“Well?” I demand.
“Wait. That’s…” His words trail into a shocked whisper. “Oh, fuck. No… How the fuck… no. No!”
“Who’s responsible for this?”
No response but the paling of his skin, his head shaking in disbelief.
“Damn it, Rook. I need to know who did this. They took Westlyn. They bloodytookher. They’ve probably got her stashed away somewhere right now, very possibly hurt, and we’re standing around with our dicks in our hands trying to…Fuck!” I’m out of my mind with it, barely holding on as the walls seem to close in around us. I snatch the laptop from his hands, but in my haste I accidentally turn off the video. “Which of our enemiesdaredto steal her from her bed while she slept? Tell me, so I can—”
“Draegan,” he finally says, his eyes flicking up to meet mine. The horror there is just… it’s as indescribable as Jude’s silent fear. “They didn’t take her from her bed. She… she was there. She walked out of the house and straight into the library this morning.”
My world shrinks. Darkens. Dies.
The library. The pile of smoldering ash and flame. It… cannot be.
I fall to my knees, nearly dropping the laptop. Rook saves it at the last second.
“Wait,” he says. “There’s more. We need to see the rest. We need to see what happened.”
Chapter Four
WESTLYN
I don’t know how long I’m unconscious this time, but when I finally wake up, I’m still in the sacristy. I’m lying on my side, my entire body aches, and my head feels like it’s full of angry hornets… but I suppose that’s better than being completely numb and conked out, vulnerable to who knows what.
Goddess.Why am I even here? What the hell does Verrick want with me?
With great effort and a lot of huffing and puffing, I drag myself into a sitting position. It takes nearly all my energy, and my legs are still numb. Glancing around, I try to get my bearings.
That’s when I feel his gaze on me, the sound of his wheezing breath cutting through the fog in my mind.
I look up to find my father—Brian—watching me. He’s bound to one of the bishop’s chairs, roped and chained like I was. Unlike me, however, he took a serious beating. Black blood has dried on his swollen face. His shirt is stained and torn, knuckles split like he put up a fight.
“Westlyn?” he asks, his voice cracking under the strain—or maybe the guilt.
A storm of conflicting emotions erupts inside me—relief that he’s alive. Gratitude for the small comfort of a familiar face.
But mostly? Anger.
He tried to sell me off to a demon prince. No matter that Eloise is clearly his enemy now, I can’t let myself forget how this all started.
Ever.
“Why are youhere?” I grind out, grateful I can actually speak.
He flinches at my words, at the obvious hatred in my voice, and closes his eyes, hanging his head in shame or avoidance. Maybe both.
He’s silent for such a long time, I doubt he’s going to speak to me again at all. But then, finally, he says, “I’m here—we’rebothhere—because I failed.”
I nearly laugh at the feigned regret in his voice.
Am I supposed to feel sorry for him?
“Oh, you failed!” I scoff. “Right. Failed to deliver me into the hands of your demon-worshipping mage cult so they could bind my life to a prince of hell and usher in the end of the world. No wonder they’ve got you chained up. They must be so disappointed in you,Dad. Well, we’ve got that in common at least.”
Tears blur and burn, but even if I could lift my arms, I wouldn’t bother dashing them away. I welcome them. They remind meexactlywho this man is. Exactly what he did to me.
“You were supposed to protect me.” I don’t even mean to say the words out loud, but there they are. The ugliest part of this truth between us.
