Reckoning, page 12
“Keep on her,” I murmured to Silence, who flicked an ear back at me before moving forward again.
If she’d made it this far, she was tougher than I’d dared hope. But if the limp slowed her much more… she wouldn’t be outrunning angels or beasts for long.
I picked up the pace, every step a promise—if anything had touched her before I got there, there’d be hell to pay, and I’d be the one collecting.
Every new sign of her was too easy. Too damn easy.
Scuffed dirt, bent grass, branches snapping at shoulder height—she wasn’t covering her tracks, not even trying. It made my teeth grind. Was she hurt bad enough she didn’t care who followed her? Or did she think nobody would bother? Either way, it was sloppy. Sloppy got you killed out here.
I muttered under my breath as I followed the trail. “You got a death wish, sugar? ’Cause this is how you get one granted.”
The forest thinned just ahead, light spilling through into a small clearing. I stepped forward, scanning the edges out of habit. My shoulder still burned from the spear, my patience wearing thinner with every step.
That was when I heard it—a faint, sharp snap, like a dry twig breaking under sudden weight.
Before I could move, the ground yanked upward.
Rope and vine whipped around me in a vicious snare, thorns biting into my jacket and tearing at the skin underneath. My boots left the dirt, weight jerking me up into the air until I was dangling a few feet off the ground, tangled like an animal in a hunter’s trap.
“Son of a—” The rest got swallowed in a snarl.
Silence exploded into motion below me, circling and snapping at the net. Her jaws worked fast, teeth tearing through rope, but the vine fought back—thick, old, laced with something that smelled faintly of blood and iron. She growled low, a warning to whoever thought they could hide and watch.
I twisted, the rope creaking under the strain, thorns raking along my side. Every thrash sent a sting of pain down my ribs, but I kept at it.
“Clever,” I growled into the shadows around the clearing, voice carrying. “Real clever.”
I couldn’t see them yet, but someone was out there. The trap was too fresh, too well-set, to be abandoned. My mind ran through the possibilities—raiders, scavengers, maybe even angels trying to drag me in alive.
I spat blood onto the dirt below, eyes scanning for movement.
“Whoever set this…” I yanked hard against the net, the cords biting deep into my forearms as they strained. “You just made the wrong fucking enemy.”
Somewhere off to my left, a branch shifted.
Silence stilled, ears pricked, lips curled back over her teeth.
I didn’t know if they’d come forward or try to take me from a distance—but either way, when I got down from this, somebody was going to bleed for it.
Chapter 13
Everly
The forest was still wrapped in its pre-dawn shroud, mist curling low between the roots and trunks. Every breath I took tasted like damp earth and pine. I’d been awake for hours, pacing the edges of my small camp, telling myself the trap would work—telling myself I was ready if it didn’t all while trying to ignore my limp.
A sharp, violent crack split the quiet, the sound ricocheting through the trees and right into my chest.
I froze mid-step, my breath snagging in my throat. My hand moved on instinct, fingers closing around the dagger Mary had pressed into my palm days ago. The leather grip was cold from the night air, but it felt solid, real—something I could hold onto when my thoughts tried to splinter apart.
Something—or someone—was in my trap.
My first thought was to run. Every muscle in my legs begged for it, whispering that I could vanish back into the trees, put as much distance between me and whatever was thrashing out there as possible. But running had only ever kept me alive. Never free.
And I wasn’t going back to being a thing someone owned.
I sucked in a slow breath and let it out through my teeth, grounding myself. My heart still pounded hard enough that I could feel it in my fingertips.
Quietly, I mouthed the words that had carried me through darker moments,
“God, make my hands steady. Give me courage.”
The mist seemed to curl tighter around me, like it was listening.
Step by step, I moved toward the sound. My boots pressed into the wet leaf litter without a crunch; I kept my weight balanced, my steps measured. I’d learned that from watching Walton in the woods—how he moved like the ground was his ally, not his enemy.
The noises ahead grew sharper—thick rope creaking under strain, something heavy shifting and jerking against it. A low, guttural growl cut through the air, deep and animal. It sent a jolt through me, but I kept going.
When the clearing opened before me, I stayed in the cover of the trees. My trap had worked—vines and rope knotted into a brutal snare, hoisting my catch up off the ground. The figure inside it thrashed hard enough to make the whole rig sway, and in the dim gray light I caught flashes of motion—shoulders, a weapon, something dangerous coiled in every move.
This wasn’t a wild animal.
It was a man.
And he was furious.
I tightened my grip on the dagger, my pulse roaring in my ears. I didn’t know if I’d caught prey… or trouble.
But either way, I wasn’t turning back.
The shape in the net was massive, straining against the ropes with enough force to make the entire contraption groan. The mist blurred his outline, but even through the shifting gray, there was something about the way he moved—controlled violence, every motion purposeful despite the tangle—that tugged at the edges of my memory.
I took another step closer, keeping to the shadows, my dagger steady in my grip. I should’ve been afraid. I should’ve been ready to run if he broke free. But instead, something in my chest tightened—not with fear, but with… recognition.
Then I heard it.
A low, irritated growl, words spilling in a rhythm I knew better than my own heartbeat. The curses were quiet, muttered under his breath, laced with a sharpness that could cut steel.
My breath caught, and for a moment, the forest faded. The mist, the cold, the ache in my body—all of it vanished under the weight of that voice.
It couldn’t be.
But it was.
The realization hit me like a spark to dry tinder, igniting something warm and dangerous deep inside. My heart leapt so hard it almost hurt.
“Walton,” I breathed, the name escaping before I could stop it.
He stilled for half a second—just enough for me to know he’d heard. Then the thrashing started again, more deliberate now, the sound of rope fibers snapping under his strength.
I lowered the dagger, my fingers trembling. He was here. Against every odd, every nightmare that had told me I’d never see him again… he was here.
And for the first time in what felt like forever, the weight on my chest loosened. Not gone—but lighter.
Without a second thought, I sprinted through the mist, boots silent on the damp earth. My breath came fast, not from the run, but from the sight of him—alive, snarling, thrashing against the ropes like he was wrestling the whole forest. I didn’t slow. I didn’t think. I just moved.
Walton’s head snapped up at the sound of my approach, eyes narrowing as if he didn’t quite believe what he was seeing. Even trapped, he radiated that same coiled danger I’d always known, the kind that made most people step back. Not me. Not anymore.
He gave a low, incredulous growl. “What the hell are you doing out here, Bunker Rat? Thought you were rotting in some angel’s playpen.”
I didn’t flinch, just dropped to my knees beside him and started sawing at the ropes with Mary’s dagger. “Maybe I just got tired of waiting for you to show up.”
His mouth twitched—half a smirk, half a sneer. “Guess I’m losing my touch if you had to come save me.”
“You’re not the one with a net around your neck,” I shot back, yanking hard until a knot gave way with a sharp snap.
“Pretty sure I was doing fine before you showed up,” he muttered, though I caught the flicker of relief in his eyes.
“Yeah? Looked like the net was winning.” My blade bit into another rope, the fibers fraying fast under each swipe. I kept my focus tight—if I thought too long about the fact that I was actually here, cutting him loose, I’d lose my rhythm.
Walton shifted his weight, testing the give in the net as more strands fell away. “Still got that mouth on you,” he said, almost approving.
“Still got that ego,” I countered.
The last knot gave way with a sharp snap, and the whole net sagged before giving up entirely. Walton hit the ground hard, a grunt breaking from his chest as the ropes slithered off him.
Before he could even push himself up, I was moving—closing the space between us like I’d been holding back for years instead of days. My knees hit the damp earth, and then I was on him, arms thrown around his neck so tightly I was half-choking him. I didn’t care. My whole body shook as I buried my face against the rough line of his jaw, breathing in smoke, blood, and that grounding scent that was just… him.
The sobs came before I could stop them—deep, ragged, tearing their way up my throat. I clung to him like if I let go, he’d dissolve into the mist and I’d wake to find this had been another cruel trick. “Thank You, God,” I whispered against his skin, the words tumbling over each other in a rush. “Thank You. Thank You. Thank You.”
Walton’s hands hovered for a moment—hesitant, almost startled—before settling at my back. His grip was strong but not crushing, fingers curling in the fabric of my dress like he was anchoring himself too. He didn’t say anything, and maybe that was better. Words would’ve broken the fragile, dizzy relief that was holding me together.
The silence around us felt unreal. Just the soft hiss of the mist curling through the trees, our breath mingling in the space between us, and the faint creak of leather as he finally pulled me in closer. I could feel the steady beat of his heart under my cheek, and for the first time since I’d run, the terror in my chest loosened.
I pulled back just enough to see him, my hands still gripping his shoulders as if the weight of my gaze might keep him here. His eyes were sharp and watchful, scanning me in that way he always did—looking for wounds, for lies, for anything I wasn’t saying.
“I thought—” My voice cracked, the thought splintering before it could finish.
“Don’t,” he cut in, quiet but firm, like he couldn’t bear to hear it.
I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat. My fingers tightened in the worn leather at his collar, grounding myself one last time before I forced my arms to let him go.
He rose in one smooth motion, offering me his hand. I took it without thinking.
Silence trotted up beside me, tail low but wagging in a steady rhythm, her red eyes fixed on me like she couldn’t quite believe it either. The hellhound’s yip was sharp and eager before her tongue darted out, warm and rough against my hand. I let out a shaky laugh, rubbing her head, my fingers curling into the coarse fur for comfort.
Walton was still catching his breath, shoulders rising and falling under the mist-damp leather of his coat. He reached out without thinking, his palm steadying me at my hip like he wasn’t sure I could stand on my own. His gaze flicked over me—bare feet, torn dress, dirt-streaked skin—cataloging every detail with that quiet, dangerous focus of his.
“How the hell did you get out?” His voice was low, strained, like he already knew part of the answer but needed to hear it from me.
I told him. About the way Michael came into my chamber like he owned the air I breathed. About the cold snap in me when I decided it was the last time. About the heavy glass decanter in my hands and the way it rang in my bones when it connected with his skull. How Mary appeared at my door, wide-eyed but ready, pressing supplies into my hands like she’d been waiting for me to ask. The back corridors. The knife. The trap I’d set just in case anything followed me.
Walton’s face barely moved as I spoke, but when Michael’s name left my mouth, I saw it—the way his jaw tightened, the faint flare of something lethal in his eyes. He didn’t interrupt. Just listened, every word stacking into some silent reckoning in his mind.
When I finally fell quiet, the mist seemed louder than our breathing. His posture shifted—still solid, still coiled—but softer somehow. He stepped in close enough that the heat of him cut through the cold night, his calloused hand lifting to cup my face.
“You’re safe now.”
The words were simple, almost too small for everything they carried, but they hit like a promise. His thumb brushed along my cheekbone, rough but careful, and for a moment, the forest and the angels and the running all fell away.
I wanted to tell him I didn’t feel safe yet. That I wouldn’t until Michael was nothing but ash. But instead, I just leaned into his touch, letting myself believe him—if only for the space between one breath and the next.
Walton’s hand slid from my cheek to the back of my neck, pulling me toward him in one smooth, unyielding motion. The space between us vanished, and his mouth found mine—warm, hungry, tasting of smoke and iron. It wasn’t gentle; it was a collision of everything we’d survived to get here, everything unspoken spilling into the press of lips and the rough drag of breath. His fingers threaded into my hair, anchoring me to him like he was afraid I’d slip away again.
The kiss deepened, heat flaring between us, the world narrowing to the slick slide of tongues and the way his chest rose against mine. Every inch of me felt alive, tingling, my pulse thrumming in places untouched by fear for the first time in what felt like forever. His other hand splayed against the small of my back, dragging me flush against him, and I melted into the solid weight of his body—into the safety and danger that came with it.
I tore myself away from him so suddenly it was like being ripped out of my own skin. The air between us cooled instantly, my breath coming fast for all the wrong reasons now.
Walton froze, confusion shadowing his face. “What’s wrong?” His voice was low, guarded, but I could hear the tension coiling beneath it.
He knew something was coming.
I swallowed hard, the words bitter on my tongue. “You… you might not want me anymore.”
That muscle in his jaw twitched, and his tone hardened like iron. “Why the hell wouldn’t I?”
My hands trembled. I didn’t want to say it. Didn’t want to give life to what had already stolen so much from me. But the truth pushed against my ribs until I thought it might split me open if I kept it in.
“I have to tell you something.” My voice cracked, and I hated how small I sounded. I forced my eyes to meet his, because I needed him to see the truth in mine. “Michael—” I choked on his name, bile rising in my throat. “He… he took… I didn’t… I tried to fight, but he… Again and again. Like it was his right. Like I was… nothing.” The words tumbled out in broken pieces, each one tearing something open inside me. “He raped me. Made sure I remembered it every time I closed my eyes.”
Hot tears burned down my cheeks before I could stop them. I felt filthy just speaking it aloud, like the shame would cling to me forever. I wrapped my arms around myself, shivering even though the night wasn’t cold.
“I’m not clean anymore.” My voice was almost a whisper now, and my heart hurt with every beat. “Not for you. Not for God. Not for anyone. I couldn't stop it. I tried, I promise I tried, but—"
Walton’s expression shifted, pain flashing across his features so quickly it almost hurt worse than his anger ever could. He reached for me, but I stepped back, shaking my head.
“You don’t understand. He took something from me that I can’t get back. I’m… ruined.”
Saying it out loud made the trees tilt. My knees felt weak. I hated myself for thinking that way, hated that Michael had planted those seeds so deep I couldn’t rip them out.
But Walton didn’t look away. He didn’t flinch like I thought he might. He closed the space between us slowly, like approaching a wounded animal. His eyes burned—not with disgust, but with something I couldn’t name without breaking completely.
I wanted to run. I wanted to stay. I wanted to believe him before he even said a word.
His eyes locked on mine, fierce and burning—not at me, never at me—but at the shadow of what I’d just told him. It was the kind of fury that hummed low in his voice before it ever reached his lips.
“He touched you?” Walton growled, each word edged like a blade.
I swallowed, throat tight, and gave the smallest nod. My chest caved in on itself as the tears started again. “I’m so sorry,” I whispered, voice breaking.
His jaw clenched so hard I thought his teeth might crack. “Don’t.” The word was sharp, final. “Don’t you dare fucking apologize for that.”
I shook my head, wanting to explain the impossible—how the shame clung to me like smoke, how the filth felt etched into my skin no matter how much I prayed. But he cut through the storm before I could find the words.
“You know the scripture,” he said, voice low but steady, like he was holding the ground for both of us. “Ceremonial cleanliness—it’s never about the dirt you can see. It’s about being restored. And you… you can be washed clean. This wasn’t your sin, Everly. You don’t carry it.”
I tried to look at him, but my vision blurred. His words pressed against the cracks in me, and I wanted to believe them, wanted to let them in—but the hollow place inside me felt too wide, too deep.
“You’re mine,” he said, with the kind of conviction that could level mountains. His hand cupped my face, calloused thumb brushing my cheek. “My wife. Always. Nothing changes that.”
I flinched—not because I doubted him, but because I could feel how much I’d lost. Not to Walton. Not even to Michael. But to the piece of myself I’d always thought was untouchable, and now felt stripped away.
