I look around slowly and see Cormac talking to some men in the distance.
He's standing near the entrance, gesturing with his hands. His robe sweeps the floor as he moves, the black fabric catching the firelight from the candles. The men around him nod, their faces hidden beneath hoods. I recognize a few of them by their build, the way they stand. Brother Johnny. Brother Eli. Maybe Brother Jameson.
Everything moves in slow motion, and while I can't hear what they're saying, I know they're talking.
Their mouths move and one of them gestures toward me, and Cormac glances over, his expression unphased.
He doesn't care.
The incense fills my nose as I inhale, but something else comes along with it. It takes me a moment to realize what it is.
Gasoline.
The chemical smell is unmistakable. I force myself to breathe through my mouth, but it doesn't help and I feel like I can taste it on my tongue.
I close my eyes, and a tear slides down my face.
On one hand, I want Callum to come. I want him to burst through those doors and pull me off this altar and carry me out of here, his breath against my hair, his voice telling me I'm safe.
But I don't want him here. Not in this place where Cormac can hurt him.
Not where fire waits to consume everything.
If he comes, something bad is going to happen, and it'll be my fault.
It's always my fault.
"Please," I say, mustering up all the energy I have. "Just leave him alone. He has nothing to do with it. He didn't even know about it."
My voice cracks and sounds weak, but it's all I have.
Cormac's head snaps toward me.
"LIAR!" he yells.
I flinch, and the movement makes the blade shift. I gasp, biting down on my lip to keep from screaming.
"He knew, and even if he didn't, he deserves death for what his family's done."
"He doesn't. You don't have to be like this. You could have done so much more."
Suddenly, Cormac stomps over to me and puts his hand on the knife handle and jiggles it.
That white-hot agony explodes again through my shoulder.
I scream. I can't help it. The sound rips out of me, raw and almost sounding like an animal's howl.
My back arches as my hands claw at the altar, my vision blurs.
He lets go, and I collapse back down, gasping, sobbing.
"No more talking," he says, his voice cold. "Or I'll put another one in your other shoulder."
I cry but try to force myself to stop, as it causes more pain from the blade.
Every sob makes my chest heave. Every heave makes the knife tear me open a little more.
I press my lips together, trapping the sounds in my throat. My body shakes with the effort of holding it in, and fresh tears spill down my face, but I don't make another sound.
