Chapter 2

"You took it," he whispered. "All of it."

"No shit, Sherlock!" I gasped, clutching my ribs. I tried to stand. My legs were jelly. "Why didn't it hit you? You were the target!"

He stepped closer. The alley was narrow, and suddenly he was everywhere. He didn't reach out to help—not yet—but the heat radiating off him was insane. A strange, humming energy that made the hairs on my arms stand up.

"The bond," Carson said. His voice was a low, dangerous vibration. "It’s not just sharing. It’s diverting. Right now, you’re the lightning rod for everything meant to kill me."

I let out a jagged laugh that turned into a cough. "Great. Fantastic. I’m not just your bodyguard; I’m your human shield. Love the career pivot."

"Stop talking and get up," he snapped.

He lunged, grabbing my upper arm. His grip was iron, fingers digging into my skin. He hauled me upright, slamming my shoulder hard against his chest to stabilize me.

I forgot how to breathe. Not because of the injury. Because of him. He smelled like rain and something metallic—old coins and blood. His heart was drumming a frantic rhythm against my shoulder. He was terrified. He just had a stone mask for a face.

"We need to move," he muttered. His breath was warm against my ear. "The experts don't miss twice. They'll be back with a cleanup crew."

"I can't... I can't run like this," I wheezed.

I looked down. A thin trail of blood was leaking from the corner of my mouth. The curse wasn't just energy; it was eating me from the inside.

Carson stopped. He looked at the blood, then locked eyes with me. There was something raw and predatory in his gaze. "Then we do this the hard way."

Before I could ask what that meant, he reached into my jacket and ripped out my cutting kit. No asking. No permission. He grabbed my wrist and shoved it toward the jagged edge of a rusted dumpster.

"What are you doing?" I yelled, yanking my arm back.

"The bond feeds on imbalance," Carson hissed, his face inches from mine. "You're overloaded. I need to create a leak—a physical one—to bleed off the charge before your heart stops. Now hold still, or I'll do it slower."

I glared at him, teeth clenched. "You’re a real prick, you know that?"

"And you're a terrible negotiator. Shut up."

He didn't use the knife. He ripped a shard of metal from the wall and sliced a deep, clean line across my palm. I hissed. The pain was sharp, sudden—then the world shifted.

Black, oily smoke surged from the wound. It didn't fall. It snapped into Carson like a vacuum. The pressure in my chest vanished. The crushing weight lifted, replaced by a dizzying rush of adrenaline.

Carson groaned. His knees buckled. He gripped my waist to stay upright, his fingers digging into the small of my back. He looked like he’d just swallowed a gallon of battery acid.

"You... you just dumped the backlash on me," he panted. He leaned his forehead against mine.

"Welcome to my world," I whispered.

My heart hammered. The proximity was a wire stretched to the breaking point. I could see the gold flecks in his dark irises, his pupils blown wide. I didn't pull away. I couldn't. I needed to know if he was actually going to help me or if he was just waiting for the right moment to leave me for the crows.

"Why didn't you just let me die?" I asked. "If I'm the shield, you're safe. Why save the shield?"

Carson’s gaze dropped to my lips, then snapped back up. His expression hardened. "Because if you die, the bond snaps. And when a Hexbound bond snaps with this much energy, it doesn't just kill the partner. It levels the city block."

I blinked. "So I'm a living bomb."

"Exactly," he said. He pulled back abruptly, releasing me. The cold air rushed in, and I suddenly missed the heat of him. "Now move. Low Market. There's a clinic there—someone who doesn't ask questions if you pay in gold or blood."

"I don't have gold," I snapped, wiping my bloody hand on my pants. "And I'm pretty sure I'm out of blood."

"Then you'll pay with information," Carson said, already walking away. "I know you're not just a freelance cutter. Nobody has your signature unless they've been trained by the Cartel's inner circle. Who were you working for before you went rogue?"

I froze. My hand went to the hidden locket beneath my shirt. "I don't know what you're talking about."

He stopped and turned, a smirk playing on his lips. "Lying is a bad habit, Evelyn. Especially when I can feel your pulse jumping from three feet away. The bond doesn't just share pain—it shares truth. Your heart is screaming."

I hated him. I absolutely hated him.

But as distant sirens began to wail, I followed him, stumbling slightly, the black smoke still curling around my fingertips.

We descended into the smog-choked veins of the Low Market. Broken neon signs. Air that tasted like sulfur. People walked with their heads down, hiding from the surveillance drones.

Then the atmosphere shifted. Not gradually. Violently.

The temperature plummeted.

One by one, the street vendors stopped shouting. A woman selling synthetic organs froze mid-sentence. Scavengers backed away, eyes wide with genuine terror.

They weren't looking at me. They were looking at Carson.

One man, a scarred veteran with a mechanical eye, dropped his crate of scrap metal. *Clang.* He fell to his knees, voice trembling.

"He's back! The Calamity King is back!"

Silence. Absolute, terrifying silence. Every single person in the square dropped to the ground, pressing their foreheads to the dirty pavement in total submission.

I looked at Carson. He didn't look surprised. He looked disgusted.

"What the hell is a Calamity King?" I whispered.

Carson didn't answer. He looked up at the shadows of the alleyways where armed mercenaries were stepping out, their weapons glowing with containment runes.

"It means," Carson said, his voice cold as ice, "that we're out of time."