Page 147 of Chains of Recompense
It all happened in what feels like a matter of moments, and I stand there, chest heaving, blood slick on my hands that isn’t all mine.
We’ve won, but all I can think about are Aisling and Riley. Nothing else matters—not the bodies, not the blood. Not the empire we just reclaimed.
I need to know they’re alive. That they’re safe.
In a flash, I sever the zip ties around my wrists, then I drop the katana and run.
38
AISLING
I see him before I understand what I’m seeing. And when the light hits Raf’s face, I’m certain I must be seeing a ghost.
Because I left him there—we all left him, bound and defenseless—as we fled outside.
And yet, I can see his fierce visage as he bursts from the house like the devil himself is on his heels.
He breaks through the chaos outside like something torn out of a nightmare, his shirt dark and slick, his hands red to his wrists, and for a split, irrational second, my brain decides it’s his blood.
That I couldn’t give the signal in time. That we failed and at any moment, his head will part from his body.
The sound that tears out of me isn’t a word. It’s raw and animalistic, scraped straight from my chest. I clutch Riley tighter and start running.
My father shouts my name as I leave his side, but I don’t stop. I can’t.
My legs barely feel like they’re touching the ground, the world narrowing to the man in front of me and the terror pounding behind my eyes.
Every horrible image I forced myself not to imagine inside that house comes rushing back all at once.
Raf on his knees.
A blade at his throat.
His eyes finding mine one last time.
When I slam into him, the force of it knocks the breath from both of us.
Riley squeaks, trapped between us, startled, then Raf’s arms are around us, solid and warm and very much alive.
His hands cradle Riley first, checking her instinctively, his palm gentle against the back of her head.
“Hey,” he says, voice hoarse but steady. “Hey. You’re okay. You’re both okay.” He sounds like he’s reassuring himself just as much as he is us.
I’m crying too hard to answer. My face presses into his chest, into the hard muscle beneath the blood and sweat and smoke.
I don’t care that he’s filthy.
I don’t care that he’s dangerous and violent and everything I once ran from. He’s alive. That’s all that matters.
Riley peeks up at him, her little hands fisting in his shirt. “You’re all wet.”
He huffs a soft laugh. “Yeah. I know. Sorry, Princess.”
I pull back enough to see his face, to make sure it’s really him. His cheek is smeared with blood, a shallow cut along his jaw, another at his hairline. But his eyes are clear, focused as he drinks us in.
Lifting my shaking hands, I start touching him everywhere at once—his shoulders, his chest, his arms—checking like I don’t trust my eyes.
He lets me, standing still while I catalogue every inch of him, searching for where he’s hurt.
