CHAPTER 89
(Zarkhan's POV)
That look in her eyes. It haunts me with every step I’m forced to take. A perfect, gut-wrenching blend of betrayal and shattered trust. I want to roar, to shatter the cuffs digging into my wrists, and shake her until she understands. I did it for us. To buy us time. To keep you breathing.
But the lie sits like a rock in my throat. I just told my mate to marry another man. The wolfsbane’s lingering fatigue is nothing compared to the acid churn of self-loathing in my gut. My shoulders slump, the cocky arrogance I wear like armor completely stripped away. I am hollowed out.
I run a cuffed hand through my hair, the motion jerky and frustrated. Gods, I’m a fucking idiot. Hakkan would have a plan. Khuraan would already be burning the city down to find us. But me? The lone wolf. The one with the fucking anger issues. I got us captured. I got her trapped. And now I’ve broken her spirit to save her skin. Some fucking Alpha I am.
The walk back to my cell feels endless, the dark concrete corridor stretching into a tunnel of my own failures. The guard behind me shoves the barrel of his gun into my back, a silent command to move faster. I barely feel it. All I feel is the ghost of her tears on my conscience.
Almost there. The dank, familiar stench of my cage is just ahead. A few more steps and I can collapse in the dark and… what? Plan? There is no plan. There is only the deal. The monstrous, fucked-up deal.
A sudden, sharp crack explodes at the base of my skull. Ice erupts through my veins, a blinding white pain that has nothing to do with wolfsbane.
Ambush.
Instinct takes over. My knees buckle, and I let my body go limp. I hit the cold floor face-first, the impact jarring my teeth. Play dead. Play unconscious. Assess. The guard behind me grunts, surprised by my sudden dead weight.
“The fuck?” his voice grumbles above me.
I keep my breathing shallow, my eyes squeezed shut. I feel rough hands grab me under my arms, another set at my ankles. They’re not Blake’s usual guards; their scent is all wrong—mildew, cheap cigarettes, and river water. Mercenaries.
“He’s out cold. Easy paycheck,” one of them mutters.
They drag me, my heels scraping over the rough concrete. A door screeches open, hitting a wall with a bang. Cold night air hits my face, a shocking contrast to the basement’s stagnant damp. They haul me up and I’m tossed, a sack of meat, into the hard, cold bed of a vehicle. The engine is already running, a low, rumbling growl.
The pretense is becoming dangerously real. A thick, chemical fog starts to cloud the edges of my mind, seeping in through the pain in my head. Drugged. The blow was drugged. Panic, cold and sharp, tries to spear through the haze. Giselle. I can’t leave her. Not with him.
I fight it, clinging to consciousness by a thread. The vehicle moves, bouncing over uneven ground. I focus on the sounds, committing them to memory. The specific whine of the transmission. The smell of stale fast food and motor oil inside the cab. The low, murmured conversation from the front seats.
“…dump him at the spot and we’re done. No prints. No witnesses.”
“The boss wants it to look like an escape gone wrong. River’s high this time of year. Current’ll do the rest.”
River. So that’s the play. Make it look like I bolted, got disoriented, and drowned. A neat, tragic end to the troublesome Zaro son. Blake’s elegance is in his cruelty.
The drug is winning. My limbs are lead, my thoughts syrupy and slow. The world tilts on its axis. I feel a hand pat down my body, rough and impersonal. A flicker of rage cuts through the sedation. Who dares… But I can’t move. I can’t even open my eyes.
Fingers fumble at the pocket of my trousers, and for a bizarre second, a thought, slippery and drug-addled, surfaces. Is this it? Is this how I finally get fucked? The grim, hysterical laughter never makes it past my lips.
The touch is gone as quickly as it came. The vehicle slows, then stops. The engine cuts. The sudden silence is louder than the rumble.
“Alright. Get him out. Make it quick.”
Doors open. The cold air is a slap. Hands grab me again, hauling me out. My head lolls back, and I get a dizzying glimpse of a sliver of moon through the tree canopy. Then I’m being half-dragged, half-carried. The sound of rushing water grows louder, a roaring in my ears that might be the river or the drug.
They drop me. I land on something wet and cold and uneven—mossy river rocks. The shock of the icy water seeping through my clothes is a brief, cruelclear-headed.
“Sorry, mate. Nothing personal.”
A boot connects with my ribs, not hard, but enough to roll me. The world spins. The roaring is deafening now. The cold envelops me, shocking the air from my lungs. The current immediately tugs at my dead weight, pulling me into its dark, relentless flow.
The last thing I’m aware of is the freezing water filling my mouth, and the vague, distant thought that I never got to tell her I was lying.