The first strike came without warning, not even waiting to hear me out. It wasn’t hard enough to bruise, but still sharp enough that I yelped and flinched.
The second came faster.
“Try again,” he said calmly. “What distracts you?”
“I-I’m not—”
Strike.
“I don’t—”
Strike.
My hands trembled, each hit to my palms and fingers sending a sting up my arms, hot and humiliating. My eyes watered, and I tried to blink it back.
“Confess, Elior. I will guide you. I always guide you.”
Another strike landed, harder.
A pained sound escaped me.
Father leaned in, so close his breath touched my cheek. “Who is pulling you away from me?”
My entire body seized. The room tilted slightly.
He knew.
“Or,” Father whispered, tapping the cane lightly under my chin, lifting my head just enough to meet his gaze, “must I find the poison myself?”
My pulse roared in my ears. I could feel the walls closing in—the pain, the fear, his voice dripping with honeyed cruelty. Hewas circling, pressing closer, stripping away escape routes one by one.
And the storm I’d felt brewing for days finally cracked overhead.
I didn’t know how long I could survive his questions… or how long I could protect Jace.
Father didn’t give me time to gather myself.
The rod tapped once more beneath my chin, guiding my gaze upward, forcing me to meet his eyes.
“You are hiding something,” he said softly. “Someone. I can feel it in you like a stain. Filthy. Rotten.”
My arms shook. “Father, please—I haven’t—”
He cut the air with the cane.
The strike landed across my palms with a crack that echoed off the walls. Pain surged up my arms. My fingers curled reflexively, but Father snapped, “Hands open!”
I forced them flat again.
“Lie again,” he murmured. “And the next one will be for your back.”
A cold shudder ran through me—not just from fear, but from memory.
The whipping.
The days of raw, burning skin.
Jace’s hands gently cleaning the wounds afterward.
