m going to be pissed off. The last thing I remember was falling from the ship after Spencer, the fucking asshole, needled me in the neck with some sort of immobilizing drug that wore off the minute my body came in contact with the water. It clearly wasn’t that good if I’m still breathing, which is up for debate at this point.

Once I came up for air, I swam as far as I could away from Lady Jane, pushing my body through the roughness of the waves before fire tore through the sky’s darkness, igniting like fireworks in slow motion.

It was beautiful.

Every wretched soul blazing across the water, Charles and Spencer included. Part of me thought I was spared so that I could watch it all happen—a gift from the unknown for exterminating the true evil of this earth.

After what seemed like forever drifting and bobbing in the water, watching it all burn and sink into the dark depths of the sea, I clung to the nearest piece of floating debris, remnants of the explosion, and hung on for dear life. Apparently, it wasn’t enough because here I am.

My body shivers involuntarily, and I can hear my heartbeat slow in my ears over the waves as they crash around me. I try to open my eyes, but after a night spent immersed in salt water, my retinas burn with each blink. I can feel myself drifting, like an untethered sailboat, slipping weightless in and out of a misty haze. The roaring sounds that surround me blur into muffled white noise, and I force myself to fight back, summoning every ounce of strength that I have left, even though my heavy arms protest, begging to submit to the exhaustion I feel. I try to focus on my breathing, each shallow breath harder than the last, when something soft and gentle brushes against my arm.

I continue to slip in and out of consciousness, and each time I come to, I realize that I’m moving. The pain of my body being slowly dragged for what feels like hours against razor-sharp edges is exactly what I imagined Hell would feel like. Brutal and unforgiving—and God-fucking-damn-it —I knew I was dead.

Gentle hands grip mine, pulling me. They're smaller than mine. A woman’s? Has Lady Death come to collect what is left of my broken remains and deliver me to my maker? Or is she a Siren? I open my mouth to say something, anything, yet nothing but puffs of air escape my lips as the wind is knocked from my lungs over and over again with each hard thud against my ribs. For a moment, everything stops.

Water fills my mouth and face, but it doesn’t taste like salt. Something scrapes against my lips, a bottle, I think, encouraging my mouth to open and drink. My head is elevated slightly, angled enough to make swallowing easier. My eyes are washed free of the ocean, though I haven’t opened them yet. I can feel myself start to slip again, but the cold water splashing against my skin jolts me awake each time.

The sound of muted footsteps pattering around me fills my ears, the storm a little quieter as I try to listen, instincts from my training evading me with each wave of pain, forcing me to focus on my surroundings instead. My black wet hair hangs in my eyes, and I lift my arm to swipe the wet strands away when I’m met with resistance. Confusion floods my already groggy senses. Not because I’m still paralyzed but because I’m tied up. My brows furrow, and then I open my eyes slowly, squinting at what looks like rusted shackles and chains locked around my wrist.

What the?...

I blink them into focus, then turn my head to look at my other arm, also chained. My body screams as I force myself to sit up, my head whipping side to side to see where the hell I am, as a wave of dizziness floods me.

Don't pass out. Don't pass out.

God, I feel like I've been fucking beaten. My rib cage is on fire. My back and shoulder blades grate against a hard, solid object coated in a layer of something gross , probably fucking sea slime. I feel its stickiness seeping through my drenched button-down dress shirt. The pungent scent of damp earth, fish, and mildew clings to everything, but it isn't enough to distract me from my pounding head, splitting in two and hammering like it has its own heartbeat. I bite back the bile gathering in my throat as my ribs threaten to cut off my air supply. Every breath is sharp and short, and wherever I am, whoever has found me, has a huge fucking advantage, and I don't like that one bit.

My eyes dart around, taking everything in as much as my blurred vision will allow—a cave. Okay, I’m in a cave. I can work with that.

Hopefully.

It’s dark in here. The only way out that I can see is through the gap, the only source of light, about twenty feet in front of me. It's big enough that my body wouldn't touch the sides if I crawled through. I hear footsteps again, but before I can think better of whether or not pretending to be passed out is a good idea, vibrant aquamarine eyes pierce mine, defying the shadows, as a small, slender frame slowly creeps into view. The woman straightens, her features now half cloaked in the dark, but I don’t miss her wide-eyed gaze slowly rolling over me, taking me in. She keeps her distance, and I don’t blame her. I may be in a compromised as fuck physical state, but I’m not above looking for an advantage and running with it if it means that I’ll survive—defeated body be damned. Sickly pale skin illuminates the darkness as my eyes rake over her body.

She’s naked.

Maybe she is a siren.

Her hair drips with water, the color of pomegranate in the dim light, long enough that it covers up most of her body. I don’t think I’ve seen hair this red before. It’s mesmerizing. In another life, I could have been drawn to it. But right now, chained to a fucking cave wall, a half-drowned rat almost beaten to death, survival is the only thing on my mind. I snap out of it and avert my gaze, not wanting her to feel uncomfortable. I stare down at my shackled wrists resting in my lap. I may not be above killing, but I draw the line at perversion. The sound of crinkling plastic fills the space, and my eyes immediately flick to where it came from.

Water.

She's brought me water, two bottles to be exact, and she bends down beside me, lining them up so they're within my reach. It's dangerous for her to get this close to me. I could wrap my arms around her neck and choke her out with the chains she's shackled me to.

If I could just lift my arms .

I watch her, perplexed, as she runs out of the cave, only to return a few minutes later with two rusted metal buckets, one filled with water splashing everywhere as she carries it inside, the other empty. She sets them down on my left within arm's reach.

Oh great, she's building me a fucking bathroom.

I know how these things go. I've been in this position before. It feels like a lifetime ago, and like it was just yesterday all at the same time. And I’ve done a great job forgetting about that part of my life until now, bound to rusted chains without so much as a blanket. And with the raging storm outside, it’s fucking freezing in here. I’d be lying if I said that all that water smashing against the rocks doesn't make me feel slightly unsettled. How far away are those waves? They sound pretty damn close to me.

Perhaps I’ll drown after all.

I squint my eyes and turn in the direction of the woman. We’re swallowed in darkness now, but it’s still light enough that I can make out the outline of her petite frame. She’s just standing there, silent and unmoving . Odd. She hasn’t uttered a single word this entire time, and usually, in situations like these, when someone holds you against your will, they’d have said enough for me to at least figure out their motives by now. On the other hand, silence is the most powerful weapon you can wield, especially in my world, and given her small stature, she will need to rely on every trick in the book to gain any sort of an edge on a man like me.

Tilting my head, I strain to listen for others because surely she’s not here alone. It’s pointless. I can’t hear a damn thing, no thanks to the chaos on the other side of this cave. Am I half delirious? Yes. But I’m going to have to push all that aside because I need to hurry this along. I can’t stay locked in a fucking cave. I just can’t.

I open my mouth to speak, but my words vanish when she closes the distance between us. I stiffen. The lack of lighting is a problem, so I focus on my other senses as much as my circumstances allow. I didn’t notice any weapons on her earlier when I checked her over, but in my condition, with my body broken like this, all it would take is for her to breathe near my ribs, and I’d be putty in her hands. Hers for the taking.

Prepare yourself for anything, Ezekiel.

I compartmentalize my pain, shoving it inside a little room in a corner of my mind and ignoring it. I straighten. My fists clench on instinct as her shadow hovers at my side.

I say nothing.

Two can play that game.

I jump when a slight tug on my shirt pulls at my wounds, and it takes everything I have to keep that room in my mind locked down tight. Her fingertips lightly brush the bare skin of my torso, and I realize she’s waiting for permission to remove my shirt. I don’t like how close she is, not while I’m borderline defenseless. I’m surprised that she seems non-hostile, considering she dragged me through what felt like the depths of Hell and chained me to a fucking wall. I’m guessing she did more for her own protection than anything else if her demeanor is anything to go on. Still, I don't fucking trust her.

When I don’t respond to her touches, she taps my arm again, like a child silently asking an adult for ice cream. Against my better judgment, I relax my posture. Maybe a softer approach will get her talking. I can’t envision many others visiting here, wherever here is, so she probably isn't used to having guests. She must notice my tension shift because she moves from my side and crouches before me. She lifts my shirt, and my vision blurs in an instant, my breath shaky behind my teeth, now clenched, as the fabric pulls hard against my wounds. She immediately removes her hands, dropping my shirt.

Is she trying to help me or hurt me ?

A moment passes, and I decide to throw her a bone. If not for anything, then to save myself the fucking trouble of blacking out from whatever pain that may be coming for me tonight. I’m exhausted and haven’t even begun to process The Royal, let alone being stranded in a cave somewhere.

“It has buttons. My shirt. It has buttons,” I say, my voice hoarse.

Each strained word is an effort to breathe out as the skin that covers my ribs throbs in agony. A searing burn sweeps across my entire body, and I fight to keep my reactions stifled, though I am fully aware of the shit job that I’m doing.

A whimper falls from my lips, and fuck if it isn’t embarrassing. Pain is a weakness that I can’t afford right now, and I can’t say I’m a fan of feeling vulnerable, especially in the hands of someone else. I’m exposed for the first time in a long, long time and I blame it all on these stupid chains.

She moves in even closer, hovering in front of my face, parts of her features mere shadows. I stare into her eyes and hold her gaze, not looking away from them as I remember that she’s naked. I’m a jackass. I dared to feel exposed when she hasn’t got a single stitch of clothing on. Although, I’ve got to say she seems pretty unbothered by it.

At a pace slower than a fucking tortoise, I raise my hands to undo the buttons myself, the chains rattling with each movement, and I fight back vomit with each rattle. I make it as far as the third button before she gently swats my hands away and takes over. She fumbles a little, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d say she’s never undone a button before.

Strange.

Once she reaches the last button, she removes half of my shirt, and, with a featherlight touch, dances her fingertips across my chest. I assume, by the way she touches me, pressing at my skin, that there’s blood. Of course there’s fucking blood. She dragged me by the hands over cliff-rocks that might as well have been butcher knives. I’ve had my ribs broken about a dozen or so times before, and each time, I swear the pain gets worse. I wince as she scrapes my skin, biting down on my tongue to stop myself from crying out, and a slight gasp from her lips tells me that my broken ribs are the least of my problems.

Don’t I know it.

She starts tending to my wounds and my eyes start to blur from the exhaustion and pain as it overwhelms my cold, trembling body. My tongue is still caught between my teeth to prevent me from screaming, but it’s the blood filling my mouth and trickling down the sides of my face that stops me. I try to focus on something else—a distraction. The slither of dim light seeping through the entrance before me, the silvery hues that blend with the surrounding shadows, the redhead, a siren in the dark, my captor, until everything fades to black.