Page 13 of The Heir
With one last squeeze of her hands, I wrench myself away from her and join Roman. He hands me a book of matches and nods. "Hurry. That stuff will evaporate shortly."
All it takes is a flick of my wrist, and the unmistakable smell of the match igniting floats through the air. I toss the tiny piece of burning wood towards the prison van. In an instant, bright fire and blistering heat whoosh towards us all, and it's time to get the fuck out.
"Go, go, go!" Roman shouts to his men and we all pile into the cars. Melnyk takes the front passenger seat and I stay in the back with Melody, pulling her into my chest.
We did it. We got her. She's safe. She's mine, forever.
The plan goes off without a hitch. We speed off into the night on densely wooded back roads. Anxiety claws at my lungs as we drive toward the safehouse in rural West Virginia. To any onlooker, it seems like an abandoned hunting cabin.
To us, though, it looks like salvation. I don't own this particular piece of real estate. No, The Eligos gracefully allowed us to take over for the time being. Her upgradesand security measures are plain to see to the trained eye, but Melody looks anxious.
"Are you sure this is safe?" she whispers, trailing a finger over the cracked logs of the exterior.
"Extremely." I nod and pull her into my side. "This is just a façade—a clever disguise. If any errant hunters were to happen upon the property, all they would see is this crumbling cabin. See the tree growing from the roof?"
"Yeah?" God, she looks exquisite with the moonlight reflecting in her eyes.
"Camouflage. It's a miniature private cell tower. See, watch." I point to Roman, who deftly flips open a hidden keypad embedded in one of the logs. He punches in a series of numbers and closes the cover. It looks exactly like a patch of moss, as if it were never disturbed at all.
A soft beep sounds, and the sturdy wooden door opens a hair. I step forward with Melody's hand clutched in mine and push into the cabin. As soon as our feet touch the floor, gentle lights switch on and illuminate the space.
"Wow," Melody breathes. I hum in agreement as we take in the sight. I have to admit, The Eligos has an eye for style.
Rustic charm bursts from every corner. Oiled leather furniture flanks a gas fireplace, which flared to life when the lights came on. A live edge wooden coffeetable sits in the center of the living room. To our left is a gourmet kitchen with every modern convenience anyone could want. All in all, the small space is perfectly appointed in what appears to be a hunter's paradise.
"Indeed," Roman agrees. "That's not all, though."
Melody watches with rapt attention as Roman circles the granite kitchen island and hefts up a trapdoor. She scurries over to peer at the subterranean staircase. "What's that?"
"The rest of it," he grunts. "I'll go first."
It's only when I follow Melody down the stairs that I notice a patch of deep red matting in her hair—blood. My heart seizes. "Melody, love, what's this?"
She stops in her tracks and gingerly touches the back of her head. "I… I don't know. I think I might have hit my head, maybe? When the van crashed?"
Guilt slithers around in my gut. We hurt her.Ihurt her. Of course, the prison bureau doesn't give a shit if she's hurt in transit—they care about their people but only marginally. They care about their bottom line: how much money it'll cost to replace the personnel and how much money it'll cost to replace their vehicle.
But the only thing I care about is the fact that I have my wife back. I pull her into my embrace and cradle the back of her head. I feel her shuddering breath against my chest. I feel the tension in her muscles. And I feel my wife—here with me. Finally.
Casting a warning gaze to Roman and the men, I gently pull her into our (temporary) accommodations. It's nothing compared to the comforts of my—our—home, but it's safe. For now. And we have a stone wall bathroom adjoining the bedroom, complete with a rather large bathtub and a few unlit candles on the countertop.
I pull a book of matches from my pocket and light them one by one. The soft orange glow casts dancing shadows on Melody's haunted face. My heart breaks a little more as I see how gaunt her cheeks have become. She stands stiffly with her arms at her sides, watching me as I move around her.
Within moments, the bathtub is full of sudsy, steaming water. I quickly undress myself and gesture towards the tub. My wife—my beautiful, broken wife—shyly strips her prison scrubs and hides behind her hands.
"No, no. Let me see you, my love. I haven't seen you in so long," I murmur.
Averting her gaze, she drops her hands and shuffles toward the tub. I don't even have time to ask her about the temperature—she plunges in and sinks up to her neck beneath the white foamy bubbles. I silently slip in behind her and pull her close to my chest.
Finally, finally, I feel the tension slip from her muscles, and she relaxes into me. "I missed you so much, Melody."
"I missed you, too." She heaves a sigh, snuggling the back of her head into my chest. "I can't believe it. I'm out. I'mfree."
"You are," I agree. I gently tilt her head to the side so I can inspect the damage. Carefully separating the hairs, I find a superficial cut. It's small, but I curse myself for putting her in any sort of harm's way.
"How bad is it?" she asks.
"It looks worse than it is." I shift our position just enough that I can scoop up sudsy water with my hands and pour it over the back of her head. The crusted blood loosens and falls. The cut is already scabbed over, and nothing is beading up or oozing. Good. "It's a little cut."
