Chapter 8

8

Clarke

T he air was cloying with the overpowering scent of disinfectant, but right beneath it, I could smell sweat and blood and cum. My stomach rolled, sweat breaking out over my skin. I thought I'd been saved. That big man, Tank—he'd come to my rescue. He'd saved all of us. He'd even saved Beck.

So, why was I here again? Why was I back in this room?

I tugged on my wrists, which were above my head, a distressed moan rolling up my throat when I realized they were bound again.

This couldn't be happening again. I couldn't be back here.

Panic clawed at my throat, constricting my airways. My lungs screamed for air, and my heart threatened to slam through my breastbone. Tears streaked down my cheeks, a sob tearing through my throat and past my lips.

Beck was dragged into the room, his wrists and ankles bound. His face was bruised and bloody, his eyes swollen shut. Some of his luscious, blonde hair was missing, ripped from his scalp. Blood ran in rivulets down his skin, but even still, he smiled at me as if he wasn't in pain. As if he wasn't damn near on his deathbed.

"Beck," I sobbed.

"It's okay, baby," he said, his voice soft. "It's all going to be okay. He's coming for you, I promise."

"Beck!" I screamed when the barrel of a gun was shoved into his mouth. I sobbed, tugging on my restraints, more screams tearing through my abused throat. "BECK!" I screeched.

The gunshot was deafening. Blood splattered all over the man who shot Beck as Beck's brain matter exploded from the back of his skull. I choked on my vomit, my horror, and then, I was screaming again—pure anguished, terrified, painful screams.

"Clarke!" I jerked awake, staring up at Beck. His face was a mere inch from mine, his arms banded tight around me as he shook me. The moment he saw my eyes were open, he breathed a sigh of relief and crushed me to his chest, his tattooed arms cinching tightly around me.

The door to the room we were in slammed open, Tank's looming, huge frame rushing into the room, his gun in his hand. He was still in the clothes he'd been in on the way here, but they were rumpled, and his eyes were wild, like I'd somehow woken him up.

Guilt swirled in my chest, mixing with the terror and agony already burning me there.

"Clarke?" he rasped, shoving his gun into the waistband of his jeans at the small of his back.

I sobbed then, breaking down and wailing into Beck's chest. His arms trembled around me, and a moment later, I felt the bed dip with Tank's weight. I could barely breathe as I clawed at Beck's shirt, trying to get beneath the fabric to his bare skin as if I could somehow claw my way into his chest.

"Clarke, sweetheart—" Beck croaked, his voice cracking.

"Give her here," Tank gently ordered.

I wailed again when Beck handed me over, but then Tank was holding me on his lap, my legs straddling his thighs. He banded his thick, muscular arms around me and gently rocked me side to side. "Just breathe, little one," he said softly, his breath making my hair brush my cheeks. "Put your hands over my chest and feel my breaths. Feel my steady heart rate, little one. It's okay now. I promise. I won't let anything happen to you or Beck again. I swear on my life. Just feel my breaths."

I did as he instructed, my palms pressing into the fabric of his shirt. His heartbeat was slow and steady beneath my palms, his breaths deep and sure. I focused on that through my own shaky breaths, through the panic swarming in my head. And slowly—so fucking slowly—I began to calm down, my tears slowing to a more steady flow.

With one arm still banded around me, he cupped my cheek and lifted my face so our gazes connected. His dark eyes were warm and welcoming, sucking me into their depths. "Good girl," he gently praised. I sniffled, liking the way his words made me feel. "You did good, little one." Using his thumb, he stroked some tears off my cheeks. "Go back to Beck now. I'll get you something to drink."

I nodded and reluctantly maneuvered off his lap. Beck tugged me back into his arms, holding me much the same way Tank just had, and my chest loosened even more. Without a word, Tank left the room, but he left the door open, so I could hear him rummaging around. Beck ran his hand over my hair, his eyes red-rimmed and full of pain—pain for me. I gripped his upper arms, my lips trembling.

"They killed you," I croaked.

He shook his head at me. "I'm safe," he softly assured me. "We both are. I may not know Tank all that well, but I do know that he won't let anything happen to us, Clarke. We're okay. We're going to be okay from now on."

I rested my head on his shoulder and circled my arms around his waist, shutting my sore, puffy eyes. I hated the images that assaulted my eyelids the moment I did, but God, my eyes were burning so badly. I was still so tired.

"Here." I lifted my head and looked up at Tank. He was holding a shot glass with amber liquid in it, and he was pushing it in my direction.

I frowned. "I'm not old enough to drink," I blurted.

He chuckled, amusement glinting in his eyes, his lips quirking up at the corners. My muscles loosened a little at the sight. He was already good-looking, but he was damn near beautiful when he smiled like that. "Little one, just drink it. You'll feel better, I promise. And I won't tell if you don't."

His comment made me softly laugh, lightening some of the agony twisting around in me. Dreaming of Beck dying so violently, beaten bloody beforehand, had left a knife slowly sinking into my chest, but with Tank's strength and Beck's embrace, the knife had halted and now just rested there—not leaving my bleeding heart but also not sinking further in.

I coughed after swallowing back the liquid, banging my fist against my chest. "What is that?" I rasped. My chest was on fucking fire.

Tank smirked and handed me a cup of coffee after. "Decaf," he told me at my confused look. "It won't keep you up. And it's an expensive label of whiskey that Alejandro apparently keeps on hand here. It'll settle your nerves."

He wasn't wrong. It already was, and my muscles were relaxing completely. I sipped at the coffee, sighing in relief at the way the warmth slid through my cold body, heating me up from the inside. Beck brushed his lips to my forehead.

"You okay now, baby?" he asked softly, the term of endearment slipping past his lips. I didn't think he even noticed, and I definitely wasn't about to point it out for fear of him never using it again.

I secretly loved it—craved it—when Beck slipped up and called me those sweet pet names. They made me feel special. Loved. And when was the last time I'd felt that outside of Beck?

I glanced at Tank, his name for me reverberating through my skull. Little one . Something soothing slid through me that had nothing to do with the coffee or alcohol.

Did Tank care, too?

"I'm okay," I softly told Beck. I finished my coffee and set the mug on the nightstand before yawning. Beck helped me back beneath the covers before sliding beneath them with me. He tugged me back against him so he was spooning me, his arms banded around my waist.

Tank leaned over us, tucking the blanket in around us. "Goodnight, you two," he whispered.

My heart lurched into my throat, and I latched my slender fingers around his thick wrist when he turned to leave the room. Immediately, he stopped, his muscles going just the tiniest bit rigid. My voice trembled when I tentatively whispered, "Will you please stay?"

Tank looked down at me then, running his eyes over my features. I didn't know what he was looking for, but finally—thankfully—he nodded and pulled the blankets back, sliding on the king-sized bed in front of me. I closed my eyes, my palms pressing against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heart against my fingertips, easily lulling me to sleep.

I was almost asleep when I felt him drape his arm over me, but his palm didn't settle over my hip.

No, it settled over Beck's, and my heart lurched into my throat.

Did Tank like both of us? Was that possible?

If it was… why did I like the idea so much?