Page 124 of Dark Flame
—Dad.
Forty-Seven
ALEC
A while passesbefore the thinnest feeling flits through me, through the bond.
Anxiety. Panic.
It’s the same dreadful sensation as when she was locked in the dungeon and suffering from claustrophobia. It has me on my feet and across the basement.
Harlow, what’s wrong?
I wait and wait but get no response. Have we reached the maximum distance that the connection can reach and we’re unable to hear one another? While possible, Ifeelit isn’t that.
Something’s wrong.
Hellion, answer me.
More silence.
Nothing through the bond. No feeling. Just emptiness.
My Bride is in trouble and it’s probably those fucking witches. They’re doing something to her, and it’ll be their final acts before I rip their heads off.
I’m coming.
I’m at the top of the stairs quickly, fists slamming and cracking into the door, but the enchantment the High Priestess covered the basement with shimmers, telling me it’s not dark out yet.
Fuck. Even if I broke through her spell, I can’t go outside.
Imust. Harlow’s in danger.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
While I’m aware of all these facts, it doesn’t stop me from seeking the bond again, for a feeling she’s alright.
And never getting a response.
Forty-Eight
HARLOW
I’m wokenby the clasping of metal around my wrists, and like a veil has been lifted off my face, I’m instantly alert, searching for anything telling about where I am.
The space is dim, but not as bad as the cells Alec kept me in. It’s small—suffocatingly small—and only deep inhales keep me focused on the fact I’m fucking chained, which is a much bigger problem than my claustrophobia flaring up. Cuffs are latched around my wrist, connected to chains bolted to the wall.
No, not the wall. But something… It’s dirt, like a small cave, the ceiling dripping with roots. There’s a familiarity in this too, like I’ve been here before.
Been here in my nightmares, in the flashes of concealed memories discovered last night.
I’ve been here in the past.
Fuck.Fear can’t take hold just yet. Not if I want to survive, so swallowing through the short breaths and clammy skin, I grab onto the chains, yanking them until determining my mortal-level strength won't do shit against them. The metal around my wrists line so well with the old scars there and it all comes crashing down.
The similarities. The small space, the handcuffs.
Wherever I am, this is where I was kept when I was eight and stolen from Banff the first time.
