Page 66 of Taint My Soul

A grunt breaks through the humid air, pulling me out of my thoughts. The bars of the prison cell cast shadows over his dark brown skin. I had been awake for at least an hour while I observed unconscious Mason bound to the chair opposite me. His face wrinkles with lines of irritation as he tries to move, only to realize he’s held by chains.

“Don’t struggle. We are both fucked royally.” I smile.

He groans, eyes flickering open as his gaze finds mine. “What happened?” He drags his breath through clenched teeth. “Where are we?” He asks and takes in our surroundings. Laden stone walls, unevenly plastered with dried blood, bracket us. We are not the first men Cyrus brought here. There’s a single light bulb hanging from the ceiling. We’re in an abandoned Greyhouse. Greyhouses were built during my father’s time. There’s only a few of them left, and they were used for torturing traitors in the past.

I never thought I’d see one in my lifetime.

I expect Mason to go into a full-blown panic now, but he remains oddly still. He inhales, chest expanding and contracting as his gaze rests on me. His gaze tracks the fissured walls around us. I wait, counting down numbers in my head, but he remains so relaxed it’s unnerving. It makes me wonder if he’s ever been in this kind of situation before.

“Oh, my God, Saint.” He says, eyes wide, when he notices the bruises and blood on my face. “Are you okay?” Cyrus had taken his time to play with me before Mason returned to consciousness.

“I ask the questions, Mason.” I respond nonchalantly. “Did they hurt you, little devil?”

“Don’t call me that, jackass!” He frowns, curling his toes. “I’m not your devil.” He drawls.

I observe him lazily. No matter how much he tries to deny it. I see him. The way he remains calm. Any normal human being would go into panic mode, asking so many questions. Worst of all, I remember the way he flipped on Kurt that night.

He opens his mouth and presses it into a thin line, thinking better of his words.

I smirk at him. “Don’t worry. We’ll get out of here. Cyrus’s here for me. Not you.” I reassure him. He breaks eye contact and inhales sharply, shoulders relaxing.

Outside the holding cell, footsteps skitter from the hall, drawing closer and getting louder. Long shadows cast on the dark wall as Cyrus appears in his suit. He inserts the key into the cell and opens the barrier, stepping into the charged space quietly. The hard line of his jaw sets, and his dark, unforgiving gaze cuts over my skin. His nostrils flare. He plants his feet wide apart. “It’s good to see you, son.”

“Cyrus. It’s been over twenty years.” I jest with a smile as if he hadn’t almost disfigured my face merely hours ago.

“You still remember.” He hums under his breath and crosses his arms.

“Like it was yesterday.”

“Good. Cause I wanted to make sure before I make you scream.” He says, his words cutting like a blade. Blood pounds in my ears as I stare at him. My throat works as my tormented eyes flickers up to him.

“Make sure it’s a memorable death, Gravedigger.” I grin at him.

He doesn’t utter another word. He turns on his heel and leaves us in the charged, awkward silence of the cell.

Mason glances at me indifferently, but he doesn’t say a word. He has questions. He’s too smart not to ask questions. And I can’t give him answers. One, because he’s not of King’s blood. He doesn’t have family that’s a part of the syndicate. Two. He’s not made for my world. And I can’t exactly tell my secrets to an outsider.

“You’ll just sit here and let him kill you. You won’t even bargain.”

“I don’t think we should speak about this.”

He scoffs, shaking his head in utter disappointment. “Typical Saint King.”

“I’d appreciate the silence.” I mutter, irritation sharpening my words.

“Because you’re a fucking coward.” He blurts out. His words hit me so hard and my eyes slacken with terrifying shock. A sick, crawling dread spikes down my spine.

“I’d choose my next words wisely.”

“Or what? You’d shove me against the wall again. We are both tied up, Saint.” He lets out, frustration bleeding through his words.

A thick and visceral silence falls over us. We don’t move. We don’t even look at each other. Does he truly want to know what happened? I have never told a single soul. I have never mentioned to anyone that I spent the night in my room writing those horrifying words in his blood, my sweat, and my tears. I have never told anyone that it felt like I was dying. Like I was breathing shredded nails into my lungs.

“I killed his son. He’s right to kill me.” Breath stuttering, the words break loose from my lips. My cheeks burn with immense shame and regret. For one nightmarish second, everything inside me goes completely still. I wait for the sharp, judgmental look in the depth of his irises.

“You killed his son?” He lifts his brows. “Why? Did he attack you?”

“You want me to give you a reason. I killed someone. Isn’t that enough for you to see me as a monster?” I demand, but he doesn’t look at me. Yet I see the way his features slacken with an emotion I can’t name. Sympathy? Guilt? Shame? Irritation? What is it? I’m not sure.