Chapter 159: Mouthwash 1

BONNIE

"You’re the reason," he continued, his voice dropping to a ragged whisper. "You’re the reason everything’s gone to hell. If you’d never come here, if you’d never lied your way into this estate, those retainers would still be alive. The King would still be alive most likely. Everything would be normal."

"That’s not true," I insisted, my own anger rising to meet his, hot and desperate in my chest. "I didn’t kill them. I didn’t order their deaths. I tried to save them. I tried—"

"You tried?" He laughed, bitter and sharp. "You tried and failed. Just like you’ll fail again. And when you do, more of us will die. That’s your legacy, Bonnie. Death and lies."

"Enough," Bradley snapped from behind me, his hand closing around my upper arm, trying to pull me back. "Step away from him. He’s lost his mind."

"No," I insisted, shaking off his grip without looking back. "He hasn’t. He’s just... he’s hurting. Ryker, listen to me. I know what happened to the healers and Omegas was wrong. I know you carry that guilt. But this isn’t justice. You will be seen as insane, and it will just lead to more distrust among the castes and, of course, more blood."

Ryker’s eyes flickered, something uncertain passing behind the rage. His finger eased slightly on the trigger, though the gun didn’t drop.

"Justice," he repeated, tasting the word. "There is no justice here. Only power. And you have it all, don’t you? Rumors are being passed around already. We have seen the magic. I guess what comes next is the disclosure that the Regent is your mate and that the future Queen’s crown is waiting for you while the rest of us get buried in unmarked graves."

The door opened behind the group, and Madeline stepped through, her blonde hair pulled back in a severe braid, her eyes immediately taking in the scene with a witch’s quick assessment. She looked at Ryker, then at me standing in front of him, then at the gun, and her expression didn’t change.

"Well," she murmured, her voice carrying a strange calm that seemed to suck some of the tension from the air. "This is dramatic."

Ryker spun partially toward her, the gun swinging in an arc that covered both of us now. "The witch. Perfect. Come to finish the job, have you? Come to make sure we all forget what we saw?"

"Actually," Madeline replied, stepping forward with unhurried grace, "I’m here to offer you a choice. A real one. Not the false dilemma you’ve constructed in your head where you die a martyr or live as a slave."

She moved past the other sentinels, who parted for her like water, until she stood just to my left, close enough that I could smell the faint scent of herbs and ozone that clung to her skin.

"I am not sure what the grim look is for. But I assure you. There will be no killings here today," she continued, her eyes locked on Ryker’s face. "Not by my hand, and not by yours. The spell I intend to cast is a simple soul kiss. I have one myself, and what it can be explained as is... A connection of truth and loyalty. It will bind you to the High Beta, and through him, to the Crown."

Ryker’s grip tightened on the gun. "A leash," he spat. "A magical collar."

"A test," Madeline corrected, her voice sharpening. "The bond will hold on the principle of loyalty. If you have betrayed the Crown, if you have conspired against it, the magic will know. It will burn the lie out of you, and yes, it will kill you. But if you are innocent, if your hands are clean and your heart is true, then you will walk out of here with your life and your memories intact."

She spread her hands, palms up, the gesture open and empty. "So choose. Consent to the bond and prove your innocence, or refuse and prove your guilt by your own actions. But make no mistake—if you pull that trigger, you will die here. Not by magic, but by the dozen guns currently trained on your back."

I glanced around and saw she was right. While Ryker had been focused on Bradley and me, the other sentinels had positioned themselves, their weapons drawn and aimed. Ryker was surrounded.

He looked around, his eyes wild, taking in the guns, the faces of his former comrades, the hard resolve in their expressions. Some looked sad. Some looked angry. None looked like they would hesitate.

"Sheep," he whispered, his shoulders slumping. "You’re all sheep. Following orders right to the slaughter."

"Ryker," I said softly, taking a small step forward, ignoring Bradley’s sharp intake of breath behind me. "Please. Put the gun down. Take the kiss. Prove you’re not the traitor they think you are. Prove you’re still one of... them... one of us."

He looked at me then, really looked at me, and I saw the depths of his despair. He was a young man who had believed in something—duty, honor, the kingdom—and had watched it turn to ash in his hands. He was drowning in guilt and betrayal, and he didn’t know how to swim back to shore.

"One of you," he repeated, his voice hollow. "I was never one of you. I was just a retainer. Just a servant with a gun. And now I’m a loose end."

"You’re not," I insisted, my voice breaking. "You’re a person. You matter. Your life matters. What is making you think we are out to get you? We are not. So please, don’t throw it away."

He stared at me for a long moment, the gun heavy in his hand. Then, slowly, his arm dropped. The gun hung loose at his side, and I felt a rush of relief so strong my knees nearly buckled.

A sentinel moved forward, quick and silent, and wrenched the weapon from Ryker’s grip. Ryker didn’t resist. He just stood there, looking small and broken, his blood still dripping onto the floor.

"I don’t care," he muttered, not looking at anyone. "I don’t care what you do to me. I don’t care if I live or die. It doesn’t matter anymore."

"It matters," I whispered.

Madeline stepped forward, producing a silver knife and a shallow bowl from somewhere in the infirmary. "Do you consent to the soul bond?" she asked the room at large, her voice rising to carry to every corner.

One by one, the sentinels and retainers stepped forward, murmuring their assent. They were frightened; I could see it in the tightness of their shoulders, the way they avoided eye contact, but they were more frightened of being seen as traitors than of the magic itself.