Page 106 of Servitude to Serpents

The night air doesn’t offer the reprieve I thought it would, but I can see, mostly, past the watering, burning of my eyes. The moment Master’s frantic eyes find mine, his widen, scrambling, fighting against Stuart, who roars at his side. I frown, because my ears are ringing. Where the hovering helicopter behind him should be deafening, there’s nothing. I can’t hear Warrick as he screams for me. Stuart looks…panicked as I fight my way past the pain toward them, his eyes slipping to whatever is behind me.

The concrete is grating until it turns to lush grass against my feet, and fuck, I’m so close. Master is fighting, raging against his friend. It’s when he breaks free, dashing for me, that my eyes clear enough to see it: not a single red dot on his chest, but a volley of them, too many to count. “Warrick!” I scream, my voice hoarse as the rest of his men slam into him, the dots taking their backs before more shots ring out, dropping the men shielding him. Only more fall into their place, forcing him backward into the helicopter.

“Get her! Fucking grab her!” He screams, his handsome face reddened and wet from the smoke.

But there are more voices, ones commanding him to stop.

They’re going to shoot him, and I’m not going to make it.

I know it, and the look in his eyes tells me he knows it too.

My heart wrenches, and God help me, I stop running. My feet go from the numbing sprint to nothing at all. The hard metal of a gun knocks against my shins as I fall. My hands grasp it as my eyes leave panicked, watery hazel ones. When I meet Stuart, I expect to see a lot there. A smirk, gloating, but it's worry, a redesigned kind that sickens my gut as he nods as they finally wrestle Warrick inside.

“I’ll fucking kill you! Get her! Get her or I’ll—”

A sob leaves my throat as I scramble to remember fuck all about how to operate it.

“She’s fucking unarmed. The girl’s a hostage!” someone, maybe Stuart, yells before the door to the helicopter slams shut.

But I’m not.

I’m not unarmed, and I can tell the moment they realize it.

Those remaining on our side who didn’t pile into the helicopter drop, each thud deafening.

“Get your fucking hands off that gun and get on the ground!”

“Lay down on the ground!”

Suddenly, the red dots plastered to the helicopter leave it, every single one pointed at me as I whirl, aiming the gun back at them. The shot that rings out is oddly quiet, the agonizing blast to my chest short-lived as shock takes me. Even so, I know the pain is nothing compared to the idea of losing him, of being separated from him. Gravity barely takes hold of me as they descend on me, shoving, shouting, bending, knees in my spine, my face slammed into the dirt. Since November 17thtwo years ago, I’d thought of all the ways I could be saved, countless hours picturing myself going home.

I never, not once, pictured it like this.

Chapter forty-three

To own is to… Eradicate

When I wake, the first thing that hits me is the pain, every breath agonizing. I jerk upright, one of my hands not following the command as my eyes wrench open. The harsh lighting makes my tender eyes sear in pain. My free hand flies to my chest, prodding, testing.

“That vest saved your life.”

I groan, my throat scratchy and raw.

“Yeah, tear gas is a real bitch, I’ve heard.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, willing them to stop burning so I can find the source of the annoying voice. It doesn’t work, and as uncomfortable as that is, the steady beeping beside me, the rawness of my throat is worse. A tiny tendril of relief finds me when my shaky fingers find my silver, infinity-style collar still in place around my neck. “Water, please.”

I can’t see the man as he rises from wherever he is, telling someone else, a silentparty in the room, to alert the nurses that I’m awake. It's when rough, warm hands find mine, thrusting a cup into them, that I flinch, something heavy and sickening feeling my belly. Still, I take the water, gulping it down each of the four times he refills it for me. Emotion clogs my throat as nurses flood in, bringing some kind of cold catch tray to me to hold while they flush my eyes. Being here, it’s all so…wrong.

Their touches are wrong, sickening.

Disgusting, and I feel dirtier for it.

My lip wobbles before I take a deep breath, swallowing past the sob caught in my throat. Finally, for the first time, I get a glimpse of the room, of the owner of that annoying voice. He’s a gruff older man, not very tall, but imposing all the same. The air of authority around him is suffocating. When my eyes land on the handcuff tethering me to the hospital bed, it's a struggle to find any amount of inner strength at all.

This isn’t Bloom. You’re safe. This is a hospital.

Breathe.

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