Page 55 of Forging Darkness

“Precisely. It’s perched above us.” I cast a glance up, as if I can see through the ceiling . . . which I can’t. “Would you care for a closer look?”

“Maybe when I’m feeling better and can fly myself.”

The corners of his mouth lift in a knowing smirk, and I train my gaze out the oversized window. The sun hangs low, bleeding pastels across the western sky and dyeing the stark interior walls of the compound.

Sucking in a breath of sweet-scented spectrum air, I marvel at the normalcy of this conversation. “How long have you lived here?”

Is there a chance he was once a captive like I am now? How else would a Nephilim have found a place among these beasts?

“For as long as I can remember.”

“You grew up in the spectrum . . . er . . . I mean spirit realm?”

“Yes. I can move between realms, just as you can, but have spent the majority of my time in this one.”

What must that have been like? To have been raised apart from other Nephilim is one thing, but to have grown up in a completely different realm . . . My brain simply can’t comprehend that existence.

“But, who raised you? The Forsaken?” I pull a face as soon as the words leave my mouth.

Thorne studies me out of the corner of his eye, easily reading the revulsion splashed across my face.

“In a way,” he hedges.

Horror washes over me. What hope would someone raised by such evil creatures have? Would a kernel of humanity be able to grow in their soul, or would their heart blacken and shrivel to match the beings that raised them?

Thorne doesn’t appear to be bent toward evil like the creatures roaming this compound, but what have I really learned about him in the past few hours? Nothing. He could simply be a good liar. Even psychopaths know how to fake empathy.

“How’s the leg feeling?” he asks, changing the course of our conversation.

I add a touch more weight on my injured leg, testing its strength. It holds, but there’s a bone-deep soreness under the bandages. My muscles protest even that small movement, but I’m not going to admit that to Thorne. Sometimes predators like to see their prey weakened before they strike. I’ve already shown enough weakness for one day.

“I’m fine.” Only a half-lie.

Thorne’s eyes sweep my body, weighing its language as well as my words.

“Hmm,” is all he says. And then a moment later, “Would you like to get cleaned up?”

“Oh gosh, yes.” The words fly out of my mouth without thought. I’ve been trying to ignore the sand chafing my skin under my clothes and armor, but it’s become increasingly difficult.

“You’re welcome to use my en suite. Your new room is being prepared. I was told you weren’t pleased with your first accommodations.” He gives me a look that says he knows how I tore apart the last room. I shrug, not the least bit repentant.

“Your body needs rest,” he goes on. “You can get familiarized with the fortress tomorrow.” Turning, he strides toward the still-open door at the back of the room, expecting me to follow. I bite my lip, trying to keep my limp from showing even though he’d have to have eyes at the back of his head to see me.

His bathroom is spacious, clean, and stark—just like his room. The ceiling vaults at least two stories up, and a giant chandelier dips down from its center.

Thorne makes quick work of showing me where everything is located and how to work the bath and shower before leaving me to it. Looking down at myself, I’m not sure where to start. I’ve never had to take off the armor before—it’s always disappeared when I phased back into the mortal world.

I start with the breastplate wrapped around my torso. I flare my wings and contort my arms awkwardly to find latches or straps, but come up empty. While turning circles, my metal-tipped feathers bash into the vanity. I jerk my wings away only to get them tangled in a towel rack. The ruckus brings Thorne back. He rushes into the room to find me tugging a white towel snagged on my feathers off my head.

He skids to a stop and stares.

With a groan, I give up and let the fabric go, but it swings like a flag of surrender where it’s still attached to my left wing.

“I don’t know how to work around all this,” I admit with a swipe of my hand to indicate my clothes and metal appendages.

Thorne’s mouth pinches as he crosses his arms over his chest. “Then shed your battle gear.”

“Shed?” I get an image of my wings and armor flaking off my body and thumping to the ground. “You mean . . . transform?”

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