BLOODlines

22: The Station's wall

The cruiser hummed along the deserted road, its siren silenced, leaving only the muted pulse of red and blue lights against the trees. Cherish sat pressed against the door, her hand gripping Frank’s. His bloodied knuckles rested limp in her lap, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths.

Every jolt of the car sent pain flickering across his bruised face, but he didn’t make a sound. He only kept his gaze forward, jaw clenched, eyes shadowed with suspicion.

The captain sat in the passenger seat, his silhouette sharp, shoulders square. Occasionally, he glanced back at them, his expression unreadable. Cherish caught each look like a thorn pricking her skin.

The road wound down into a small town, the night eerily still. The station rose ahead, a squat concrete building with bars on the windows and a single buzzing streetlamp. The cruiser pulled in.

As the doors unlocked, one officer muttered, “Out.”

Cherish climbed out slowly, supporting Frank as he staggered to his feet. The captain led them inside, the heavy door clanging shut behind them. The sound echoed down the narrow corridor, final and cold, as if sealing them into a place they might never leave.

The air smelled of coffee gone stale and damp paper. The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, buzzing faintly. Cherish’s skin prickled.

The captain gestured to a bench against the wall. “Sit.”

They obeyed. Frank slumped beside her, his head leaning back against the wall, eyelids fluttering as though every second was a battle to stay conscious. Cherish touched his arm, panic rising.

“He needs a doctor now.”

The captain’s gaze flicked to Frank, then back to her. “He’ll live. First, you talk.”

Anger flared in her chest. “We were attacked. Isn’t that enough? Shouldn’t you be looking for the men who tried to kill us?”

The captain stepped closer, his boots loud against the tiles. “Funny thing, Miss—” He paused, his lips curling slightly. “I didn’t catch your name.”

Cherish hesitated. Her throat tightened. The truth—that she was Cherish Adams, the daughter of wealth and privilege, the girl running from the marriage arranged for power—felt like a death sentence if spoken aloud.

“Cherish,” she whispered finally. “Just Cherish.”

His brow arched. “No last name?”

She said nothing.

The silence thickened, pressing into the walls.

“Fine,” the captain said, voice clipped. “Let’s start with this: Why would six armed men risk their necks in the middle of nowhere for you?”

Her mouth opened, closed. Words tangled with fear. She remembered the way the leader of the men had said it wasn’t Frank they wanted—it was her.

“I don’t know,” she lied softly.

The captain leaned down, close enough that she felt his breath on her cheek. “You do know. And until you stop holding back, I’ll assume you’re part of something bigger. Something you’re hiding.”

Frank stirred weakly, forcing his swollen eyes open. His voice was rough but steady. “Leave her alone.”

The captain’s eyes flicked to him, hard and cold. “If you want to protect her, boy, you’d better convince her to tell the truth. Otherwise…” His gaze dropped to Frank’s bandaged shirt, the fresh blood seeping through. “Otherwise she won’t be the only one answering questions.”

Cherish’s heart raced. The walls of the station seemed to close in, suffocating her. The officers at the desks weren’t looking at her with sympathy—they were watching, waiting, judging.

She wanted to scream, to confess everything, to tell them about the chains her family had wrapped around her, the men who had been sent after her, the secrets that had driven her into the night. But another fear clamped her mouth shut. What if the captain wasn’t just suspicious? What if he was connected to the men in the woods?

She swallowed, her voice trembling. “Please. Just let us go. We don’t want trouble.”

The captain straightened, studying her for a long moment. Then he turned to the younger officer. “Put them in separate rooms.”

Her blood ran cold.

“No,” she said quickly, clutching Frank’s hand tighter. “You can’t—”

Frank squeezed her fingers weakly, his gaze locking on hers. “Do what they say. Don’t fight it.”

The officer approached, gripping Cherish’s arm. She tried to twist free, but his hold was iron. Another officer pulled Frank to his feet, dragging him away down the hall.

“Frank!” she cried, her voice breaking.

He looked back once, battered but unbroken. “Stay strong, Cherish.”

Then he was gone, swallowed by the corridor’s shadows.

Cherish was shoved into a small interrogation room, the door slamming shut behind her. The single light overhead buzzed faintly, casting sharp angles across the bare table and chair. The silence roared in her ears.

She pressed her fists to her chest, her heart pounding as though it might break her ribs. The walls felt too close, the air too thin.

For the first time, she wondered if she had made a mistake running at all.

Because now, caught in the grip of these men, she wasn’t sure if the world outside the station—or the world inside it—was more dangerous.