Page 89 of Hellbound

He sounded so certain. So pleased.

As she looked at him and remembered how she’d turned to him in her most desperate hours, the dam inside her broke and terrible hurt poured out with a resounding scream.

“Why didn’t you tell me what it all really was? I would have believed you. I would have helped you find someone else—you know that. I’ve always done as you asked. I kept your secret. And yet you screwed me anyway because at the end of the day, you don’t give a shit about me or anyone else, do you? You’re just another fucking monster.”

And she’d been the fool who’d trusted him.

His mouth set in a dour line. Marian stared back, gutted and grasping for a new paradigm; the Vale she’d known was gone. There was only this creature with eyes like sea ice.

After a prolonged, tortuous silence, he replied curtly.

“I think someone’s overdue for a nap.”

The prick of a needle in Marian’s neck told her she’d made a grave error in not watching her back in a monster’s den.

It was lights out before she hit the ground.

Marian awoke with a dull headache on top of buttery-smooth white sheets in a room with forest green walls.

Not the cracked walls of her bedroom. This wasn’t a nightmare. This was real. Her aching bladder was proof of that. She reached for her throat. The metal collar was gone, but its presence lingered.

Ever so slowly, she sat up and looked around. She was surrounded by ornate wooden furniture. Antiques, she assumed, and beautiful.

She wanted to take an axe to them all.

Her bladder insisted she take a piss first, but Marian didn’t want to move. Strength surged through her body, but getting up meant facing this new truth, and she wasn’t ready.

The window above the dresser revealed a cloudless darkening sky. The tops of trees swayed in the wind. The lights of the city were nowhere to be found.

Where was this house? And why did she smell awful? A quick glance down at the ichor-stained clothes provided the answer. Her hat was missing, and Roman’s blood mingled with the drying viscous crud. Her bare arms were as pale as ever, but her scar was now smooth, even, and black.

Marian bolted upright when the bedroom door opened. Paul Choi walked in dressed in a loose-fitting gray tank, his winding tree tattoo in full view.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” he said easily. “You ready to come join the living?”

Marian glared at him as she drew her knees to her chest.

“Fuck off, Paul. Or whatever your real name is.”

“It’s Paul. Keep being mad at me if you want, I don’t care—I broke, like, twelve traffic laws saving your ass last night.”

Marian shifted on the cloudy duvet. She was still trying to decide if being alive was a good thing. Given that her death likely meant eternity in whatever not-Hell really was, she supposed she should be glad to be breathing.

“How long was I out? And why did you try handcuff me that night?”

Paul dragged the back of his hand across his face as he sniffled. “The first time, you were out for a couple hours. This time, about a day. And I handcuffed you because whatever Vale did to stabilize you also made you squirmy as all fuck.”

Paul jerked his chin at the door, giving Marian a glimpse of the tracks of red welts marring his cheek.

“There’s food downstairs. I have orders to make sure you eat something.”

“I’m not hungry.” But Marian’s stomach betrayed her with a loud gurgle.

Paul snorted. “You’re such a bad liar. Get changed, shower, and I’ll take you to the kitchen. Tori’s downstairs.”

Marian practically leapt off the bed at “Tori.” Dried black goop flaked off her shirt and fluttered to the floor. “I want to see her right now.”

Paul’s infuriatingly handsome face turned scornful.