Текст книги "Daggermouth"

Автор книги: H. M. Wolfe

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Текущая страница: 30 (всего у книги 33 страниц)

This was what remained of Shadera Kael, the Daggermouth. This broken thing on the bathroom floor.

She pushed herself toward the bath, reaching up to turn the faucets with hands that shook violently. Water thundered into the tub, steam rising to fog the mirrors, to blur her reflection into something less monstrous. The sound would mask her tears, her weakness, would hide from Greyson the final dissolution of whatever strength he might have thought she possessed.

Tears came then, hot and stinging as they tracked down her battered face, mixing with fresh blood where they found cuts not yet closed. Her shoulders shook with silent sobs that sent waves of agony through her chest, but she couldn’t stop them now. Everything she’d held in during the beatings, during the endless hours in that cell—it all poured out of her in a flood she had no power to contain.

The water continued to rain down, its roar almost loud enough to drown out the sound of her own shuddering breaths. Almost, but not quite. She needed to get in, to wash away the blood and filth, to feel clean again, if only for a moment. But the thought of removing her clothes, of seeing the full extent of what they’d done to her body, made her stomach heave.

Still, she had to try. Had to at least attempt this tiny reclamation of dignity before they forced her onto that platform to play her part in Maximus’s twisted ceremony.

Her hands found the counter’s ledge, using every last ounce of her strength to pull herself upward.

She gripped the hem of her torn shirt, steeling herself for what was to come. Then, with a quick breath that sent knives between her ribs, she tried to lift it over her head.

The pain was immediate and overwhelming. White-hot agony ripped through her torso as her arms raised, pulling at muscles that had been pulverized, at skin that had been split open and should’ve been stitched back together. A scream tore from her throat before she could stop it, primal and raw, echoing off the tiled walls.

Her vision tunneled, darkness rushing in as her legs gave way beneath her. She was falling, dimly aware that her body was about to hit the unforgiving bathroom floor, that the impact would be one agony too many. But the blow never came.

Arms caught her, breaking her fall, cradling her against a solid chest. She felt herself being lowered gently to the floor, heard her name being called from what seemed like a great distance.

“Shadera. Shadera, look at me.”

Greyson’s voice, urgent and tight with an emotion that didn’t sound like disgust, that didn’t sound like hate. His hand cupped her face, thumb brushing across her injured cheek with impossible gentleness.

The contact broke something in her—some final wall that had been holding back the tide of her grief and shame and despair. A sob ripped from her chest, then another, until she was crying openly, ugly sounds tearing from her throat as she curled into herself.

“I’m sorry,” she gasped between sobs, the words falling from her lips in a desperate litany. “I’m so sorry. For everything. For Brooker. For not knowing. You were right. I am a murderer. I am a monster.”

Her good eye sought his face through the blur of tears, searching for some hint of forgiveness, of understanding, but it refused to focus.

His arms tightened around her, drawing her closer, one hand cradling the back of her head. He held her as she cried, her tears soaking into his shirt, her body shaking against his. He made no attempt to shush her or stem the flow of her grief. He simply held her, solid and present, an anchor in the storm of her despair.

She didn’t know how long they stayed that way—her broken and weeping, him silent and steadfast. Time seemed to lose meaning, stretching and contracting with each shuddering breath. The bathwater continued to run, filling the tub to its brim before the automatic overflow kicked in, maintaining the water level with a gentle gurgling sound.

Eventually, her sobs quieted, exhaustion claiming what remained of her strength. She sagged against him, drained and empty.

Still, Greyson said nothing. The silence between them had changed, though—no longer charged with anger and betrayal, but something almost like acceptance.

Finally, he shifted, his arms adjusting their hold on her but not letting go.

“I’m going to help you,” he said, his voice low and rough, as if the words were being dragged from somewhere deep inside him. “Let me help you into the bath. Let me help you get out of these clothes.”

It wasn’t forgiveness—not yet. It was a man showing that he still had a heart, that despite his own pain the good man she’d come to know still remained.

Greyson’s hands trembled as he reached for the scissors in the bathroom cabinet. Not from weakness—though his body still ached from captivity—but from the storm of emotions that raged beneath his skin.

Anger at his father, at the men who had done this to her. Guilt that twisted like a knife in his gut for how he’d treated her, for the words he’d spoken in cold fury. And something else, something that terrified him more than either of these—a desperate tenderness that threatened to shatter what remained of his carefully constructed walls.

She sat with her back facing him, small and broken, a shadow of the woman he’d first encountered, and every instinct in his body screamed to protect her, to heal her, to never let her be hurt again.

He sunk back to his knees, scissors in hand, her ruined clothes stuck to her body with dried blood and sweat. Her breathing was shallow, carefully controlled to minimize the pain.

“I’m going to cut these off,” he said, his voice gentler than he’d intended. “It’ll hurt less than trying to lift them over your head.”

She nodded once, a small, tight movement that revealed how much pain even that simple action caused her. Greyson swallowed hard, pushing down the rage that threatened to consume him at the sight of her suffering. Rage wouldn’t help her now. She needed steady hands, calm words, careful touch.

He began with her shirt, slipping the blade of the scissors under the hem and cutting upward in a slow, deliberate motion. The fabric parted easily, revealing inches of skin mottled with bruises—some fresh, some already beginning to heal. Blood pooled underneath her skin that threatened internal bleeding coming from somewhere in her abdomen. But it was what he saw beneath the injuries that forced the oxygen from his lungs.

Scars. Dozens of them. Old and silvered with time, crisscrossing her body in a chaotic pattern that spoke of years of violence. A knife wound just below her ribs, puckered and raised. A burn that covered her left side, the skin mottled and uneven. Bullet wounds. So many bullet wounds.

Her body was a battlefield, a record of survival written in scar tissue and damaged flesh.

Greyson’s fingers stilled on the scissors, his throat tightening. These were the evidence of a life lived in brutality, of pain endured and overcome time and again. How had he never noticed? How had he been so blind to the story her body told?

He’d seen some of the scars before, in that black, backless dress, but somehow, it hadn’t fully registered. Somehow this close, with nothing to cover her, he was forced to truly understand the violence that her body had seen.

He wanted to run his fingers across their ridges, let his lips trace the outlines of the tattoos inked between them.

“It’s nothing you haven’t seen before,” she murmured, her voice barely audible over the running water.

She was wrong. She was so fucking wrong.

He had never seen anything so heartbreaking, so beautiful and horrifying at once.

He continued cutting, removing her shirt piece by careful piece to avoid disturbing her injuries. The fabric had adhered to some of her wounds, and he had to wet it with a washcloth to prevent reopening them as he worked. She remained still throughout, only the occasional sharp intake of breath betraying the agony each movement caused her.

When her torso was completely bare, Greyson had to clench his jaw to keep from cursing aloud. The unnatural depression on her left side confirmed what he’d suspected—at least two breaks, possibly more. Precise injury, designed to cause maximum pain without endangering vital organs. His father’s men knew exactly what they were doing. How to hurt without killing. How to break without destroying.

He moved to her pants next, cutting from ankle to waist in two long lines that allowed the fabric to fall away without her having to stand. More bruises revealed themselves, more tattoos, more scars—a particularly vicious one that ran the length of her thigh, another that curved around her knee. The story of her life continuing down her legs, a narrative of pain and survival that made his own scars feel insignificant in comparison.

When he’d finished, she sat before him naked and shivering. Despite her injuries, despite the vulnerability of her position, she met his eyes and held his gaze with a dignity that made his chest ache. This was Shadera—the real Shadera, stripped of masks and defenses, of bravado and pride. This was the woman who’d survived horrors he could only imagine, who’d been shaped by pain as he’d been, forged in the same cruel fire that had tempered his own soul.

They were mirror images, he realized. Both weapons crafted by others’ hands, both scarred by the roles they’d been forced to play. Both longing for something they could barely name—freedom, perhaps. Redemption. A chance to be more than what violence had made them.

“The water’s getting cold,” he said, the words inadequate against the magnitude of what he felt.

Shadera nodded, still watching him with that single, wary eye. She tried to stand, her legs trembling with the effort, and Greyson moved without hesitating, sliding one arm beneath her knees, the other supporting her back, lifting her with a care he hadn’t known he possessed.

Her body felt fragile against his chest despite the strength he knew it contained. He could feel her heartbeat, rapid and shallow, her skin cool beneath his touch. He lowered her gently into the water, supporting her head as she hissed at the initial contact with her injuries. Steam rose around them, fogging the mirrors, creating a world that existed only in this moment, separate from the horrors that awaited beyond the bathroom door.

For a few precious minutes, there was no Vow ceremony, no Heart, no Boundary. Just two broken people finding a moment of peace in the midst of chaos.

“Is it too hot?” he asked, hands still wrapped around her as if he were scared to let her go.

She shook her head slightly, eyes closing as the warmth began to ease some of the tension from her battered body. “It’s perfect,” she whispered.

Greyson remained kneeling beside the tub, watching as the water turned pink with diluted blood, as her face softened slightly with the first real relief she’d experienced in days. Something twisted in his chest at the sight—something that felt dangerously close to forgiveness.

His brother’s ghost seemed to hover in the steam filled room, a presence impossible to ignore. Shadera had killed him—unknowingly, yes, but the fact remained. His blood was on her hands. Greyson should hate her for that. Should want nothing to do with her. Should walk away and leave her to face whatever fate awaited them both.

But he couldn’t. The hate that had burned so fiercely in his cell had cooled, transformed into something more complex, more painful. He looked at her now and saw not his brother’s killer, but a woman who had been used just as he had been. A pawn in his father’s game, manipulated into becoming the instrument of Brooker’s death without ever knowing the truth.

Could he forgive that? He didn’t know. The wound was still too raw, the loss too profound. But he knew he couldn’t continue to blame her for it.

“I should go,” he said finally, reluctantly withdrawing his hand from where it clung to her body. “Give you some privacy.”

Her eye opened, finding his face with an intensity that made his breath catch. For a moment, he thought she might ask him to stay. Part of him hoped she would. But she simply nodded, another of those small, careful movements designed to minimize pain, emotional now. Not physical.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice steadier than before. “For helping me.”

Greyson stood, his muscles protesting after so long in one position. He moved toward the door, each step taking him farther from her. At the threshold, he paused, his hand on the doorknob, his back to her. He couldn’t bring himself to turn around, to look at her again. If he did, he might not find the strength to leave.

“They are going to die today, the Veyra that touched you,” he breathed. “And then I am going to kill my father.”

Chapter thirty-six11 AM

Callum’s office had transformed into a war room. Maps covered the polished surface of his desk, marked with entry points, security rotations, and escape routes. Weapons were arranged neatly on a side table—sleek, expensive models that would never be traced back to him if things went wrong. Three different communication devices sat before him, each connecting to a different line of communication. One for the Veyra comms, one for his men, one for the rebellion.

He took a deep breath, steadying himself. His heart thundered against his ribs, but his hands remained perfectly still. Years of practice, of negotiating with the most dangerous people in New Found Haven, had taught him to conceal his fear beneath a veneer of calm.

His eyes flicked to the screen, showing the plaza where the Vow ceremony would take place. Veyra officers patrolled in regular intervals, their masks gleaming in the morning sun. Somewhere among them, blending perfectly, were Jaeger’s mercenaries—Daggermouths disguised as security, as staff, as innocent bystanders. The perfect predators, hidden in plain sight.

They were so close to ending this. So close he could taste it. He lifted his tablet to his ear and listened for one ring until Jaeger’s voice cut through.

“Status report,” Jaeger said without any pleasantries.

“Surveillance is clear,” Callum confirmed, typing a command into his keyboard that would begin the loop he’d programmed into the Heart’s security system. “The cameras are blind to the Plaza now. Get your snipers in position.”

“Understood,” Jaeger replied, not waiting for a response as the line went quiet.

Callum swallowed, imagining the scene playing out in the plaza. Jaeger’s people would be drawing their weapons now, securing positions, preparing for the moment when Greyson and Shadera would be brought out for the ceremony. No one watching would notice anything amiss—not until it was too late.

He set his tablet down, reaching for the Veyra transmitter. He took a deep breath, clearing his throat before pressing down on the button.

“Central Command to Plaza Unit, confirm status of the Executioner.” Callum modulated his voice, adopting the flat, emotionless tone of a Veyra officer.

There was a pause, longer than there should have been.

Callum’s fingers tightened around the transmitter. Had he made a mistake? Used the wrong code phrase?

Then Mikel’s voice came through, perfectly composed. “Executioner secure. Moving to plaza in forty-five minutes with subject.”

Subject.

Shadera. A woman reduced to a word.

Guilt twisted his gut. He’d manipulated Greyson with the unshared knowledge of Brooker’s survival. Had pulled his best friend’s strings to convince him to get close to her. He knew at some point they’d need her on their side, and used Greyson as a pawn.

Some days he truly felt as if he was no better than the rest of the garbage in this city.

“Confirmed,” Callum replied. “Maintain escort protocol.”

He ended the transmission, exhaling slowly. Mikel was the linchpin—the inside man with direct access to both prisoners. If he turned on them, if he had been compromised . . .

No. He couldn’t think that way. Trust was a commodity in short supply, but they had no choice but to extend it now. Mikel had proven himself loyal to the cause, had risked everything to protect his son.

His son.

The truth still stunned Callum, though he’d had days to process it. He knew most secrets kept in this city, but this one—this one he was not prepared for. Greyson Serel, son of Mikel. Not Maximus.

He checked his watch. Thirty minutes until the first phase needed to be complete. His throat felt dry, constricted. He reached for the glass of water on his desk, careful not to disturb the maps as he took a drink.

His fingers swiped over his tablet, punching in the numbers for this third status report.

“Ghost, what’s your position?”

Jameson’s voice came through immediately, thrumming with anticipation. “In position at entry point. Teams ready for ascent.”

Callum pulled up a different screen, this one showing the old maintenance shaft that led directly from Cardinal to the Heart. To the basement of his club. The access point should have been sealed years ago, but Callum had bribed the right officials, falsified the right reports. On paper, it didn’t exist anymore.

“Shaft is secured,” Callum confirmed, checking the feed one last time. “You’re clear to begin your ascent. Remember, when you arrive at the basement, do not leave it under any circumstances until you receive the signal.”

“Copy that.” A pause, then Jameson added, “Any word on Shade?”

The concern in his voice was unmistakable.

“She’s alive,” he said. “Moving to the plaza with Greyson. Mikel is with them.”

A tense silence followed before he answered. “Understood.”

Callum pulled the tablet from his ear. He knew what Jameson was thinking—that Mikel better have protected her, that someone would pay if she’d been harmed. The love Jameson had for Shadera was as obvious as it was hopeless. Some part of Callum pitied him for it.

Three calls down.

His fingers hesitated to dial the number. This was different. They had barely spoken since the meeting, outside of required conversation about the rebellion they hadn’t truly spoken.

He scratched at his brow, an uncomfortable feeling settling into his chest, then dialed her number.

She answered on the first ring, her voice clear and focused. “Yes?”

Just hearing her steadied something in him. Lira had always been his constant, his North Star. Five years of watching her from a distance, of loving her in silence, had taught him to recognize every nuance in her voice. She was afraid, but resolute. Ready.

“Are the drones in position?” he asked, focusing on the mission first.

“Yes,” she replied. “All media feeds are secure and ready. The primary broadcast will begin in thirty minutes, and the secondary feeds showing people arriving are already live.”

Callum nodded. The media was her domain—the official channels through which the Heart disseminated its propaganda, now reprogrammed to serve the rebellion instead. When the time came, they would broadcast the truth and no one would be able to look away.

“And Brooker?”

“He and his Veyra are at the base, they are working to secure the bombs.”

“Good,” he said. “That’s . . . good.”

A silence stretched between them, filled with all the things they hadn’t said, all the fears they hadn’t voiced. Lira would be the most exposed of all of them when this began. She would be standing beside her father on that platform, playing her role as the dutiful daughter one last time while the rebellion erupted around her.

“Callum?” Her voice was softer now, private.

“I’m still here.” He closed his eyes, picturing her face. “Lira, I—”

The words caught in his throat. Five years of hiding how he felt, and now, when it mattered most, he found himself hesitating again.

No. Not this time.

“I love you,” he said, the words rushing out like water breaking through a dam. “Please be safe today. Please come back to me.”

She hesitated for a breath.

“I love you too, Callie.” A pause, then, stronger, “I’ll see you tonight, when this is over.”

She ended the call before he could respond. Callum stared at the tablet in his hand, a strange mix of elation and dread coiling in his stomach.

He hadn’t lost her. They might die today.

Both truths existed simultaneously.

He set the tablet down and leaned back in his chair, surveying the screens again. Everything was proceeding exactly as planned. The rebels were in position. The surveillance was compromised. The weapons were distributed. The prisoners were being moved. The broadcasts were ready.

It was going too smoothly.