I still don’t answer.
The door bursts open.
Donnie storms inside, his bulk filling the doorway like a wall. His scruffy beard glistens with sweat, his shirt stretched across his gut. He doesn’t speak—he just grabs a fistful of my hair and yanks. Pain tears across my scalp and I stumble forward, screaming.
“Dinner’s ready,” he grunts, dragging me like a ragdoll.
“I don’t want to go!” My voice cracks, useless against his strength. I claw at his wrist, try to pry his fingers from my hair, but he just pulls harder, my neck snapping back.
The hallway blurs as he hauls me through it. By the time he shoves me into the dining room, my scalp is on fire and my knees ache from stumbling against the floor. He forces me down into a chair, hard enough that I bite my tongue.
I blink through the sting of tears.
Jackson sits at the head of the table, waiting. The table is set like something out of a catalogue. Crystal glasses, polished silverware lined up in neat rows—more forks and knives than I even know what to do with. Plates gleam beneath the light of the chandelier overhead.
Jackson’s smile spikes when he sees me.
“Donnie,” he says lightly, swirling the stem of his glass, “not like that. Not unless I tell you.”
The words slither across my skin. Donnie snorts, releasing me and dropping into his own chair further down the table. My hair falls limp across my face, and I fight to steady my breathing.
Jackson lifts his glass, holding it toward me. A mockery of a toast. “To us.”
“Fuck you,” I snarl.
He pulls his gun from his side and places it on the table in front of him. A threat. But I don’t care. He could shoot me. He could end it all right now. Truth is, I couldn’t care less if my life is stripped from me right now.
But then I remember. Jacob will be on his way. And I will get out of here. Jacob will kill Jackson, and all of this will be a bad memory. I just need to survive this first.
Harris enters, carrying a tray. Mrs Dorsey follows with plates. The cook, a plump, soft-eyed woman with hands that look like they’ve kneaded bread their whole lives, sets the first dish down in front of me. She gives me a look—quick, pitying—and for a second, the scent of roasted meat and herbs fills my lungs, warm and comforting.
The thought of eating makes me want to gag. But I know I have to. I’ll need strength if I’m ever going to get out of here. My hands tremble as I pick up the fork, my lips dry as I force a bite into my mouth.
Jackson watches. Smiling. Always smiling.
His jaw is defined, like Benny’s. The way his hair curls at the edges, unruly but deliberate. The flame-blue of his eyes, too bright, too alive. It’s wrong. It’s horrifying. But it’s there.
He looks so similar to Benny. Just with a slightly different nose and more stubble. The thought hits me like a blow to the chest.
I drop my fork. “You… you look like him,” I whisper. My voice barely carries. “Like… Benny.”
For the first time, Jackson’s smile softens—though it doesn’t reach his eyes. He leans back in his chair, swirling his drink. “That’s because he’s my brother.”
My stomach flips. “What?”
“You obviously know by now that his real name isn’t Benny.” He tilts his head, almost amused. “His name is Kurt. Kurt Moore.”
The air leaves my lungs in a rush.
“He was part of the plan,” Jackson goes on, calm, wiping the remnants of food from his mouth with a napkin. “You really think he just stumbled into your life? You think he was your hero?” His laugh cuts. “Every week, Summer. Every damn week he came to see me. We spoke in riddles, so the guards didn’t ask questions, kept it quiet. And do you know what we spoke about most?”
His gaze pins me in place. My fork trembles in my hand.
“You.”
I feel stupid. Violated. Like my entire world has been peeled back to reveal nothing but decay underneath.
All those conversations. All those smiles. All those promises.
