He was here.
Zephyr.
The architect of so much of my suffering stood before me, his victory a cruel mockery of my fleeting hope. His fist connected with my stomach, a brutal punctuation mark that stole the air from my lungs, the fight from my limbs. I crumpled, the cold asphalt a stark contrast to the burning agony that consumed me. His triumphant laugh echoed the screams trapped in my throat.
Yet, as the darkness of my past threatened to swallow me whole, a flicker of defiance ignited. The memory of Jackson—his fierce protectiveness, his unwavering belief in my strength—surged through me. He had taught me to listen to the forest, to find my own resilience. And now, as this monster loomed over me, ready to remind me of everything I’d suffered, I remembered his words:‘Survive, baby.’
“Grab the cunt,” I vaguely heard him order as hands roughly pulled me to my feet. “Skinner wants the other one. This bitch is mine.” His words were a raw, brutal claim, a violation that sent a fresh wave of revulsion through me.
I stumbled, my body protesting with every jolt, the foul putrid stench of death and gunpowder replaced by the acrid stench of fear and decay. They were dragging me, not just from behind the bakery, but from the fragile safety I had found, back into the abyss I’d fought so hard to escape. The shattered remains of my world, Indigo’s bleeding form, Grace’s unknown fate, all receded as the monstrous reality of Zephyr’s return crashed down upon me.
But even as the darkness threatened to consume me, a spark of Jackson’s teachings flickered within.‘Listen to the forest, Karlyn,’he’d said.‘It will tell you everything.’
Shoved into the back of a van, I vowed.
I wouldn’t be a pawn again.
Not now.
Not ever.
I counted. I didn’t know what else to do, a desperate attempt to anchor myself to something tangible in the swirling chaos, a futile rebellion against the loss of control. Each number was a tiny victory against the encroaching panic, a silent scream against the violation. And I didn’t stop until the van stopped, my throat raw from unspoken pleas, my mind a battlefield of what-ifs and should-haves. Men grabbed me once more, their rough hands a sickening echo of past aggressions, and as another slapped a strip of duct tape over my mouth, a cold wave of resignation washed over me, fighting the desperate urge tothrash, to scream, to be something other than this compliant victim. The dirty cloth bag shoved over my head was the final suffocation of my will.
I could barely see or speak, the rough fabric scratching my skin, a constant reminder of my dehumanization. Pulled from the van, I stumbled, my legs weak, my very bones protesting the indignity. They dragged me, their heavy footsteps a grim percussion to the frantic hammering of my heart. I could hear men’s laughter, coarse and mocking, women’s moans, a chilling symphony of despair, and smell the putrid stench of stale alcohol and sex, a testament to the familiar depravity I was being thrust into.
“It’s about fucking time!” someone roared, the sound vibrating through the bag, making my teeth rattle. My head turned, a jerky, involuntary movement, barely seeing out of a small, jagged cut in the bag. The man walking over was fat, round with a potbelly that strained against his shirt, his presence a grotesque caricature of power. With his scraggly beard unkempt, he sneered at something or someone behind me. “You get the bitches?”
“Got em’ both, Prez,” someone answered, the false cheer in his voice a sickening counterpoint to his gravelly laugh, which amplified my fear tenfold.
This was it.
No more counting.
No more hiding.
“Get ’em into a room and strip ’em,” the fat man ordered, his voice thick with anticipation, and then I heard Zephyr growl as the reality of my fate, raw and brutal, slammed into me.
“This cunt is mine.”
“No problem,” I heard the other man sneer, a chilling agreement that confirmed my worst fears.
My choice was immediate and agonizing: protect Grace, or protect myself? Was my survival worth her suffering?
My question seared through me, an impossible dilemma. Then, I heard Grace moan—a sound of pure terror that ripped through my carefully constructed composure. Turning my head, I watched in horror as the fat man licked his lips and groped Grace’s breasts. The sight was sickening, fueling a rage that warred with my paralyzing fear. My stomach churned, a desperate plea to my own body to reject what I was witnessing. “This is the bitch I want.”
And in that moment, a dark, insidious thought, born of sheer terror and a desperate need for self-preservation, whispered in my mind:Maybe if they take me first, they’ll leave her alone.
The thought was a poison, a betrayal of everything I’d suffered and survived, but the alternative, seeing Grace subjected to such barbarity... the potential for regret, for a lifetime of haunting guilt, was almost unbearable.
I moved before I even thought about the consequences.
Fighting as hard as I could, I ripped my arm free, and yanked the filthy bag off my head, punching the man standing next to me, only to have Zephyr haul off and backhand me, knocking me to the dirty floor.
Leaning over me as I quickly removed the duct tape and spat blood on the floor, he sneered, “That’s gonna cost you, bitch. Now I’m gonna let the fucker you hit have your cunt first, while I fuck your ass. Do you remember that, Karlyn.? I do. I really hope you scream for me again.”
Slowly turning my head, I glared up at the son of a bitch. “I pray Jackson fucking kills you slowly.”
Chapter Thirty
