Marry or Kill

49

M I N A

A low, guttural grunt releases from Atticus's lips when Noah lands a kick on his leg, twisting his arm in a locking grip to place handcuffs on his wrists.

I hear the unmistakable crack of bone threatening to splinter under pressure as Noah purposefully digs his fingers into Atticus's flesh.

Sol moves with a quiet efficiency, bringing Castiel towards the waiting helicopter. Atticus keeps his eyes on them the whole time like a predator following his prey until they disappear into the back of the helicopter.

Almost immediately, Noah pushes his head down, whispering something in his ear that makes Atticus's lips curl into a snarl.

The click of the handcuffs echo in the atmosphere.

Turning back to the scene before me, I catch a glimpse of Sol's expression, or rather, the lack thereof. Her eyes betray nothing, a mask of calm in the storm raging around us.

Noah guides Atticus to a seat in the helicopter and secures him in place with the straps. Atticus comments sarcastically, "How kind of you to cater to my wrists." My eyes flicker to the handcuffs, now revealed to be pink and fluffy, and I can't help but grimace.

Glancing at Noah, I share a knowing look, silently questioning his choice of restraints. "It looks like you're about to bed Atticus. Don't we own real handcuffs without any other purposes?" I ask.

Elias, unable to hide his disgust, dryly remarks, "My question is what you're doing with those handcuffs in my helicopter."

Noah meets Elias's gaze squarely. "Well, firstly, trust me, you don't want to know," he responds. Then, he turns to me, his expression unreadable. "Secondly, it seems it's the only option given I wasn't aware he was coming with us."

Elias raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Well, given that these are helicopters from The North, it's reasonable to assume we have all necessary provisions, including suitable handcuffs," he retorts, his voice tinged with irritation.

Noah pats Elias on the shoulder in a gesture that seems almost patronising, and I sense Elias stiffen beside me. "Agreed," Noah says, a smirk cornering his lips. "Maybe you should have checked that before we left."

Elias shoots Noah a glare.

Noah slumps into his seat, securing himself next to Sol. "You all stink like shit, by the way," he comments bluntly. His gaze then shifts to Atticus, his expression hardening. "Mostly you. Perhaps we should remove you from this helicopter so you can enjoy your own space without inconveniencing others."

We're all covered in a mess, resembling nothing short of a gruesome scene, as if we've all bathed in a pool of blood.

Atticus doesn't miss a beat, his retort dripping with disdain. "Well, that's convenient for me. Having my own space would mean I wouldn't have to listen to your boring, sarcastic remarks, which seem to mask your own pitiful insecurities."

Noah scoffs, his laughter laced with bitterness. "My insecurities? Spare me the theatrics. My remarks come from the simple fact that I dislike you and that you deserve to explode into little bits like your father."

"That's too bad for you, isn't it?" Atticus says, looking pleased with himself.

"Actually, it's bad for Sol. She'll have to tolerate your nonsense for even longer," I add, unable to resist the urge to throw a jab at Atticus.

Sol remains still, her gaze fixed firmly out the window, as if seeking comfort in the vast expanse beyond—like she can't bear his presence. Her hands are clasped tightly in her lap.