Page 101 of Be Still My Unbeating Heart

Bastian’s gaze flashed around the kitchen, searching for some way to stop the council taking him. To save Whitby without her coming to harm. But all he saw was the mayor’s body. The occult paraphernalia cluttering the surfaces. The Obliterati blocking the balcony doors, their chemical scent mingling with the greasy aroma of olive oil.

He was trapped.

Somebody had succeeded in making him looking guilty as sin, and he had nowhere left to run.

He wished De Luca were there, with his reassuring stoicism, those clear blue eyes that seemed to see only good. But having De Luca there would only make this ten times harder.

Bastian felt the fury charging every part of his body, winding it tight, like a crossbow desperate to be fired. The sight of Whitby restrained like that frayed his resolve to stay calm. The sight unraveled his grip on the anger, and he felt himself coming undone. Giving in to the fury that pulsed through his limbs.

He had done everything he could to prove he was a good, innocent person, and it still wasn’t enough.

Still, they looked at him and saw a monster.

He brought his gaze to Whitby, attempting to convey in a single look just how much he loved her. Hoping she knew she was thebest friend he’d ever had. Whatever happened next wasn’t her fault.

Then he let go.

He let the anger rush in.

It washed over him in a roaring wave, consuming him in a way that he hadn’t felt in years. Not even when the mayor’s husband attacked De Luca. Even then, Bastian had managed to hold on, just a little.

Now, though, the fury was like fire in his veins. Pure, undiluted rage.

He seized hold of the refrigerator and hurled it at the Obliterati. They scattered in the air, and Bastian hissed with anger when he saw that Whitby was still clutched in Emmeline’s grasp.

He spun around as half a dozen figures rushed into the kitchen wearing combat gear. They wielded stakes on the end of black batons. The Obliterati had their own hit squad. Bastian heard their heartbeats, knew they were human, but he didn’t care. Not anymore.

He flew at them with the fury of a thousand wronged men, tearing and punching, spurred by the mental image of Whitby. Spurred by his own rage at how he had been mistreated. The injustice. He’d lived through so much, seen a lot over the years, and it seemed to him that the world was goingbackwardinstead of forward. Progress had stalled. Receded. Nobody cared about the truth. They only wanted somebody to pin their misery on.

Hands grabbed Bastian roughly from behind. They yanked his arms back, and before Bastian could break free, metal snapped around his wrists. The ice-cold burn of silver was unmistakable.

“It’s about time you showed your true face,” Zappa rasped in Bastian’s ear, and Bastian grunted in shock. He’d had no idea Zappa was even in the apartment.

With a furious howl, he threw his head back and felt it slaminto the commissario’s forehead. Zappa shouted and Bastian whirled about on the spot, trying to break free from the cuffs, but the silver was already causing his flesh to sizzle. It leeched energy from his muscles, dragging at him, but his anger doubled in size.

“I haven’t killed these people!” he screamed. “I haven’t killed a single person in five years! This is not justice! This is a witch hunt!”

Pain detonated in the back of his skull, and he staggered. Somebody had struck him. His face met the kitchen counter and his fangs sunk into the wood there, hurt and now fear flooding his system.

“That’s enough,” Jared said calmly.

The voice stole yet more strength from Bastian’s limbs because he sensed the council member was right. Time was up. He was beaten. Outnumbered and weakened by the silver. He couldn’t do anything to save Whitby or himself.

Strong hands took his arms, jerking him upright. He was in the grip of one of the task force agents. His legs nearly went out from under him but he managed to remain standing, his body rigid with simmering rage.

“The cat will remain unharmed,” Ling said.

“If you come with us now,” Emmeline added.

On the other side of the kitchen, Whitby made a desperate sound in her throat and attempted to wrestle free, but Emmeline held tight. The cat’s eyes were pleading. Bastian could only look into them for a second before his heart began to break.

He choked on her name, unable to form any more words as tears blurred his vision. He felt himself being dragged backward out of the apartment. The brightness of the morning sun was blinding, but as quickly as it had surrounded him, he found himself cloaked in sudden darkness, and realized he had been wrestled into the back of a van.

He landed face down on hard metal.

The doors slammed shut, silencing Whitby’s distant cries, and Bastian’s body stiffened with a final surge of anger, then released when he realized he could do nothing.

It was over. He was done.