Page 78 of Decimation

I search his face for the trick, the trap. There must be one. There is always one. But his colours remain steady, true, and I do not know what to do with that. I do not know how to exist in a world where a monster tells the truth.

“Why am I here?” My voice cracks on the last word, and I hate myself for it. I hate the weakness, hate the tears that are still leaking from my sore, burning eyes.

He tilts his head, studying me. “Because if I left you there any longer, he would break you in a way that cannot be fixed.”

A laugh tears out of me, jagged and ugly. “Who says he hasn’t already?”

He smiles, and it is not a soft smile. It is the smile of a predator, a wolf recognizing another wolf. It should terrify me. It does terrify me but there is something else in it, too, something that looks almost like respect.

“Because you’re still fighting,” he says.

I stare at him, my chest heaving, my wrists still caught in his gentle, unyielding grip. I want to argue, I want to tell him that fighting means nothing, that I am hollowed out and scraped clean, that the girl who fought is dead and buried. But the words will not come. Because some small, stubborn part of me is still here. Still snarling. Still refusing to lie down and simply die.

He releases my wrists and steps back. I snatch my hands to my chest, cradling them against myself. He turns toward the door, and I see another figure waiting in the shadows. An older man with kind eyes and steady hands, a leather bag clutched to his chest.

“This is Nathaniel,” the not-Konstantine says. “He is a doctor, he will take care of you. Take away your pain.”

I do not bother to deny it. Every part of me hurts. The bruises on my body, the raw ache between my thighs, the burning in my eyes. It is a symphony of suffering, and I am so tired. So impossibly tired.

Nathaniel approaches slowly, the way you might approach a wounded animal. “I have something for the pain,” he says, his voice gentle. “And I need to check your eyes. May I?”

May I. As if I have a choice. As if anyone has ever asked my permission for anything. But I nod, because what else can I do? I am too exhausted to fight, too broken to run. I let Nathaniel tilt my chin toward the firelight, let him peer into my eyes with a small light that makes me wince. I let him press a cup of water into my hands and swallow the bitter powder he gives me. I let him tend to me, because I have no other option.

The not-Konstantine watches from the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest, his colours swirling slow and dark. I feel his gaze like a physical weight, and I do not know if it is a threat or a promise. Maybe both.

“What’s your name?” I half ask, half demand.

“Lazarus.” He replies as if he’s granting me some great gift by letting me know it.

I don’t know what to say back so instead I just do nothing, letting the doctor continue to examine me without complaint.

“You will remain here,” he says when Nathaniel is done. “Where my brother cannot find you.”

I look up at him, my eyelids heavy now, the pain beginning to recede into a dull, distant throb. “You are so certain of that?” I ask, not caring if I make him angry because I have nothing left to lose.

“I am,” he replies. There is no hesitation, no doubt. Just absolute, unshakable certainty. “I will keep you safe, and when the time comes…” He pauses, and his colours flare bright, a sudden burst of gold and violet that steals my breath. “I will make you queen of everything.”

The word hits me like a physical blow. “What?”

I must have misheard. I must be hallucinating, the drugs and the trauma twisting his words into something impossible. But his face is serious, his eyes burning with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.

He crosses the room in three long strides and cups my cheek. His palm is warm, rough with calluses, and the touch sends a shockwave through my entire body. I feel it everywhere; in my chest, in my stomach, in the place between my thighs that still aches with the memory of violation.

My body reacts before my mind can stop it; a flush of heat, a quickening of my pulse. I tell myself it is fear, I tell myself it is the lingering effects of the drug. But I know, deep down, that it is something else. Something darker, something I do not want to name.

His colours shift as he touches me. The indigo deepens, the gold brightens, and I see something in them that makes my breath catch. He feels it too. Whatever this terrible, electric thing is between us, he feels it.

I should pull away.

I should bite his hand, spit in his face, tell him I would rather die than be his fucking queen. But I do none of those things. I just sit there, frozen, my cheek burning under his touch, my body betraying me in every possible way.

“Rest now,” he says, his voice softer than before. “I will be back soon.”

He withdraws his hand, and the absence of his touch is almost worse than the touch itself. I feel cold. Bereft. And I hate myself for it. I hate him for making me feel it.

He turns and walks to the door, Nathaniel following silently in his wake. The door opens, and for a moment the firelight catches his profile; sharp, beautiful and utterly terrifying. Then the door closes, and I am alone.

I sit in the chair, my hands gripping the armrests, my body trembling with exhaustion, confusion and a dark, unwanted longing. The fire crackles. The shadows dance. And somewhere in the depths of this strange, ancient house, I hear the echo of his footsteps fading into silence.