Page 7 of Dark Goodbye

“Yes,” I cry out. “I knew. I fucking knew. I ran because I didn’t want to be anyone’s pawn. I didn’t want to be property. I didn’t want you!”

He stares down at me, his eyes wide with surprise. Why do I insist on putting my life in danger like this? Because you want to die. The voice flits through my head in a soft, almost comforting manner. I do. I do want to die. Maybe if I make him angry enough, it will happen.

Shaking his head, he brings the blade down against my wrist and lets it rest there for a moment. The pressure on my shoulder is immense, dragging out another strangled moan from my lips. “Lucky for you, we have a machine that will put the mark on you permanently. It’s painless, quick, and effective.”

He pauses and leans over, skimming his lips across my forehead before he continues. “Lucky for me, I don’t have access to it. I’m going to have to mark you in a different way, a more rudimentary way, shall we say. You better scream for me, little Ladria. I want to hear the anguish in your voice when I carve your dynamic into your skin. And if I’m even luckier, you’ll heal up nice and quick, forcing me to do it all over again.”

Closing my eyes, I cry out to the gods, but I know they will never hear me. They’ve abandoned me, cast me aside. Somehow, the little girl that only wanted freedom angered them to the point that they no longer wanted anything to do with me.

The first slice is white-hot. I almost don't register it amongst the other bits of pain that refuse to quit. But then it slams into me, delayed but not dulled. Deep inside, I hoped that I would feel it, that I could concentrate on my shoulder and that would be it.

I’m not so lucky.

The next cut burns as excruciating pain crawls down my arm to add to the pain in my shoulder. Wetness coats my wrist and slides down. Tears stream from my eyes as my agonized gasps and pleas pour from my lips, but my tormentor ignores every single one.

If I remember the sigil correctly, it’s a mass of triangles and a circle, a crown surrounding the cursed O. Screams claw at my throat as over and over lines are etched deep into my skin, permanently marking me, showing everyone who and what I am, what I tried so desperately to hide.

My vision starts to waver, getting hazy as he lifts the blade, setting it much lower on my wrist. Triangles down and just two circles to go. Even as that thought flits in and out, I doubt if I can actually last that long. My tormentor sets the blade back to my skin, pressing down on my useless arm to hold me still.

If only I can escape the pain. At this point, I don’t care if he rapes me, I just need the pain to stop. Davix’s face looms in my mind every time my eyes shutter closed. It’s the figment in my brain that I hold onto, anchoring me as the monster begins to curve the blade around.

CHAPTER 4

Davix

The clinic is in complete pandemonium as I walk through the doors to begin my shift. Unease unfurls in my stomach as all the nurses gather in corners, whispering amongst themselves. They should be working and not gossiping. Not wanting to walk into anything blind, I pull my respirators from my nose and slide them into my pocket.

Though I typically keep them in to ensure I’m not laid low by an unsuspecting heat, I want all my senses about me so I can properly assess and handle whatever is causing this chaos. Guardian Alphas mill about, glancing over at me every few moments, but remaining silent. They usually aren’t here unless we’re tending to a prisoner or one of their own is injured.

An acrid stench of fear permeates the waiting area, setting me on edge. My heart pounds in my chest as my gaze drifts about, looking for the emergency. Since the overthrow, we’ve been crowded with all manner of injuries. Thankfully, none of them have been life-threatening yet, but perhaps this is a sign that things are far from over… a calm before the storm.

If something is wrong enough for me to fairly choke on the stench, why are they just standing around? They should be helping the situation. However, with another glance about, I realize none of the curtains are drawn. There’s no one waiting to hear news of a family member or friend. Frown firmly etched in place, I stride over to them, stopping short when a familiar scent drifts through the air, cutting through the sour notes and lodging in my brain.

It’s a scent I never dreamed I’d ever smell again, and despite the terror gripping at my heart, my cock lengthens. But what was Ladria doing here? The last thing I knew was that she was gone. In my mind, I convinced myself that she was dead. To smell her again is both an erotic tease and my worst nightmare.

If I’m smelling her in here, then something truly is wrong. Quickening my speed, I let my nose lead me, choosing to ignore the gaggle of females that would rather talk to each other than do actual work. Turning to the left, I follow the scent deep into the bowels of the hospital where the jail cells are kept.

It’s obvious, based on the lingering smell, which one is hers, but it’s the strength, the potency that nearly knocks me over. She wasn’t in here for a day or two. It’s been far longer. Has she been under my nose this whole time and I never knew? Glancing at the floor, I note the squished, rotten food, but that doesn’t grip my heart the same way the puddle of vomit does.

Splashes of pink, not really visible to the untrained eye, mingle with the other colors. It’s not from food. That color never happens from food. From there, my eyes drift up to the wall. As my fingers graze the markings, my blood begins to boil. Standing, I catch her scent again as I head out of the cell.

There’s an acrid stench in the air, one only made by fear. My little runaway was terrified. What could she have possibly done to warrant any sort of treatment that would make her that scared? Taking the steps two at a time, I reach the medical floor once more, and head over to the nurse’s station.

In black and white, I read the words deceased, sent to the crematorium. No. No that’s not possible. The scent I’m picking up on is very much alive and scared. My breath catches in my throat as all sorts of scenarios flood my mind. Was she cremated alive? Did someone choose to kill her?

Turning back to take the hallway to the crematorium, I stop, scenting the air. There is no trace of her smell here. Mind-numbing relief crashes into me, nearly buckling knees as I stand there, staring at the billow of smoke as it rises. I’m not sure who or what they’re burning, but it can’t be her. I whirl back around, catching her scent again, and follow it.

Instead of turning into the main clinic as I expect, I follow the hallway down toward a rarely used portion of the hospital — the old surgical ward. Dread slithers down my spine like ice sliding across the skin. No one is usually down here unless there’s a massive emergency.

The tools are outdated, and the rooms look like something from a nightmare. I quicken my pace as the scent not only becomes stronger, but far more astringent. Several other scents call out to me, teasing me, but hers stands out from all of them. Whatever is happening to her is causing massive anxiety, and I can’t resist the pull to fix it and make it stop.

Alongside the cloying scent of her fear, however, is another scent that I know all too well. Malus’s musky aroma threatens to overpower Ladria’s lighter smell, and it makes my steps quicken. If she was indeed hurt, he’s the doctor I’d want by her side, the only one skilled enough, besides me, to see to a massive injury.

As I near the rooms, I glance at the monitors, needing to know where she is. Too long. All of this is taking too fucking long. Frenetic energy crackles along my nerves as my eyes dart between the various screens, my insides churning as one by one, they show empty rooms.

Except for one.

Every single monitor is lit except for the room at the furthest end of the ward. My breath nearly stops as I stare into the inky darkness. Reaching out, I graze the blackened screen of the room furthest away, anger sizzling through my core.