Page 51 of Thirst
I curled my lip. “Go to Hades.”
He muttered something that sounded like, “I’m already there,” and snapped the handcuffs on my wrists again.
Then, to my shock, he eased the soft cotton of my long-sleeved tee between my wrists and the silver bands, protecting my injured skin from further exposure.
“As soon as we get out of town,” he told me, “I’ll stop somewhere for salt and water to wash out those wounds.”
I shrugged. It would help, but the poison was already spreading through my bloodstream, a prickling, painful burn that would only grow worse. At least my hands were in front of me now.
“And Nyx?” He speared a hand into my hair, tugging it so my chin was elevated, my throat exposed to him. Making it crystal clear that, here and now, he was my alpha.
This time, I couldn’t resist dropping my eyes—a quick, instinctive response. “What?”
“Try anything and I will hunt you down and make you sorry you were ever born. Is that clear?”
I pressed my lips together, hating how easily he read me.
“Nyx?” he prompted.
“Got it,” I mumbled.
He released me. “That’s better.”
He shut the door, scooped a handful of snow, and scrubbed the blood from his face before rounding the truck. A few minutes later, we were heading east out of town, farmland and scattered houses sliding past.
The truck hit a rut, throwing me against the door. I smothered a whimper. Silver wounds heal slowly, and I was especially susceptible. Even without the spikes biting into my skin, the welts throbbed painfully. And these handcuffs weren’t just restraints. They’d been engineered to force the poison deeper, to flood my system as quickly as possible.
Cain swung the truck into a gas station with a convenience store attached.
“I’ll be right back,” he said with a frowning glance at me and hit the remote, engaging the locks, before loping off.
I watched him enter the store. My last chance to run.
I even unlocked my door and grabbed the handle.
But I was weakening by the minute, exhaustion weighting my limbs, my body aching like a human who’d caught the flu. I wouldn’t get a hundred yards like this.
And how would I remove the cuffs? I might even do something that would cause the silver spikes to dig into my skin again.
My breath leaked out in despair. I rested my forehead against the window, the glass cool against my heated skin.
I was still there when Cain returned. I heard his approach, but I couldn’t seem to make myself react. When the door swung open, I spilled forward toward the pavement.
He cursed and caught me, bobbling the two bottles of water he’d bought. He dropped them on the truck floor and eased me back against the seat. Through slit lids I watched him tear open several salt packets and empty them into one of the bottles. He capped it and shook it, mixing the salt in, then pushed up my sleeves and eased me forward so my arms dangled out of the truck.
“This is going to hurt,” he warned—and poured the salt water over my left wrist.
He hadn’t lied. Pain exploded through me. I gasped and jerked against his hold.
“Don’t move.” Cain tightened his grip on my upper arm and grimly cleaned my other wrist.
I stifled a shriek. Mercifully, my mind went blank. I came back to myself to hear myself whining like a hurt animal. Dragging in a breath, I dug my teeth into my lower lip so hard I drew blood.
“Almost done,” he muttered.
I focused on his strained face. A muscle in his cheek flexed like he was hurting right along with me.
That emptiness inside me swelled, pressing against my ribs. He had no right to feel my pain, not when he’d caused it.
