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"Always." My answer is more a promise to myself than a reply to his taunt. I step over his writhing form, my focus shifting to Sasha, whose breaths come in ragged gasps. Every instinct screams to tend to her wounds, but there's a cold fire burning through my veins, urging me to finish what I started.
"Jaden. . . no. . ." she whispers, the effort costing her.
"Quiet, Sasha. Save your strength." I kneel beside her, my hand finding the chain and snapping it with a flex of dark power I barely recognize as my own. The metal clinks to the ground, a mournful bell tolling for the fallen.
"Let him bleed out," I hear Connor's voice behind me, steady as ever. But there's no satisfaction in those words, not when Sasha's life hangs by a thread and every second counts.
"Connor, get the med kit." I order the command with a tone born from countless battles and countless losses.
"Got it," he says, his footsteps retreating.
Sasha's body hangs limp, a marionette whose strings have been cut one brutal slice at a time. My hand recoils from the chains, slick with her blood, before I force myself to grip them again and release the metal cuffs binding her wrists. It's a tableau of horror, the kind that leaves a permanent scar on your retinas, a stain you can never scrub clean.
"Connor." I spare him a glance as he steps closer, silent as death itself. "She's in shock. Pulse weak." I strip off my jacket, wrapping it around her trembling form. The fabric soaks up the crimson that spills from her, a grotesque inkblot test challenging my sanity. I freeze as images of Savannah on my operating table dance through my head. Not again. After a beat of hesitation, I shake off the fear gripping me and get to work.
My hands are gentle yet swift as I use magic to free Sasha from the remaining restraints. She's so light in my arms, too light for someone her size. The scene feels eerily familiar, a reflection of a past I'd rather forget. The memories claw at me, desperate for attention, but I shove them down. Now is not the time.
"Stay with me, Sasha," I whisper, though I'm not sure if it's for her benefit or mine. “I’ve got you.”
There's a part of me, a shadow lurking in the recesses of my soul, that knows this is a turning point. This is where the façade cracks, where the doubts seep in. Rayne's image flickers in my mind—her warmth, her light—and for a moment, it anchors me amidst the chaos. But then the darkness surges back, stronger, reminding me that nothing good comes from letting people in.
"Medevac's inbound," Connor's voice brings me back, and I nod, my hands still pressed against Sasha's wounds, willing her to hold on. But there’s not much I can do. She needs an OR.
"Good." My voice remains strong but hollow. The doubt is there, worming its way deeper. Can I really afford these distractions? Can I let myself feel when feeling leads to this?
But even as I question it, I know. I can't shut it off—not the concern for Sasha, not the bond with Rayne. They're a part of me now, for better or worse. And as I wait for the medevac, holding onto the life bleeding out in my arms, I realize the truth. The battle isn't just out here; it's inside me, a war between desire and duty, connection and solitude.
And right now, despite everything, desire is winning.
* * *
It’s two in the morning, the world around me eerily quiet except for the distant murmurs of the city's nightlife. I stumble into the suite, my body aching, feeling several notches below my best. Sasha's now safe, under the care of the skilled team at Women's College Hospital. They'd sprung into action the moment we'd brought her in, her state more dire than I'd care to admit.
Exhausted, I slump into a chair in the private dining area, where Kat's already ordered a pitcher of my usual—Stoli Doli. It's not often I drink, but tonight, the sharp tang of pineapple-infused vodka seems like the only thing that might ease the raw edges of my soul.
Each sip is a small reprieve, but it can't stop the flood of memories from tonight and long-buried. We'd found Sasha just in time, but the physical and psychological scars will take longer to heal. Viper spouting excuses as his life bled out, was a reminder of the depravity we were up against. Viper's end was a small victory, but it's just the tip of the iceberg. There's more abuse to unearth, more to fight against.
But Sasha’s image haunts me—broken, yet resilient. I grimace, trying to shake off the image and the pain that comes with it. The hospital reassures us of her recovery, but at what cost? I down another shot, the burn of the alcohol a welcome distraction.
My thoughts uncontrollably drift to Rayne. Inexplicably, I feel she's the only one who can understand and can ease this burden. I stagger to my feet, navigating the room with a focus I can barely muster. I need to find her . . . now.
I track down Connor in his office, the man lost in his own thoughts over a glass of scotch. "Where's Rayne?" My voice is raspier and rougher than I intend.
He eyes me with a mix of concern and caution, his expression unreadable. "In your suite," he replies evenly. "Get some rest, Jaden. You're no good to anyone like this. Talk to her in the morning."
But waiting feels impossible. Every fiber of my being screams for her presence, her understanding. It's a new, unnerving sensation—this dependency, this craving for someone else's solace. I nod slowly, accepting his advice while the turmoil inside me rages on, an unending storm of guilt, pain, and an undeniable longing for Rayne.
As I lean heavily against the door frame, the world tilts a little. "I gotta see her," I mumble, my words slurring just enough to betray the alcohol's grip.
Connor exhales a weary sigh, watching me shuffle towards our suite. My feet feel like lead, each step a laborious effort. I pound on the door, heart hammering, bracing for rejection or worse, indifference.
The door swings open and there’s Rayne in a disheveled state, her hair wild, her eyes unguarded without her glasses. She peers at me, a frown creasing her forehead. The sight of her, so raw and real, cuts through the fog in my mind.
"What's happened? Where's Sasha?" Her voice is laced with worry as she surveys the hallway, then focuses back on me. The stench of alcohol must be overpowering, yet she doesn't recoil. Her eyes search mine, reading the unspoken turmoil.
"I. . . I can't," I stutter, pushing past the threshold into the familiar sanctuary of our suite.
Rayne trails after me, abandoning her glasses on the nightstand. There's a vulnerability in her gesture, an unspoken offering of trust. She stands defiant in her oversized shirt, a sight that stirs a deep, primal need within me.
