Page 40 of The Warrior's Captive

They were fated.

Rome was right even when he’d argued both sides. He was right about all of it, and how did that even make sense?

“Kieran.” She drew her brother’s eyes to Castor’s chest.

He exhaled roughly then, nearly losing control of himself. Their eyes met, a clash of fire and blood, but they both let the falling water extinguish it because they had to.

“They’ve flayed the skin from his back too. I know you’ll see it, but I wanted to prepare you first. There’s nothing left.”

She was on fire now. Her heart beat too hard. The urge to fight and kill and hack and maim, to take up Castor’s axes and wreak vengeance herself, was unbearable. Her hands closed into fists again and she forced them open with difficulty. She set them on Castor’s hip, on bruised skin. There wasn’t a single space that wasn’t wounded.

Kieran eventually turned off the spray. They walked Castor back to the bedroom. “I don’t know how far those injuries go,” Kieran said, lowering Castor onto the bed. He helped him in, doing most of the work, pulling back the blankets and getting him onto his side. There was no way he could be put down on his back or his stomach. Her brother’s gaze clashed with hers again. “I’ll leave you to take the rest off. Pull the sheet up over him if you can, but only if it’s not going to stick to him. I think healing trumps modesty, but even so, I’ll make sure only Brooke comes in here when she arrives. It shouldn’t be long.”

The unthinkable reared itself in her head. How could anyone survive such barbaric atrocities? What if Castor still couldn’t?

“Brooke will be able to help. She’s healed some nasty wounds before. We’re stronger than just humans. We heal fast. This looks bad and the scars will be deep but… He’s a warrior, if he’s survived so far, then he’ll live. It’s going to be okay, I promise.”

Another promise that means nothing. Another word given that could be broken.

Her brother wasn’t Castor’s pack. He hadn’t known this would happen. There was no way he would have returned Castor if he could have foreseen this. She couldn’t be angry with Kieran. He’d probably bargained long and hard to get Castor back. It probably galled whoever had done this to him deeply that they hadn’t been able to finish the job.

“He’s not safe here,” she stated, all the emotion finally having bled out of her. “Tell them he died. We’ll leave together when he’s well enough.”

Kieran’s eyes widened. He was struggling with himself over that. Before he could promise her anything further, Zora knocked sharply on the door and appeared, holding her hands over her mouth, tears glistening on both cheeks.

“My mother is here now. I’ll send her up if you’re okay with that, Briar May.”

They were asking her permission now, as though Castor was her mate already. Like he belonged to her. She was going to be in charge of his healing. She wouldn’t leave his side. She’d protect him no matter the cost.

Even if that meant faking his death and ultimately rejecting him so that he could live a free life somewhere where no one from his pack would ever find him again.

Somewhere far away from her, and the trouble that she had brought to him.

Chapter 15

Castor

The most ironic part of finding out he’d been wrong about everything was to find out he’d been mistaken in his disbelief of hell. It was the worst possible thing, and having been plunged straight there, it was clear that he was out of time. Was this his punishment for dying less than a warrior’s death? Did the universe believe that he’d betrayed his father and pack, kin and homeland?

“Shh. It’s alright. I’m here.”

Hell had the most beautiful enchantress in the world, a witch who designed her voice to sound just like Briar May, in order to lure him to some disastrous end.

But wasn’t hell the disastrous end? Or was the sweet voice whispered in his ear just part of the everlasting damnation and torture?

“I’m going to put your hand on my hip, Castor. You squeeze if you need to. I’m not going anywhere. My hand won’t move from yours.

The fiery prongs pierced him from every angle then. Back and front, he was speared by a thousand knives. Red hot rods jammed right under his skin. He was boiling from the inside out. His blood turned into molten metal. He was scalding, the flames consuming him. He tried to thrash away, to find relief, to get out of his body, out of the pit of madness and fury and torment. He convulsed, bending over to try and empty his stomach, but nothing came up.

Something cold at his neck. His brow.

When he looked up, there was nothing there. Just black. The whole world was black, pressing around him.

He wasn’t in hell. He was in the sky. The night sky. He’d become a star in more than name. “Pollux!” he bellowed, emptying out his lungs. “Pollux! I’m here. Where are you? Brother?”

“I’m here.” That soft voice. Briar May’s. It came to him, but there was no body or form behind it. She was lost to him now. He was in another time, another dimension. He was dead and she was alive. She couldn’t follow him.

Cold. Ice cold. Red hot pincers again, tearing at his flesh. It hurt to be a star. It hurt to be a great ball of fire. Maybe he’d implode and die out all over again before he even learned what it meant to shine brightly.

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