Page 55 of Whispers of the Dead

Barefoot. Bare chested. Bruised ribs and wild, unkempt, long black hair. His chest rises and falls with heavy breaths, but it’s his vivid green eyes locking onto mine with a feral, searing intensity that steals what little air I have left.

My breath stalls. The room is chaos, but he is pure stillness and focus. A figure of rage and protection. He movesfast. He crouches beside me, but it’s the object in his hand that draws my attention away from him.

The last guaranteed vial of insulin. In the other hand is a syringe. My lips part, but no sound comes out. I can’t think. My body is too weak, my mind too foggy to form words.

He slides my shirt up only enough to expose my stomach, then uncaps the syringe with his teeth. The whole time, his eyes never leave mine, until he shoves the needle into my abdomen and presses the plunger down with careful precision.

I barely feel the sting of the injection over the overwhelming relief flooding through me. The fog lifts. My lungs expand, and I suck in air. My body still trembles with weakness, but I’m alive.

“C-Cole…”

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. I don’t need to have seen his face before in order to know it’s him.

His calloused fingers cradle my face, with his thumb stroking my cheek. His green eyes search mine, checking me over, making sure I’m still here. There’s something wild in his gaze. Fierce. Something painful, protective, and desperate. Something that shatters me.

I lift my hand and reach for his face, but fall short. My fingers rest weakly on his wrist instead. I offer a breathless smile. “You’re beautiful.”

A small smile cracks through the agony in his expression, and it soothes my soul in a way I didn’t know I needed. “You’re not allowed to die on me.”

“You should speak more often. You have a wonderful voice.”

“Only if you stay alive long enough to keep hearing it.”

The man before me looks feral, but he holds me with such tenderness that I almost can’t believe I was ever in any real danger to begin with. Near death experience aside, I could stay in his arms like this all day.

There’s movement behind him, and the shouts from Benji and Damon finally reach my ears right when the dreg with the black eye and bruised jaw reaches behind his back to produce a flash of metal. “Behind you,” I croak out.

Cole doesn’t move. He doesn’t even turn his head. His focus remains entirely on me, his hands steady and gentle while he holds me. His eyes remain locked on mine. Every breath he takes feels like a growl, his chest rising and falling like a predator ready to strike, or even defend.

“Cole,” I try again. Panic claws at my chest. I finally got him, I can’t lose him already.

“I know, sunshine.” His tone is calm, almost dismissive. His hands never leave me.

He can’t know, because if he did, then he would do something to block the man with the knife. I think he’s called Greg. Greg is a bad, bad man. Greg needs to die.

Time seems to slow down when I force my hand onto my stomach, and then slide it up my body and beneath my shirt. Cole’s eyes still never waver from mine, even when I reach into my bra and pull out the knife that hides there and throw it at Greg. In hindsight, I should have given the knife to Cole because it tumbles to the ground, and Greg steps on it with his big, muddy boot.

“Cole,” I plead, but his only response is to wipe the drying tear trails from my cheeks with his thumb. His hands leave me, and I feel the loss of his touch like a physical ache.

With a sudden, explosive motion, he spins around. His body moves like a coiled spring that’s been released. His hand shoots out and grabs Greg’s wrist mid-strike. The knife trembles in his hand, but Cole’s grip doesn’t budge. His vibrant green eyes turn into black pits of despair and he becomes death himself. He breaks the guy’s arm and is about to break his neck next when Barnes emerges from the shadows with a punch to Cole’s bruised rib. When thatdoesn’t faze Cole, Barnes grabs the knife and shoves it into Cole’s side.

I let out a weak cry of protest, but Barnes stands over me, blocking my view of Cole’s bleeding form that crumples to the floor. My living nightmare glares down at me with a look that turns the blood in my veins to ice. “What a mess you always seem to make.”

21

COLE

White-hot pain blooms on my side, twisting like a knife all over again.

My first instinct is to clench my teeth and stay still. I don’t want to face whatever fresh hell this new day brings. It’s always the same. Wake up. Rot in a cage. Until she arrived in a flurry of nail scratching and curse words that brought life to my long, slow death.

My eyes snap open.

The first thing I register is the faint hum of fluorescent lights. Their sterile glow buzzes like flies against my skull. The air is thick with the chemical stench of disinfectant that burns my nose. It’s too clean for this place. Too clinical for a prison meant to break people.

I try to sit up, but pain lances through my ribs, sharp and unforgiving. A fresh wave of exhaustion washes over me. The bandages on my side are so tight that every breath pulls at the knife wound, but I force myself to focus.

The room is small and cluttered with mismatched furniture and a single rusted cabinet in the corner. It’s cleaner than a cell, but it still feels like a cage. A place meant to keep someone trapped.

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