Chapter 41
Lirael
"What the fuck—" I yanked hard, putting my full weight into it. The metal didn't budge. "Get this off me. Get it off—"
Marcus guided me back to my seat before I tore my wrist open. "Stop. You'll hurt yourself."
"I don't care! Marcus, I swear—"
"It's a silver moon cuff. Old Blackwood restraint for escaped prisoners." His voice was carefully neutral. "The lock self-destructed—see that scorch mark? Won't open until the watch mechanism cools down."
"How long."
"Twelve hours, give or take. The Alpha triggered it reflexively. His beast knows you're a flight risk."
I looked at Sebastian's unconscious face, at the blood seeping through bandages, at the chain connecting us like some sick parody, and felt something crack inside my chest.
"I was going to jump," I said flatly. "Grab a parachute and take my chances falling from the sky rather than stay with him."
"I know." Something in Marcus's expression might have been understanding. "But you didn't. And now you can't. So make your peace with it, because the next twelve hours will be difficult enough without fighting every step."
He was right. I hated that he was right. I could waste twelve hours trying to break an unbreakable chain, or conserve energy and look for other opportunities. The magazine was still hidden. The chain didn't change that.
I forced myself to breathe, to look at Marcus with something like calm. "What happens now?"
"Now we land, and you accompany the Alpha to surgery. You'll need to be present for the entire procedure."
"And if he dies on the table? Does this come off automatically, or do I drag his corpse around for twelve hours?"
Something flickered across Marcus's face. "If his vitals cease, the chain releases immediately. But that won't happen. The Alpha has survived worse."
Has he? Has he survived having someone who could help him but was two seconds from abandoning him to die alone?
I kept quiet. Drawing attention to my potential usefulness was the last thing I needed. If they realized my saliva could neutralize his poison, they'd strap me down and drain me dry.
The helicopter banked sharply, descending. Through the window I saw Ark City spreading below, Black Tower rising like an obsidian needle. We were almost there. Almost to the point of no return.
I looked at Sebastian's unconscious face, at features shifting as the beast fought to surface, and whispered, "I hope it was worth it. Whatever you thought you'd gain by chaining me to you."
His breathing remained shallow, skin fever-hot, and I found myself tracking the monitors despite everything, watching vital signs fluctuate, stomach clenching every time numbers dipped too low.
Stop caring. He's a monster. He kidnapped you. Collared you like an animal.
But my hand stayed near his, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin.
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The medical team moved with practiced efficiency, transferring Sebastian to a gurney in under thirty seconds while I stumbled after, pulled by the chain like a dog on a leash. Someone wrapped a blanket around my shoulders and I clutched it, suddenly aware how much I was shaking.
Armed guards ringed the helipad, their eyes tracking me, cataloging my bound wrists, the chain connecting me to their unconscious Alpha. Marking me as property. As his.
We descended through a private elevator, walls polished obsidian reflecting distorted versions of ourselves—Sebastian pale on the gurney, medics clustered around him, Marcus standing guard, and me, pulled along by silver, looking small and terrified.
"Where are we going?" I asked Marcus quietly.
"Private surgical suite. The Alpha maintains full medical facilities for situations like this."
The elevator opened into what looked like a hospital designed by someone with unlimited funds and no regard for regulations. State-of-the-art equipment, instruments I couldn't name, air sharp with antiseptic and something chemical that made my eyes water.
A nurse appeared—older woman, kind eyes. "Come with me, dear. We need to get you scrubbed in."
"Scrubbed in?" I looked at Marcus.
"Standard protocol. You'll be sterile if you're in the operating room."
I followed her into the changing room, jaw clenched so tight my teeth ached. She walked me through it patiently—harsh antibacterial soap that left skin raw, how to tie the gown so it wouldn't interfere with the chain, tucking hair under the cap. Her hands were gentle, carefully avoiding the collar.
"Have you observed surgery before?" she asked conversationally.
"No. How bad will it be?"
Something flickered across her face. "The Alpha's physiology is complicated. His blood is highly corrosive. But Dr. Blake is the best. If anyone can save him, she can."
If. That word hung between us like a death sentence.
When I emerged, Sebastian was already on the table, torso exposed and marked with surgical lines. Someone had positioned a stool near the head where I could sit without pulling his arm uncomfortably. There was a waste bin next to it.
They expected me to vomit. They weren't wrong.
Dr. Blake was severe-looking, steel-gray hair in a tight bun, the kind of face that didn't suffer fools. She looked up as I approached. "You're the one he chained himself to."
I nodded.
"Interesting. Sit. Don't touch anything. Don't speak unless spoken to. If you're sick, use the bin. Understood?"
"Understood."
I sat, bound hands in my lap, watching the team finish preparations. They moved like dancers, each knowing exactly where to be, and I found myself mesmerized by the efficiency. This was a machine designed for one purpose: keeping Sebastian Blackwood alive.
"Starting with localized anesthetic," Dr. Blake announced. "General is too risky given his metabolic state and the toxin. He may regain consciousness, but pain blockers should keep him manageable."
Manageable. As though Sebastian in pain were a natural disaster to contain.
They injected something into his IV. I watched his face but his eyes stayed closed, breathing shallow. The monitors showed elevated heart rate—one-thirty, one-forty—temperature still dangerously high. Forty-two point three Celsius.
Dr. Blake picked up the scalpel and made the first incision.
---
Blood welled up immediately, dark and viscous, more black than red with an oily sheen. An assistant moved in with suction but it kept coming, wound edges blackening as tissue died.
She began cutting away strips of flesh with quick precision. Each piece went into a metal tray where they continued smoking, filling the air with a smell that made my throat close.
I gripped my stool, chain rattling with the tremor in my wrist, trying to focus on anything else. But there was no escape. I was trapped, chained to the table, forced to witness every cut, every moment of suffering.
"Heart rate spiking. One-fifty. One-sixty. One-seventy."
"He's fighting the sedation. Increase dosage. Now."
More drugs into the IV. I watched Sebastian's face, waiting for some sign he felt it. His features were twisted despite anesthesia, jaw clenched, muscles jumping beneath skin.
Then his eyes flickered open—just for a moment, molten gold burning through medication haze—and his hand twitched, fingers curling.
Without thinking, I slid my fingers between his and squeezed.
His hand closed around mine with surprising strength, lips moving. I leaned forward and caught the end of what he was saying.
"...don't... leave..."
"I'm not going anywhere," I whispered, hating how much I meant it. "I'm right here."
His eyes closed but his grip stayed firm, and I sat there holding hands with the man who'd kidnapped me, watching them cut poison from his body.
The surgery continued. Dr. Blake worked with methodical precision, cutting necrotic tissue, extracting shattered bullet fragments, irrigating wounds with solutions that hissed on contact. I cataloged every detail with cold focus.
This is what he is. What his blood does. Remember this. Remember he's not human, not safe, not someone to trust.
But my hand stayed in his, and when his grip tightened during painful moments, I squeezed back.
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