A Frozen Man's Sun

Chapter 8

Chapter 8

I caught sight of Aisaia's taillights again just as they blinked and veered off the familiar route to Flemeral's neighborhood. The turn was wrong—too sudden, too determined. Not home. Not safe.

My grip tightened on the wheel. Sleeping powder. Something like it. The way she'd yawned in the parking lot. The way her body softened, compliant, unaware.

I killed my headlights and hung back, letting distance and shadow swallow me. Night thickened into a sheet of dark. He kept driving—further, quieter, emptier—until the city peeled away and the road narrowed to a cracked ribbon strangled by trees.

After nearly half an hour, his car slowed, then stopped beside a hulking silhouette: a warehouse—old, ribbed metal, windows like blind eyes. I parked beneath a stand of trees and killed the engine. He got out, walked around, and lifted her from the passenger seat like stolen property. Her head lolled against his shoulder. He carried her inside.

The quiet was wrong here. Dust hung in the air like ash, and the night wavered with the faint hum of insects too far to help.

I moved.

The warehouse swallowed me whole—cold air, a floor veiled in dust, rafters webbed with the gray silk of old spiders. My footsteps whispered. I followed the echo of his—the scuff of shoes, the barely—there scrape of a door.

Then a sound cleaved the stillness.

A small, broken sob.

I quickened, slipping between stacks of forgotten crates and rusted shelving until the space opened into a wider room. A single naked bulb swung from a chain, its light moving like a slow pendulum—revealing, erasing, revealing again.

On the concrete, near a filthy old tarp, he was bending over her.

She was awake. Dazed, fighting. Hands pushing, legs struggling, voice cracking with panic. He clawed at her dress, dragging the fabric down her shoulder. She twisted away, breath coming in terrified gasps.

Tears slid along her temples and soaked into her hair.

Heat detonated in my chest. Something ancient and ugly uncoiled.

"Damn it, stop being difficult, Flemeral," he hissed. "Just let me—"

"Don't," she cried. "Don't touch me—"

I didn't remember crossing the distance—only the shock on his face when my shoulder slammed into his ribs and hurled him off her. He hit the floor hard, air rushing out of him in a grunt.

My fist followed.

"Fuck you," I snarled, knuckles cracking against his jaw. He toppled sideways, rolled, scrambled, but I was already there, planting another punch into his stomach. The sound was raw, wet—meat and breath and pain.

"Stop-stop—" Eral choked out behind me, voice shaking.

I turned. She'd curled up against the wall, shaking violently, dress half torn, eyes huge. The sight struck somewhere I didn't name.

"It's okay," I said, voice low. I crouched in front of her, hands open, careful not to touch. "Hey. I'm here."

"You were late," she whispered, a tremor hitching the words.

"I'm here now." I slid my body between her and him as he coughed and staggered up.

A blunt shock cracked against my back-an iron bar, swung hard. I went down to one knee, breath exploding from my lungs. Eral screamed.

Pain flashed white. I pushed up, steadying myself, and turned.

He held a metal rod like a scepter, chest heaving, sweat glistening on his lip. "You ruin everything," he spat. "Always, always in the way."