on. One hand cupped my neck while the other stroked my back in gentle circles.I let him hold me, let him rock me, like he hadn’t for so long.
“I should have died, Wyatt.” I barely choked out the words. “He should have killed me. They’d all be safe if I was dead.”
“You don’t know that,” he replied. His voice rumbled in his chest, a soothing sound beneath my cheek.
“Everyone else dies, but not me. Not even when I give up and ask.”
He tensed. My words were the source of our most recent argument. An argument that had split us down the center. One I didn’t care to repeat. Not now, not ever. In my lowest moment, I told Walter Thackery I wouldn’t resist his experiments if he promised to kill me when he was done. I’d been convinced I wouldn’t mentally survive being tortured again.
I’d been wrong—so fucking wrong—but it didn’t change the fact that I’d given up. More than the memories of the torture, it was my own cowardice that haunted me, that had changed me, and I was terrified that it had forever altered the way Wyatt saw me. That he’d never again look at me the way he had a month ago at Boot Camp, with wonder and need and love.
“It’s okay, Evy,” he said softly.
It wasn’t, but I loved that he’d said it anyway, and that he held me without judgment while I cried.
BEFORE
Chapter Five
Sunday, June 29
Boot Camp
I launch myself at Wyatt and throw my arms around his neck in a choking hug. His arms snake around my waist, painfully tight. I press my face into his neck, inhaling his scent, feeling his sandpapery skin on my face. He twirls us in a circle, and I laugh out loud—I didn’t feel him lift me off the ground.
He sets me back down and crushes his lips to mine. I open for him and groan under the bruising, possessive force of a kiss tinged with desperation and joy. I don’t want it to end, but I’m sore and tired and the adrenaline rush is almost gone. It’s way too easy to collapse against Wyatt’s chest; he doesn’t let me fall.
His hand strokes my neck, tangles in the thick waves of my ponytail. “When?”
I understand his shorthand. “Yesterday morning. Max and his coven attacked the truck the day before, but he brought me back to the city yesterday before sunrise.”
“Truck?”
I explain what I can stand to remember. How Walter Thackery kept me in a tractor-trailer laboratory for almost three weeks, kept us on the move, kept those twenty days an endless cycle of hellish pain. I gloss over the details; Wyatt has a pretty good imagination, and he’sseen some of the injuries I’ve healed from with his own eyes.
Wyatt’s walkie crackles to life with a stranger’s voice: “Marcus to Truman. You alive, pal?”
Wyatt grabs the walkie off his impressively weaponed belt. “Yeah, I’m alive. There’s a Pit behind the main building. Meet me there.”
He puts the device back without waiting for a response from this Marcus person, and I can’t help wondering if he has something to do with Wyatt’s new look. The Black Ops outfit and rigging, especially.
“Stone!” echoes down into the Pit before I can question him.
I look up, shielding my eyes with one hand. A tall, slim figure descends the bleachers, heading quickly for our position. As soon as he’s within reach, I let go of Wyatt and throw my arms around Tybalt. I surprise myself and him, too, because it takes a few seconds for him to hug back.
“How many lives are you down to?” he asks.
I snort laughter. “Might be on my last one after this. Heard you killed something today.”
He pulls back, one hand still gripping my left elbow, and I glance down. His missing forearm has been replaced by … well, it looks robotic and a little bit deadly. “Yeah, I did,” he says, not hiding the pride in that statement. “Guess I’m not useless after all.” He gives a pointed look at Wyatt as he speaks, which reminds me of all the questions I have for both of them.
Wyatt beats me to
“I should have died, Wyatt.” I barely choked out the words. “He should have killed me. They’d all be safe if I was dead.”
“You don’t know that,” he replied. His voice rumbled in his chest, a soothing sound beneath my cheek.
“Everyone else dies, but not me. Not even when I give up and ask.”
He tensed. My words were the source of our most recent argument. An argument that had split us down the center. One I didn’t care to repeat. Not now, not ever. In my lowest moment, I told Walter Thackery I wouldn’t resist his experiments if he promised to kill me when he was done. I’d been convinced I wouldn’t mentally survive being tortured again.
I’d been wrong—so fucking wrong—but it didn’t change the fact that I’d given up. More than the memories of the torture, it was my own cowardice that haunted me, that had changed me, and I was terrified that it had forever altered the way Wyatt saw me. That he’d never again look at me the way he had a month ago at Boot Camp, with wonder and need and love.
“It’s okay, Evy,” he said softly.
It wasn’t, but I loved that he’d said it anyway, and that he held me without judgment while I cried.
BEFORE
Chapter Five
Sunday, June 29
Boot Camp
I launch myself at Wyatt and throw my arms around his neck in a choking hug. His arms snake around my waist, painfully tight. I press my face into his neck, inhaling his scent, feeling his sandpapery skin on my face. He twirls us in a circle, and I laugh out loud—I didn’t feel him lift me off the ground.
He sets me back down and crushes his lips to mine. I open for him and groan under the bruising, possessive force of a kiss tinged with desperation and joy. I don’t want it to end, but I’m sore and tired and the adrenaline rush is almost gone. It’s way too easy to collapse against Wyatt’s chest; he doesn’t let me fall.
His hand strokes my neck, tangles in the thick waves of my ponytail. “When?”
I understand his shorthand. “Yesterday morning. Max and his coven attacked the truck the day before, but he brought me back to the city yesterday before sunrise.”
“Truck?”
I explain what I can stand to remember. How Walter Thackery kept me in a tractor-trailer laboratory for almost three weeks, kept us on the move, kept those twenty days an endless cycle of hellish pain. I gloss over the details; Wyatt has a pretty good imagination, and he’sseen some of the injuries I’ve healed from with his own eyes.
Wyatt’s walkie crackles to life with a stranger’s voice: “Marcus to Truman. You alive, pal?”
Wyatt grabs the walkie off his impressively weaponed belt. “Yeah, I’m alive. There’s a Pit behind the main building. Meet me there.”
He puts the device back without waiting for a response from this Marcus person, and I can’t help wondering if he has something to do with Wyatt’s new look. The Black Ops outfit and rigging, especially.
“Stone!” echoes down into the Pit before I can question him.
I look up, shielding my eyes with one hand. A tall, slim figure descends the bleachers, heading quickly for our position. As soon as he’s within reach, I let go of Wyatt and throw my arms around Tybalt. I surprise myself and him, too, because it takes a few seconds for him to hug back.
“How many lives are you down to?” he asks.
I snort laughter. “Might be on my last one after this. Heard you killed something today.”
He pulls back, one hand still gripping my left elbow, and I glance down. His missing forearm has been replaced by … well, it looks robotic and a little bit deadly. “Yeah, I did,” he says, not hiding the pride in that statement. “Guess I’m not useless after all.” He gives a pointed look at Wyatt as he speaks, which reminds me of all the questions I have for both of them.
Wyatt beats me to
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