Page 46 of Wreck and Ruin

Panic and sheer desperation fuels me, and I advance on one of the bodies that lay on the floor at my feet. I start ripping off pieces of material from his deservingly slaughtered corpse, then run to the stoup and frantically wash as much blood from my hands as possible. I return to Airlie’s side, and my breathing stops as I struggle to pull the nails one by one from her hands. She cries out, her eyes opening wide before they turn on me.

“It’s okay, baby, shh… It’s me. It’s me. I’m so sorry. You’ll be okay. Try not to move,” I soothe, but I have never felt more terrified of anything in my entire life than I do seeing her like this.

“My stranger,” she sobs, half delirious, and the smile on my face is nothing more than a mask.

“That’s right, baby girl. It’s me. You’re okay. We’re gonna be okay, you and me,” I choke, my marred fingers struggling to pull the nails from deep within her flesh.

I don’t ever want to hear her cry like this again. I vow to kill anyone who causes a single fucking tear of sadness to fall from her eyes once we’re out of here.

Her body slackens, a wave of exhaustion hitting her as she cries quietly. I remove the last of the nails in her palms and wrap them tightly to stem the bleeding. There are no signs of bruising other than the damage caused to her hands and feet, but the blood that coats her inner thighs gives me pause. Those sick fucking bastards better not have hurt her.

I lean over, pressing my lips to her delicate skin—first, her eyes, then her nose before placing them gently on her lips. My bloodied hands hold either side of her face, but I don't care.

I need to touch her,feelthat she's okay.

“You're mine, Little Siren,” I whisper against her lips.

She looks up into my eyes, a roller coaster of emotions playing behind them. “Until death,” she replies, and I know I've rubbed off on her.

“And in every life that follows, baby,” I whisper, her eyes crinkling at the corners, and then I place a final kiss on her cheek before tending to the wounds on her feet. “This is gonna hurt, Airlie,” I warn, not liking that I have to put her through this.

“I'm used to pain,” she says, her voice weak from the blood loss and tears still staining her cheeks.

I hate that she's used to any sort of harm at all.

Chapter24

EZEKIEL

One by one, I dislodge the long, rusted nails that skewer her feet.

Her agonizing cries make me want to slaughter the corrupt bastards who did this to her all over again. Once I remove the nails, I reach for the remaining ripped fabric and wrap her wounded feet. Blood seeps through the material and onto my crimson-stained hands, and I retrieve more cloth from one of the bodies, hoping that some extra pressure will be enough to stop the bleeding.Somethingis better than nothing, so this will have to do for now, at least until I figure out how to get help to Atlantara.

A deep voice reverberates over the silence, and Airlie’s body stiffens in response. “It’s about time, boy,” a man calls out, and I turn in the direction of the voice to see a tall figure standing at the head of the altar, wearing a similar costume to the others, only this guy has a white clerical collar beneath his cape.

I narrow my gaze, sensing Airlie’s panic a breath away, but she has no reason to be afraid. Not with me at her side.

The priest.

Finally, I can put a face to the monster.

“I’m glad you could fucking join us. I was hoping to save your death till last,” I say, promising, a tight smile forming on my lips, but there is only contempt beneath it.

I’m going to enjoy tearing him limb from fucking limb.

Grimsby steps out from the shadows and into the muted candlelight. “I think we needn’t exchange pleasantries. I’ve known about your existence for long enough, and I must say, I feel like I already know you,” he says, his deep voice aged, his tone matching my disdain. His presence does nothing more than rekindle the outrage I felt earlier.

Of course, The Royal let the cat out of the bag. For such a secretive society, they didn’t waste any time telling every Tom, Dick, and Harry about me.

“I was wondering how long it would take for you to get free and come looking,” he says, gazing down at the massacre that decorates the floors and walls from atop the altar, though he doesn’t dare to come any closer.

What the fuck does he mean by‘get free?’.

How long has this asshole known about me?

Or how long has he known that I’ve been here at Atlantara?

I keep these questions to myself and give him a poignant look of impassivity. The proverbial mask I’ve come to know so well falls straight into place, just like old times. If this asshole thinks he can best me, he has another thing coming.

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