Marry or Kill

36

S O L

Atticus's eyes dismiss me, and a signal shown through a wave of his hand is unmistakable—it's time to leave this wretched cell. Finally, I listen to Castiel's unspoken advice and refrain from uttering a word when he steps inside the cell.

"Let's go," Castiel mutters, voice tense, and I can see the stiffness in his muscles, probably because of Atticus.

Atticus doesn't waste a moment, heading out of the cellar like he's fleeing a sinking ship, and the door slams with a bang, reverberating through me.

Up ahead, the guards stand like statues, patiently waiting, as if I'm going to vanish into thin air. I nearly snort, dropping my eyes at the heavy shackles clamped around my wrists and ankles.

Atticus is paranoid, overly so, but this paranoia is giving me no room to escape.

As Castiel effortlessly hoists my crumpled form from the dank cell, I can't help but marvel at the ease with which he lifts the weight of my leaden limbs. My legs, burdened with heaviness, dangle limply, while my head, light and disoriented, bobs as if detached from the rest of my body.

I narrow my eyes, attempting to pierce through the haze that clouds my vision, my surroundings appearing distorted at the edges.

The strain on my muscles is palpable, a sensation that courses through my arms as if protesting the sudden movement. Despite the involuntary urge to release a string of curses, I find myself rendered speechless when his lips curve into the subtlest hint of a smile, a mere whisper of amusement that plays upon his features.

For a moment, I observe his smile, and find myself surprised that he can even smile in The West, where I haven't seen such a thing exist in this cold place.

When I stumble on my feet, Castiel's firm hand makes contact with the small of my waist to steady me. The sudden touch startles me, sending a shiver down my spine, and I instinctively flinch at the unexpected contact.

As if he senses my unease, his touch vanishes and leaves an echo of a sensation.

The cellars are long and dim, and when we emerge, a flood of light crashes into my eyes. I instinctively blink, allowing my eyes to slowly adjust to the sudden brightness.

I lower my head, studying the floor in an attempt to shield my eyes from the blinding light.

Castiel seizes my arm with a rough grip, propelling me forward. I scowl over my shoulder as he holds me with a grip tight enough for my arm to wash over with a dull ache.

"Would you be careful?" I snippily ask. "For once, I'll admit that I feel quite fragile."

Out of nowhere, a guard pivots, shooting a quick glance over his shoulder to check up on us. It's a sudden move that sets off a ripple of anxiety in my body. His eyes briefly lock onto mine, and I instinctively look at the ground.

The warmth in Castiel's eyes wavers. "I said, keep moving," he bellows, forcefully shoving me forward using my back, and my unsteady steps turn into an awkward stumble over my own feet.

A wave of agonising pain shoots through my back, each step a harsh reminder of the lingering soreness.

I remain silent as the guard's eyes briefly flick behind us, their expression betraying nothing.

A tightness settles in my jaw as Castiel follows my steps, a silent presence echoing in the corridor. I don't meet his gaze when the sensation of blood dripping down my back intensifies, staining the floor beneath me.

"Hate me, Sol, despise me to the point where every breath is a struggle. It's what Atticus wants," he says, quiet enough that his voice is only shared between us.