Page 152 of Crown of Lies

The room spins, and my stomach lurches. “I’m gonna?—”

Before I can finish, Killian’s there, shoving a trash can under my chin. I heave, my body convulsing as I empty my stomach. Nico’s hand rubs circles on my back, murmuring soft words of comfort I can’t quite make out.

When the retching finally stops, I slump back, exhausted. My throat burns, and my mouth tastes foul. I want to ask what happened, where we are, but I can’t find the energy to form the words.

“Here,” Killian says, pressing a cool glass to my lips. “Small sips.”

The water soothes my raw throat. I manage a few swallows before turning my head away.

“Better?” Nico asks, his voice gentle.

I nod weakly, not trusting myself to speak yet. My eyes drift closed again, the effort of keeping them open too much.

I’m not sure how much time has passed. Minutes? Hours? Days?

My eyes open on their own this time and I blink slowly, my vision gradually adjusting to the dim light of the room. The nausea has subsided, leaving behind a dull ache that throbs through my entire body. I feel weak, wrung out, but the panic from earlier has faded.

Nico’s face swims into focus above me. Has he really been right here next to me this whole time? His brow is furrowed with concern, but he manages a small smile when our eyes meet. “Hey there, mia cara,” he murmurs. He reaches out, gently brushing a strand of hair away from my face. His touch is cool against my feverish skin.

“How’re you feeling?” Killian asks from somewhere to my left. I turn my head slightly, wincing at the movement. He’s perched on the edge of the bed, a damp cloth in his hand.

“Like I’ve been hit by a truck,” I croak, my voice raw and unfamiliar to my own ears.

Killian nods sympathetically. “That tracks.” He leans forward, pressing the cool cloth to my forehead. The relief is immediate, and I can’t help but let out a small sigh. “The drugs are wearing off,” he explains, “but you’re gonna feel like shit for a while until they’re all the way out of your system.”

I try to nod, but even that small movement sends a wave of dizziness through me. “What happened?” I manage to ask, the words coming out slurred and thick.

Nico’s hand finds mine, giving it a gentle squeeze. “We’ll explain everything later. Right now, you need to rest.”

I’m tired of resting. I blink again, trying to focus on Nico and Killian’s faces. The room is still spinning a little, but the fog in my mind is starting to clear. With clarity comes memory, and my heart races as flashes of what happened before I was drugged start to return.

The tattoo parlor. Smoke and gunfire. Screams and chaos.

My stomach pitches as the images flood back. Ambrose. The Saint. One and the same. The realization hits me hard, just like it did the first time. He’s been stalking me, orchestrating everything from the shadows.

I remember the attack on the parlor, the shattering glass and acrid smell of smoke. Then… Atlas. My breath catches in my throat as I remember his face, twisted with confusion, anger, and pain. He grabbed me right after I was drugged, his grip too tight, too desperate.

The memory makes me jerk upright, ignoring the wave of nausea that follows. Nico’s hand steadies me, but I barely notice.My eyes dart around the room, searching for a face that isn’t there.

“Where’s Atlas?” I ask, not caring that my voice is trembling.

Nico and Killian exchange a look that makes my stomach twist even tighter. There’s something in their eyes—guilt? Pain? Regret?—that sends a chill down my spine.

“Where is he?” I demand again, stronger this time. The silence that follows is deafening.

I watch Nico’s jaw clench, a muscle twitching beneath his skin. The silence stretches, heavy and oppressive, until I can’t take it anymore.

“Where is he, Nico?” I repeat, my voice cracking. “Tell me what happened. Please.”

Nico takes a deep breath, his eyes meeting mine. “He was supposed to be right behind us, but… he didn’t make it.”

The words hit me like a physical blow. I feel the color drain from my face as I struggle to process what he’s saying.

“What do you mean, he didn’t make it?”

Killian leans forward, his face a little too pale, his expression even more serious than normal. “We went back to the tattoo parlor as soon as we had you somewhere safe, but Atlas was gone.”

“Gone?” I’m starting to feel like a parrot, repeating everything I’m being told—but it’s only because none of these words are making sense.

---