Chapter Forty Three
Chapter Forty Three
Anne Pov:
The shackles weren’t just steel; they were etched with runes that hummed a low, discordant frequency, vibrating against my bones until my teeth ached. Every time I tried to reach for the spark of my magic, the iron bit back, grounding my power into the stone floor. There was nothing left in me.
Across the cell, Silas was a slumped shadow against the wall. He was too still. I needed the psycho I’d met on the beach—the one who fascinated me and made me want to punch him. Instead, he seemed trapped in a trance, suppressed by whatever dark smoke he’d inhaled and whatever was in his chains. He just stared at me, his eyes alive inside a body that looked dead.
"Don't fight it, little bird," a voice drifted from the gloom—smooth, melodic, and utterly devoid of warmth. It sent a chill down my spine.
Isolde stepped into the torchlight, her robes sweeping over the filth of the dungeon floor without catching a single speck of dust. She looked young. Too young. A sickening feeling filled my stomach—it meant she had already fed tonight. Another witch of the woods had been her victim. A single tear slipped down my face at the thought.
"You've always been so careless with your gifts," Isolde whispered, reaching out to tilt my chin up with a gloved hand. "It’s time they were put to a purpose that actually matters."
Her touch made my skin crawl. With a cruel, mocking sigh, she wiped away the tear running down my cheek. Then, she pulled.
An agonizing rip tore through my chest. Isolde wasn't just taking my power; she was tearing out a piece of my soul. I let out a ragged, strangled scream.
That scream was the catalyst.
Across the room, Silas’s eyes snapped into focus. The dead look vanished, replaced by pure, unadulterated rage.
Crack.
The ward stones shattered. A force of loud, ungrounded, and brutal magic erupted from Silas’s hands, throwing the room into absolute chaos. The explosion didn't just clear the dungeon; it felt like Silas’s restraint had finally snapped along with his chains. Before the dust could even settle, he was a shadow moving through the debris.
Isolde was thrown back against the altar, gasping, her fingers glowing with the faint, stolen shimmer of my magic. She had managed to tear away a piece of it—a jagged hole now pulsed in my chest, leaving me cold and breathless on the stone floor.
Silas didn't shout. He didn't roar. He made a sound that was lower, more primal—a wet, guttural snarl that belonged to a beast. He was on Isolde in a heartbeat, his hand closing around her throat before he drove his blade into her shoulder with a sickening thud.
"You touched what is mine," Silas hissed, his face inches from hers, his eyes blown wide and dark with a manic light. He twisted the blade, leaning in close as Isolde shrieked. "I should peel the skin from your bones for even looking at her."
I watched in a strange, turned-on horror as he raised the blade to stab her again. I had never had protection like this before. No one had ever truly cared; I’d gotten used to being entirely on my own.
He yanked the blade out, ready to go for her throat, but the sound of my ragged, painful intake of breath stopped him. He dropped the dying priestess like she was nothing more than trash.
He was at my side in a blur, his bloody hands framing my face with terrifying tenderness. "Little one," he murmured, his voice a frantic, jagged caress. "Look at me. Did she break you? I’ll go back and finish it. I’ll burn the whole damn mountain down if you’re broken."
I leaned into his crimson-stained palms, a strange, quiet thrill buzzing through me despite the pain in my chest. I had spent my life being hunted by my mother’s cold desire for power. Seeing Silas go absolutely feral in my defense was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.
But I hadn't forgotten the truth.
"Scared you won't be able to get any gold for me if she drains my magic?" I croaked, trying to lighten the heavy air.
His grip tightened, carefully lifting me into his arms. "Little one, we're done with that. You don't worry about my debts. Let's just get the fuck out of here."
### Part 2: The Lush Lily
The "Lush Lily" was a gaudy, velvet-drenched nightmare on the edge of the slums. Silas practically kicked the door in, his shirt shredded, his eyes still darting around like he was looking for someone else to kill.
"A room," Silas demanded, slamming a handful of coins onto the leopard-print counter.
The madam, a woman with hair the color of a neon sunset and a cigarette dangling from her lip, didn't even flinch at the blood on his collar. "Rough night, sugar? We’ve got the 'Grotto of Desire' open. It’s got extra padding on the headboard," she drawled, blowing a lazy smoke ring.
Silas’s jaw tightened. "I don't care if it's a stable. I want a lock on the door and no one within ten feet of it."
"Little one, stay behind me," he muttered to me, keeping one hand hovering near his weapons belt as he guided me past a man in leather chaps and a woman carrying a tray of glittery oils. The hallway was packed with clients enjoying every vice money could buy.
When we reached the room, the door swung open to reveal a bed shaped like a massive oyster shell, complete with a giant faux pearl that glowed a soft, neon pink. The walls were covered in dozens of mirrors, reflecting Silas’s disheveled, unhinged intensity back at us from every angle.
"Ugh. You look terrible," I said with a weak smirk.
Silas dropped me unceremoniously onto the mattress. He had been carrying me bridal style down the entire hallway, stubbornly refusing to let my feet touch the ground.
"Suddenly, little one, it feels as if you can walk just fine," Silas grumbled, pacing the room.
The space smelled heavily of cheap perfume, sex, and regret. Silas stopped dead, staring at a mirror that showed the two of us framed perfectly beneath a pair of golden handcuffs hanging from the ceiling.
"Silas," I said, my voice trembling with a suppressed laugh. "The pearl... it’s vibrating."
"It’s a tactical choice," Silas gritted out, his face turning a dark, furious red. He stalked over to the bed, ripped the pink silk sheets off, and began checking the mirrors for hidden peepholes with the focus of a soldier clearing a minefield. "It’s... it's confusing for the enemy. No one would think I'd stay here."
"Oh, but I'd stay here?"
Silas’s eyes went wide. "Uh, no. That's not what I implied. This place is... inviting."
"Is that why you’re staring at the velvet swing? Is it inviting you to sit on it?" I teased.
The words hung in the air, and suddenly, the frantic comedy evaporated. The heavy, electric tension from the dungeon rushed back. An invisible pull vibrated between us, thicker than the neon light. I stood there, wanting to reach out, but forcing myself to stay still.
Silas took a deep breath, running a bloody hand through his hair. "I'm not going to sell you. I mean it. But it'll be better if we stay together. They both want us dead now."
"Whose fault is that?" I snorted, leaning just a fraction closer to him.
He turned to me, his eyes softening just a fraction, though his hands were still shaking from the residual adrenaline. "If anyone knocks on that door, Little One, I’m killing them. I don't care if they're bringing fresh towels or a tray of those... little chocolates."
"Even the ones shaped like hearts?"
"Especially those," he growled.
Finally, the fierce, protective crazy seemed to settle into a quiet stillness. Silas sat on the edge of the oyster bed, reaching out to pull me firmly into his lap. He buried his face in the crook of my neck, holding me as if I were the only real thing left in the world. I still didn't know if I could trust him. But, I couldn't deny the pull I felt towards him and I knew it was more then just because we escaped being killed twice. We had a kinship for better or for worse. He was the warrior the goddess sent us to free The Witches of The Woods.