Distantly, Cas heard Ethan call him pathetic, but he didn’t have any thoughts left to spare to process the mockery. All he could think about was how much pain he was in and hope that the rebel would put him out of his misery with another shot to the head or chest. He’d thought he would be more prepared to handle being tortured, but he understood now why Aspirian soldiers were trained for the experience beforehand. Having his bones broken and his leg shot had practically shattered his will in the span of about ten or fifteen minutes. He was still determined to take the crown’s secrets to his grave, but now he actually [i]wanted[/i] to die. To go on living seemed too excruciating to endure.

Squeezing his eyes shut as another wave of agony swept him up in its relentless grasp, he was tempted to let go and pass out. His head felt muddled anyway, and he couldn’t move. Every muscle was taut as he strained against the fire that burned in the worst of his injuries. Whatever was left of his will to live beckoned him to hold on though. Even though unconsciousness would be sweet relief from the misery, there was something foreboding about the prospect of allowing himself to fade. He was too concerned that he wouldn’t wake up again.

When the rebel toed him with his shoe, Cas groaned, his head lolling on the concrete. He didn’t have the strength to shift on the floor, let alone try to get away from Ethan. The hand that was still placed on his leg felt hot and sticky with his own blood, a warning that he was going to bleed out if he didn’t have treatment soon. He could hear voices in the room with him, but when he opened his eyes, he wasn’t able to focus his vision well enough to figure out what was going on. All he knew was that there were more men with him now, none who seemed familiar, and that Ethan was walking away.

For a brief moment, he felt confused. He’d thought the new rebel leader was going to finish him off, but instead, he felt more hands on his body. Someone was touching his leg and pulling his hand away from the bullet wound. The prince moaned and tried to pull back, pained by the stranger’s rough prodding, but someone else knelt down by his torso to hold him down, preventing him from moving. Disoriented and too weak to fight the second person off, he couldn’t do anything but lay on the ground and howl as the first man coarsely tended and bandaged his freely bleeding thigh.

Stabbing pain scorched through his body, sapping away what was left of his strength until he felt darkness encroaching on his consciousness. As hard as he had tried to keep himself awake, he couldn’t push back against the urge to pass out forever.

As the rebels finished up their work and began maneuvering his battered body to lift off the ground, the combination of the jostling of his wounded ribs, wrist and leg became too much for him to endure, and he finally lost the battle, falling limp in their arms.