Page 34 of Whispers of the Dead

I frown. “Wait, he gave it back?”

“He kept Eugene away?” Damon adds.

She nods again, still scratching at her arm. “I think he sees all of this as some kind of game. He doesn’t seem to like Eugene, either, I don’t think. It’s confusing.”

I don’t like the sound of this. Except for the not like Eugene part. That part I like. “Did he do anything to you?”

“No,” she answers without pause. “He cut the ropes from my wrists, hid me from Eugene while he went to talk to him, and then drugged me again. Next thing I knew, I was back here.”

“What’s his name?”

“Avery. I don’t know anything else about him, other than he feels like less of a threat than the others.”

Damon makes a sound that’s almost a growl, and I know he’s thinking what I’m thinking. That was the bastard who carried her back. The one who looked at her like she was something delicate before handing her off to Jace like she was nothing. I don’t know what his game is, but I don’t like that she was unconscious around him, even if he made her think he was helping her. If he really wanted to help her, then he wouldn’t have locked her back up.

Pushing those thoughts away, I return my attention to Zoey. “Do you feel different? Weird in any way?”

“No.” She shakes her head. “I feel fine. Itchy, though, I guess.”

I narrow my eyes and watch her fingers dig into the fabric of her shirt while she scratches at her back. “Turn around.”

Her brows knit together. “Why?”

“Trust me, golden girl.”

She hesitates, then gives in with a sigh and walks toward me.

“Turn around.”

She does so without question and I reach through the bars to lift the hem of her shirt enough to see her skin. In the dim light, I can make out the pale expanse of her back. It’s smooth at first, until I look higher and see the dry, irritated patches along her shoulder blades. I brush my thumb over one of the rough spots. The texture is brittle beneath my touch, like cracked earth.

Zoey tenses. “What is it?”

“Dry skin,” I murmur.

Then, before I can stop myself, I lean in and press my lips to one of the irritated patches. A soft kiss meant to soothe.

Zoey stiffens, her whole body going rigid. “Benjamin…”

“It’s okay,” I whisper, my breath warm against her skin. “You’re okay.”

Her shoulders start to relax as the tension bleeds out of her. I let her shirt fall back into place, but instead of stepping away, she leans forward and whispers, “I keep failing.”

Her voice is so small, so unlike her, that it knocks the air right out of my lungs. The guilt. The self-blame. That kind of thing will eat away at a person’s spirit. I should know.

“Failing?” I repeat. My hands find her hips on instinct. “What on earth are you talking about?”

She lets out a slow, shaky breath. “I tried to fight back. Tried to pick the lock. Nothing works.”

I open my mouth to argue, but then I see the way her gaze flicks toward Damon’s cell. The way her fingers grip the bars behind her a little tighter. It gives me an idea. A very good idea.

With a quiet sigh, I brush her hair away from her neck and let my fingers trail over the delicate skin there. My other hand gives her hip a light squeeze. “It’s okay,” I say softly, my voice low in her ear. As close as I can get with the damn bars in the way. Then I glance toward Damon’s cell. “Isn’t it, Damon?”

For a long moment, there’s only silence. Then Damon’s voice rumbles through the darkness, deep and rough. “Yeah. It is.”

Zoey lets out a shaky exhale, but I can tell she’s still holding onto something. That self-doubt. That fear. I won’t let her drown in it.

“I can help,” I tell her, loud enough for the others to hear.

---