“Isn’t it going to suffocate in there?” I asked, as Rome folded his massive arms over his chest and set himself to switching his glare between me and Siret, clearly unimpressed.
“It didn’t suffocate in this mess,” Siret returned, his hand winding around the wild curls that tumbled over my shoulders, tugging on the strands. It forced me to fall forward a step, and I gripped his shirt to stop myself from smacking into him.
“You guys?” Emmy spoke up, her voice dry—sarcastic almost. “She’s walking away.”
I turned toward Emmy, who was pointing at Fakey … who really was walking away. She was heading for the door, her shoulders pinned back, her head held up high, her gait almost leisurely. She arched a dark, winged brow at Emmy as she passed, delivering her a look that was full of vile promise. Atti moved behind Emmy, and I thought that he was just trying to get out of Fakey’s way, but then I saw his hand on Emmy’s shoulder, his fingers clamping down possessively. Protectively.
What in the actual fu—
“Aren’t any of you going to stop her?” Emmy pressed, her voice rising to a squeal, her finger pointing again. Jabbing, really.
She seemed terrified now that Fakey had revealed herself. It was the first time she had ever stood up to a sol, and the sol she had chosen was obviously a powerful one.
“We already have,” Rome grunted, his eyes still glaring at me and Siret. He hadn’t even bothered to turn around.
I blinked, having no idea what he was talking about, and watched as Fakey reached the doorway and then stopped, a frown stuck on her face. After a single click, she was on the floor, folding in on herself as though the air around her was trying to crumple her into a ball. Her head thwacked back, hitting the stone, and her mouth open wide on a silent scream. I started forward, toward her, but Siret grabbed me back. None of the Abcurses seemed surprised to see Fakey arching against the stone floor, apparently in so much pain that she couldn’t even scream. None of them were even paying much attention to her. Except Coen, who was giving her his Glare of Death.
And then it hit me.
Holy shit. “Coen!”
His head snapped around, his eyes slamming into mine. The darkness there was so deep that even though I wasn’t actually moving, I had the oddest sensation of falling forward. Fear slammed into me, but it wasn’t a fear for myself. It was fear for Fakey, who I didn’t even like. Coen slowly turned his eyes from me, as though he had given me that bare moment to speak out against Fakey’s torture, but when I hadn’t said anything to stop him, he had taken it upon himself to continue. The second time his power hit her, the scream finally escaped her body, grating up through her throat and echoing eerily around the walls. Siret released me, his gaze becoming focussed, and I figured that he was shielding the sound somehow. I had no idea if that was something he could do. When none of the dorm rooms burst open, I assumed that it was.
Come to think of it, we’d been making a hell of a scene for a while now, and not a single person had showed. Siret must have been doing something to hide us the entire time.
Fakey screamed again, drawing my eyes immediately back to her. It didn’t look like anybody was going to rush to her rescue.
Which left … Dammit. It left me.
“Coen.” I called his name softly this time, walking over to him, reaching out for his arm.
“Willa—don’t!” Yael’s warning was sharp, but the words were delivered too late.
My skin was already touching Coen’s, and the fire of agony flashed right through my body. An arm hooked me from behind, golden fingers wrapping around my wrist and pulling my hand away from Coen. A pathetic sound travelled out of my throat as my legs buckled, flashes of colour racing over my vision and obscuring the faces around me. The pain was burning and wild, ripping me apart with the sharp sting of fire that only seemed to worsen, instead of fading away. The voices around me swelled, the arms cradling me tighter, and then another feeling swept into me. The fire was still there, ripping through my limbs and searing my blood, but it was … different. Almost … I almost … wanted it.
My body was confused. It hurt, but it didn’t. It burned, but it only burned in all the right places. Hands spun me around, and while I suspected that I kept spinning, that was impossible, because I was anchored against a hard chest and there was a grip at the back of my head, pulling me up. The fire swelled, becoming something more as lips pressed against mine, hard and coaxing. I reacted on instinct, because my mind didn’t seem to know what was happening. I still couldn’t figure out what I was feeling. Whether I was hurting or not. Why I was arching into the hands, why my mouth was parting, my own hands grasping, almost-silent sounds sparking up from somewhere inside me.
Somehow, through the intense meld of pain and pleasure, my mind began to register details. The pain was slowly leaking away, and it was being replaced by other sensations. The burning smell of sugar-plants. The hard feel of muscle beneath my fingers. The taste of something addictive.