Page 122 of Judas

“Where is he going?” Tilting my chin defiantly.

Kace locks eyes with mine and stares down, his mouth and jaw clinching in a haphazard flex for a beat. Then I’m shocked when he opens and answers my question, albeit carefully.

“He’s going to an underground-type site that specializes in the punishment of high-profile criminals and terrorists. On occasion, there are people who are sent there for what us normal citizens would call a ‘scared straight’ program. Happens once a month, but what it entails, I’ve not been told.”

“Who runs it?”

Kace shakes his head, letting me know that I’m overstepping with that one. Give and take—negotiation, okay.

“Alright then, why isn’t he receiving medical attention now?”

“The site has medical staff, just like a regular prison. They make sure the cap—inmates are well taken care of so they can serve the majority of their sentencing.”

“And transport? What does that look like?”

“I ensure he’s alive and stable, then make a call. They schedule a pick up within a 72 hour window. Gives them travel time while also making the retrieval unpredictable. We will be scouted the moment I make the call, so I need you and Sadie to be safe while I handle all of it.”

“I—I can do that. I want to go visit her tomorrow anyway. Give Babel a break from babysitting, don’t think sitting on a patient is part of his job description.”

“You’d be surprised what all his job entails but that sounds good. Just promise me something?”

Here the fuck we go.

“Hmm?”

“Please be safe. I know I’ve put you into too-small of a cage, but it ends here. You talk and do whatever you please, not because I want you to trust me, but because I trust you. Think you’ve been confined for too long. Also, please take Sadie’s keychain with you, the awful Batman one.”

“Why?”

“It’s a tracker, baby.”

Leaning in once more, he presses a kiss to my forehead this time, his arm unraveling from my waist when he begins to step away. Stunned isn’t quite the word I’d use for this situation. Black-site prisons, covert investigation after a phone call, unpredictable transport? That’s digestible.

With a slow blink, my eyes follow Kace as he retreats further into the bathroom. Beginning to undress. First his boots and socks, then shirt, as I stand there gobsmacked. This shithead tracked me the entire time! My ears turn red and I’m angry all over again.

“Kace Harvey Patton!” I shout, stomping into the bathroom and slamming the door behind me. He grins, grabs me and crashes his lips to mine.

Chapter forty-two

Beast

“Yes, her stitches are looking well. We are going to remove the antibiotics today, right after this bag. There’s enough signs of healing that we don’t want to potentially introduce MRSA by not finishing this bag.”

“Thank you.”

That voice has surrounded me for days. Deep, warm—keeps me grounded. Sometimes I hear him talking to himself, perhaps he has voices in his head too. Like me. It would be nice to meet someone like me who doesn’t try to cause me pain, unlike Lucien.

Things are foggy, but I remember chunks. Well, pieces of the times I was awake and not one of the others. The cabin, my mom, m… my dad out on the patio talking. A man who helped my dad get the both of us, that part I don’t remember too much about. Talking with my mom felt amazing, it was… I’m not quite sure how to explain it. She took to me so easily, as if I wasn’t evermissing from her life. In a way, I guess, I never was. She made it sound like she lived through prison for me—that says so much.

She accepts me this way, fragmented.

One memory doesn’t fit with the others, it’s muddled along with my ability to think clearly. The feminine voice I don’t recognize at all, haunting. His, however, blankets me.

Sensing someone close to me, my arms try to do what they can to lift. Soft cushions comfortably hugging my wrists are so heavy they keep me from being able to move. Each time I try to stir, they refuse to budge. Meanwhile, I can feel my legs moving more freely. I give up almost instantly. The weight is too much and I’m tired enough as it is.

It’s warm in here too, a scratchy texture rests atop of my bare legs where it drags anytime I stretch or shift. Even my feet are warm, covered by something equally coarse. The way the world feels around me lets me know I’m laying down—that I’m surely aware of. Guess that means I’m in a bed, and when the female talks about antibiotics, the clues just fall into place. I’m being treated somewhere—a clinic, hospital, something. At least he hasn’t left me, or the staff hasn’t pushed him out.

A cool sensation floods the inside of my arm once everyone goes quiet, tingling a little bit, then there’s a pain on the top of my right hand. Makes my hands flex. I don’t like the way any of it feels. Not having control? I experience that every day of my life. Despite the fog, my mind is my own; rare occurrence, I know. The least they could do is let me have a say over what happens to me. Let me wake up enough to open my eyes, anything is better than this.

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