Page 37 of Whispers of the Dead

My tray. A fork. That could work.

My pulse leaps with hope until a hand darts in through the bars and snatches away the fork. Damn dregs. They really do want me dead now.

A snicker drifts through the dark. “Oops. Look like you’ll have to get creative.”

Panic rises in a tide and threatens to drown me. The rotter lunges. I squeeze my eyes shut and brace for impact. For the tearing of flesh, the agony of pain. It never comes.

Instead, there’s a sudden thunk, followed by a wet squelch. A heavy body collapses at my feet.

My eyes snap open to see a knife jutting from the rotter’s skull where it’s buried to the hilt. The creature twitches once, then goes still. I stare at the sight with my chest heaving and my mind racing.

The knife. How…?

Boots pound against the floor and I whirl toward the sound right as two dregs storm into my cell. Their faces twist with fury.

One dreg rips the knife from the rotter’s skull and holds it up with barely concealed rage. “Where the fuck did this come from?”

His gaze sweeps the cell. There’s nothing here but me, a bucket, and a tray of untouched food. Nobody speaks.

The dreg lunges forward and wraps his hand around my neck, but only for a brief moment, until his eyes shift to the darkness of the corridor. “You,” he snarls. “Where’d you get this?”

I follow his gaze. Cole’s green eyes glint in the shadows,cold and unwavering. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t blink. All he does is stare.

The dreg’s lip curls. The second one mutters something under his breath before pulling out what looks like a stick. He steps back into the corridor. A crackling sound fills the air, followed by the dull thud of a body hitting the floor.

“No.” The word comes out in a whisper, like I’m trying to find my voice again.

There’s a grunt. A struggle. The sound of someone being slammed into the bars. “Where’d you get it?” the dreg demands again.

More slams, punches, grunts. More fists meeting flesh.

I rush to the front of my cell and wrap my fingers around the bars. I strain my eyes to see what’s going on, but the darkness swallows everything. Cole must spit out blood, because a few drops land at the edge of the light from the window that now reaches into the corridor since the clouds moved. “Stop,” I plead. “It’s my fault. I?—”

A hand latches onto my arm and yanks me back. I whirl around and my breath stalls. The bars between my cell and Damon’s press against my shoulder. His grip is firm with his fingers wrapped around my wrist, the metal ring on his forefinger cold against my skin. “Don’t.”

“But they’re?—”

“It won’t help,” he interrupts. His voice is low and only meant for me. “They’ll do it regardless, and if you open your mouth again, they’ll make you next. Don’t make it worse, or it will all be for nothing. This isn’t our first rodeo.”

Tears sting my eyes.

Another hit. Another grunt.

Cole still doesn’t utter a word.

“This is a warning for what’ll happen if we catch you with another weapon.” The dregs mutter curses and land a final few blows before spitting and storming off. The heavymetal door at the end of the corridor slams shut, and everything is silent.

I don’t hesitate. I tear my wrist from Damon’s grasp and rush to the bars. My fingers tremble when they wrap around the cool metal. “Cole. I’m so sorry. I’m so?—”

“Worth it,” he wheezes, finishing my sentence, though not in the way I would have.

I shake my head and grip the bars tighter.

“You did the right thing,” Damon says. “The only thing you could have.”

“Yes,” Cole agrees.

I press my forehead against the cold metal. It doesn’t feel like the right thing. Not by a long shot. How can it be the right thing if it hurts them like this?

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