Chapter 29

M uted orange streetlights fill the car in waves as we drive down the highway on our way to get medical help. Darian is passed out in the back, but at least he’s breathing. I keep looking over my sore shoulder to check.

Elijah demanded to find his own way home after dumping me unceremoniously in the front seat with no care in the world that I nearly passed out in pain, and now he’s no doubt terrifying some unsuspecting woman in his blood-soaked clothes. The guy has a creepy serial killer vibe about him.

I’m leaning with my head against the window, wincing in pain every time there’s a slightly uneven surface on the road. My injured shoulder feels like it’s been doused in gasoline and set on fire. Not to mention my throbbing leg and the bleeding injury in my calf.

Tilting my head, I study Sinclair.

Shadows cling to him tonight as he rests his elbow on the window, staring unseeingly at the dark road ahead, his other hand hanging over the steering wheel. He notices me watching and frowns, then rubs his fingers over his full lips as if deep in thought. With a sigh, he drops his hand. “I guess you have questions.”

“You can say that again.” I try to keep my voice light but can’t stop it from shaking. “I don’t know who I am anymore. Those people back there…” I drift off, my heart clenching painfully. “I thought they were my friends.”

“You can’t trust anyone in this world,” he replies darkly.

“Not even you?”

“Especially not me.”

I stare at his side profile as the seconds tick past. “Where do your alliances lie, Sinclair? The only time I’ve seen you truly care about anything or anyone is when your family is involved. Maybe I’m going out on a hunch here, but I think Darian is part of your family, blood-related or not.”

His eyes slide in my direction as a corner of his mouth lifts. “You’re right,” he replies, checking the rearview mirror. “Darian is like a younger brother to me. After he lost his family, mine took him under their wing, and I’ve been there to look out for him ever since.” Curling his fingers around the steering wheel, as though he needs to anchor his emotions, his smile slips. “He used to be a happy kid before that night, but…uhm…”

He wets his lips, brows creased in concentration. “He was never the same again. My father took him to see a psychologist, but there wasn’t much they could do for him. Darian retreated into himself. Don’t get me wrong; he was by no means weak, but the night he lost his parents changed him. As he grew older, he swore to seek revenge, to kill your father himself, but politics aren’t that straightforward in our world. Van der Meer held a lot of power. My father warned your husband against doing anything stupid until the time was right. Not to make the wrong enemies. In the meantime, Darian worked hard to climb the ranks over the years.” Sinclair blows out his cheeks, his chest deflating on a deep sigh. “He was finally ready to kill your father that Reckoning night, but the Bishop got to Mr. van der Meer first.”

Eyes wide, I lift my trembling hand to my mouth.

“I didn’t think much of it. Mr. van der Meer was dead. His wife had gone on the run and took you with her. But Darian kept discussing revenge like your father was still alive.”

“What happened then?” I ask.

“Not much,” he answers, but I don’t miss the tick in his jaw. “Darian threw himself headfirst into the Exodus. By now, he was a respected and feared Elder, like his father, but it was all…” Sinclair seems to search for the correct word. “Robotic. His heart wasn’t in it. While the other Elders live and breathe the Exodus, Darian merely tolerates it.” He looks at me then, his blue eyes roaming over my face as another wave of orange streetlight fills the car. “I have no doubt he’d leave the Exodus in a heartbeat if the right incentive presented itself.”

My heart thuds harder, and I turn to look at Darian over my shoulder.

His chest is still moving.

Relieved, I face forward, clutching my injured shoulder. “I don’t want him to defy the Bishop because of me.”

“It’s a little too late for that,” he replies, chuckling. “He put a target on his back when he made the rash decision to marry you. It’s only a matter of time before the Bishop discovers your real identity and makes an example out of him, if he hasn’t already figured it out. No one has defied him like that since your father had the guts to go back on their deal.”

“I can’t believe he promised me to the Bishop’s son before I was born.”

Sinclair frowns, glancing at me. “Are you serious? You’re the daughter of not one, but two Elders. Of course, you’d go to a high bidder.”

I choke on my breath. “A high bidder?”

“You’re so na?ve,” he responds, not quite containing his amusement, but then he sobers, gripping the steering wheel. “Shortly after Darian moved into his new house, I caught him talking to the shadows in the cellar.”

I stay silent, sensing he has more to say.

“According to his psychologist, it was his mind’s way of protecting him from reality. Somehow, the phantasm of your father allowed him a sense of control, something he lacked the night his mother was raped and murdered.”

“Did you not tell him it wasn’t real?”

He grinds his teeth and checks his mirrors. “He had it under control. You don’t know Darian the way I do. Trust me when I tell you he was improving.”

“So what changed?”

“You did.” He says it so easily, my breath catches.

“Me?”

Sinclair hums an agreeing sound as we enter a filter lane. “Before you, Darian was a vault. His emotions were locked up so tight that he was barely human, but then you crashed into his life and pried him open.”

Crashed into his life?

“Excuse me? He forced me to marry him.”

No one held a gun to his head. He could have me killed that night. Instead, he chose to marry me.

“He did it to stop the Bishop’s son from sinking his claws into you. Trust me, you got the better end of the deal.”

“I don’t get it. Why would he do that?” It makes no sense. Why would he feel a sense of loyalty to me?

“Beats me,” Sinclair says, slowing to a stop at a roundabout. We watch a silver Mercedes drive by while Darian’s labored breathing fills the small space in the back seat. “Let’s just say, Darian was a very impulsive kid before his parents’ murders.” Rolling his head on the headrest, he looks at me. “The night he married you was the first time I’d seen him act impulsively since we were young.”

A blush creeps up my neck, and I break eye contact. Sinclair can’t be right. Why would Darian risk his position in the Exodus and his standing with the Bishop to keep me safe?

“I think you intrigued him when you bulldozed yourself onto the property under the pretense of belonging to the cleaning crew. It was a very bold and reckless move and sure to catch the eye of a man in power.”

He gives me another pointed look before entering the roundabout, and I shrink a little in my seat, embarrassed by how na?ve I’ve been. How could I think I could just waltz right in and go unnoticed?

A thought occurs to me. “Do you think the Antichrist used me? Lauren said they knew who I was when they recruited me and did it intentionally to use me in their war.”

“Honestly,” Sinclair replies as the streetlights become far and few between, the stretches of darkness growing wider, “I don’t know.” Shrugging, he gives me an apologetic look.

I chew on that for a while as my gut twists uncomfortably. “Where do I go from here?”

I don’t belong anywhere. I can’t go back to the rebels after Sinclair killed their members, not that they’d want me anyway; I’m just a weapon in their war, and I refuse to be a pawn anymore.

But I also can’t stay with Darian if it puts him in danger.

“I don’t like that look in your eyes,” Sinclair says. “Whatever you’re thinking, stop it. It’ll do you no good to run away. Darian will still have a target on his back, no matter what.”

“Are you sure about that?” I reply, growing larger in my seat. “It’s me he wants. No one else except my husband, you, Elijah, and a few trusted others know I’m the van der Meer’s sole heir. The Bishop is out there searching for me. He doesn’t know I’ve been hiding under their noses.”

Sinclair scoffs. “You shouldn’t underestimate him. It wouldn’t surprise me if he knew by now. The rebel group probably leaked your whereabouts.”

“Why complicate it, Sinclair? Darian is only safe if I’m not around. It’s only a matter of time before the Bishop finds out I’m here. It’s dangerous for me to stay.” I nibble on my bottom lip, my thoughts a jumble of scattered pieces trying to fall into place. “If he wants to find me, he can. So what is he waiting for?”

Sinclair stares into the darkness ahead, frowning like he wants to grab me by the hair and jostle me like a piggybank to get at my thoughts. “He probably already knows you’re here, and he’s biding his time, waiting for you to run away and leave yourself unprotected,” he answers reluctantly, almost thoughtfully. “Perhaps he’s banking on it. And you would be just stupid enough to do it to keep Darian safe.”

We lock eyes in the darkness, the lights on the dashboard the sole illumination.

“You know Darian will catch you if you run.”

“He underestimates how good I am at hiding. After all, I did it for ten years.”

“No offense, Mrs. Delacroix, but you underestimate what a good hunter your husband is.”

Time has slowed to a near crawl. Something about hospitals defies natural laws. Out there, in the real world, hours feel like minutes, sometimes seconds. But here, at my husband’s bedside, the seconds slither by painfully slowly. I’ve barely slept since we arrived weeks ago, refusing to leave his side. At one point, a nurse draped me in a blanket.

Except for the bruises to his face from the beatdown, Darian suffered a small brain bleed, which required emergency surgery and a stint in the ICU. His doctor remains hopeful for a full recovery, but there are no guarantees, and all we can do is wait.

Wait for my husband to heal.

Wait for him to be strong enough to be roused from his induced coma. For now, he needs to rest.

I’ve lost count of how many sunrises have woken me up from my restless slumber while I’ve been curled up awkwardly in my chair or sleeping with my head on Darian’s mattress, his hand clutched in mine. I’ve also lost count of how many times I’ve witnessed the sun dip behind the trees outside the building to mark the end of another day.

Sinclair arrives daily to check on Darian, looking tired and paler than usual, his concerned eyes raking over my withering form. “Have you eaten something?” he always asks, and I respond with a faint shake of my head as I continue staring out the window. Nothing else is said, but I feel his disapproval.

Before he leaves, he likes to bark orders at the overworked, underpaid nurses to bring me a hot meal. Other times, he’ll appear at my side with a wrapped sandwich.

“You should go home and get some sleep, Cecilia,” he says tonight as he eyes my husband’s breathing tube and the beeping monitors.

When I don’t respond, his eyes land on me. “You need more than an hour’s sleep here and there. I’ll stay.”

“I’m not leaving him like this,” I respond, sounding dead even to my own ears.

Sinclair frowns, and I worry for a second that he’ll haul me over his shoulder and carry me home. It seems like his M.O to boss women around, but if he so much as tries to move me from this chair, I’ll fight him tooth and nail. I’ll scream the place down.

“I’m not leaving,” I repeat in a firm tone. “Don’t make me.”

Sinclair studies me in the muted light from the bedside lamp, which offers the sole illumination. “You know Darian will have my head if I don’t look after you while he’s gone, right?”

“No offense, Sinclair, but I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.”

“When was the last time you showered? Slept? Ate a proper meal?”

“I could use a fly swatter right about now,” I grumble, rubbing my eyes. “Your concern is heartwarming. It is. But don’t you have like a hundred bat plants to look after? I heard they flourish if you talk to them.”

Much to my surprise, Sinclair laughs, and if I didn’t feel like death warmed up, I could appreciate the sweet sound. When was the last time something made me laugh?

Leaning forward in my seat, I reach for Darian’s hand, careful not to disturb the cannula, and kiss his knuckles.

Tears moisten my lashes as I linger with my lips on his warm skin, which smells of faint antiseptic like everything in this room.

“Does the Bishop know?” I ask, lowering his hand to the mattress.

“No. No one knows you’re here. Dr. Grant can be trusted.”

I smile weakly. Sinclair swipes his suit jacket from the armchair on Darian’s other side and shrugs it on, his tie askew. “I trust you’re not a flight risk, Mrs. Delacroix.”

My eyes roll even as my lips twitch. “Not until I know he’s safe.”

Sinclair walks around to my side and puts his big hand on my shoulder, squeezing tight. “Give me a call if you want a break. Your husband would want you to sleep.”

“Go home, Sinclair.”

With a final squeeze, he leaves the room, and the tears I couldn’t let fall while he was in here finally spill over. I reach for Darian’s hand and bring it to my lips once more, kissing his palm. My heart throbs against my bruised ribs, my eyes drifting to the feeding tube and the wires attached to him. I hate anyone seeing him this vulnerable and unable to defend himself.

“I love you, Darian Delacroix,” I whisper as I place his palm against my cheek, leaning into his touch, noting the bruises on his cheeks. “I should have told you sooner.”