The Annihilator (Dark Verse, #5)

by RuNyx

“You have many wishes left in you, flamma, and I will lay every single one of them at your feet. Just keep fucking breathing, got that?”

“Were you... with someone else?”

“You have been, you are, and you will always be my only obsession, Luna Caine.”

He had almost lost her, and for the first time in his memory, something livid lay breathing in his chest. Emotions weren’t something he felt, but he was feeling. Mainly, at himself for not finding her sooner, for taking so long to wrap up loose ends. Also at her, for thinking he would let her go, for even contemplating that she could and he wouldn’t bring her back from the jaws of death itself. It couldn’t have her, nothing could have her, not until he released his claim.

If their past had taught them anything, it was that time meant nothing in their relationship. He would wait years for the right time with her, but the fact that she hadn’t had the patience told him two very important things—she was broken more than he had estimated, and he needed to do whatever it took to make her alive again. If she didn’t feel again, the world would cease to be. Her life wasn’t hers to take.

He had missed that. He’d missed her. And he'd almost lost her. That wasn't okay. That wasn't in the vicinity of okay.

As he flew over the dark fields below, he realized what a close call tonight had been—in more ways than one. Tristan Caine had been there, too close, with the rest of his people, and he wasn’t ready for her to go yet. He knew what would happen if she was gone too early. She would find her family, find people who loved her endlessly, find a man who would heal her with love, probably that dog of Dante’s who’d been on her scent for months, or maybe someone else. And maybe they would quieten her demons for a while. But the demons would return. None of them would understand that, understand her, her hell, because none of them had even seen it, much less lived through it. She needed to feel safe to heal, and no one would make her feel safer than he would. Because they had conscience, morals, ethics, and he? He had her.

She wasn’t ready to meet her past yet, her mind probably wouldn't be able to handle it all at once, but one day she would be. And that day, he would lay the truth at her feet.

After what she’d been through at the hands of The Syndicate, after what they'd done just to draw him out, he didn’t blame her for her hatred. But he couldn’t have come out even if he could have found her. It would have unraveled years of careful planning and putting the right pieces in the right spot. One impulsive move from him could have undone it all and gotten everyone, including the family she didn’t even know about, killed. No, he’d had to choose, and he hadn’t chosen her in the short-term, but she had always been his choice. Everything he’d done for the last six years had been for her, so she could live one day freely without looking over her shoulder all the time. And after what they had done, The Syndicate was going to fucking burn.

Lyla moved her eyes up to see the man the arm was attached to and found herself ensnared by mismatched devilish eyes, one black, one golden-green, staring at her quietly. It had been real. Her fever dream had been real. He had come for her, albeit after months, but he had.

“What is this place?”

“It’s called Bayfjord,” he informed her from her back. “That’s the Iron Mountains, and that’s the Black Bay.”

They were on some kind of deck made in a slit of the space within the mountain. Within the mountain.

“Are we...how... in the mountain?”

“Come with me.”

“This is a walk-in closet.”

He slid the door open, and Lyla stared in awe at the spacious room, lined on both sides with clothes. The right side had all masculine attire, rows of shirts and suits and jackets, all in blacks and grays and whites. The left was feminine, rows of dresses, tops, and t-shirts, in mostly whites and blacks, with an occasional color thrown in.

Someone lived with him, shared a closet with him, and yet he stood there holding her hand. She scrunched her eyes close. She had no right to feel anything. That was how things worked in their world. He could have a gazillion women on call and still take ...

“We can add more color to your side ...

—wait...

That was for her? What...

Curious, she walked to him, realizing her feet were bare and the carpet under her toes was soft. Coming to a stop at his side, she was startled when he pulled her into his back by her hips, looking at their reflections. She looked so much smaller compared to him, the top of her head coming barely to his chin, her frame slender where his was wide. He wasn’t overly muscled but muscled enough to be both strong and sleek.

“Tell me what you see.”

“You behind me.”

“Exactly. I’m always behind you, even when you cannot see.”

“Were you behind me, with me, when they were raping my body?”

“Yes.”

“That’s even worse. Because that means you did nothing to stop it. And that means you don’t care.” Her eyes locked with his. “So you can take your fancy house and fancy clothes and fancy views, and get the fuck aw...

She had never seen anything like this in her life, never thought she would see something like this.

“There’s something for you here.”

“There’s a white tablet on the table. That’s for you. You can spend your time in here deciding what you like,” he continued when she didn’t say anything. “Reading, painting, jewelry-making, watching TV, playing video games, doing things online—try everything and see what you enjoy. There’s also a little garden outside if you want to give it a shot, but you’ll have to wait a month or two for the weather to turn warmer. If you like nothing, we’ll add more options. It’s all yours.”

“How... how did you know?”

“I know you, flamma,” he reminded her. “The deepest desires of your heart, the softest secrets of your soul, the meanest moments in your mind. I know them all, I own them. Every desire, every secret, every thought.”

“And I fit into your agenda of whatever you’ve been doing, isn’t it? I’m useful to you. That's why you came for me. That's why I'm here.”

It began to dawn on her, standing there in the doorway of his expensive house, locked in place by his firm grip on her face. She had just traded one kind of prison for another, a more dangerous kind because she knew she was weak when it came to him, and though she was already broken beyond repair, he had the power to break her still.

She was vulnerable in every way to him, and it burned in her chest to realize it.

He looked the most relaxed that she’d seen in her memory.

“How long have you lived here?”

“A few mo...

“And how long have yo...

“About five years. It took a yea...

“Why not live here before?”

“You weren’t here.”

“I don’t understand emotions,” he began, interlinking his fingers. “I never have. I don’t find them particularly useful for myself, so I have never been attached to anyone either. People have been either useless or useful to me.” He turned fully to sear her with a look again. “While you do fit my plans quite nicely, it's incidental. You’d be here even if you didn’t.”

“You’re a liar.”

“I am,” he agreed without a pause. “But I don...

“I’ll sleep in the other room until you invite me back. This bedroom is yours. This whole house is yours. There’s food in the kitchen. Help yourself.”

“Oh, and don’t try to kill yourself again. You’re very close to getting a lot of answers you’ve been waiting so long for. You don’t want to miss them, not this close.”

The kitchen, like everything in the house, was spacious and clean and modern, with a lot of black and white decor interspersed with chrome. She went to the double-door refrigerator to see what it had, never really knowing how she’d cook anything because she hadn’t ever cooked. The girls had been given sparse meals like rations throughout the day. She’d never even boiled water for tea. Did she even like tea? She’d never tasted it, so she didn’t know.

But now that the thought was in her head, she went investigating. Going on her toes, she opened the cabinets one by one, her hunger sidelined for a moment. The first cabinet had neat jars with labels for each thing—flour, rice, pasta, and so on. It was the raw ingredient cabinet. The second one had all kinds of seasonings one could imagine. The third had plates and bowls and glasses on different shelves. But none had any tea. Dejected, she rested back on her feet, her hands opening drawers and looking inside a little more frantically. So much stuff, but no tea. It was the same with every single place she opened up. Stuff, stuff, more stuff. But she needed the tea. She needed to know if she liked it, needed to prove to herself that she could boil water and brew it, that she wasn’t completely useless.