We stop outside a door where others are.
The hallway smells weirdly like vanilla and clean sheets, the opposite of the damp stone and dirt that have clung to my skin for days. Two of Callum’s men stand next to me while others are rummaging inside the bedroom, removing anything that could serve as a weapon.
"Anything sharp," Tommy says. "Anything she can use."
They nod and keep working.
I lean against the wall because my legs won't hold me upright anymore. My head still throbs from the drugs, from everything, but I watch them strip the room anyway.
As they work, a small part of me feels relieved to not be in the dark.
The fear hasn’t left me, not fully, but now that the lights are on, even these warm hallway ones, I can breathe without clawing at my own skin. It’s humiliating and irrational, maybe even pathetic, but it’s real.
The Order used the dark for everything.
For punishments and choosing sacrifices.
For the branding, for the rituals where you begged the Morrígan to spare you.
Dark meant chosen, it meant pain.
Dark meant you only screamed if you wanted to live.
I swallow back the memory. My eyes burn.
I see them take a letter opener, a pair of scissors, a glass vase and a few other bags of things out. All of it gone.
One of them glances at me, his expression blank, then returns to his work without a word.
I don't blame any of them.
I just tried to kill myself. What the hell are they supposed to do?
Tommy adjusts his grip, fingers digging into muscle, not cruel, just impatient. Just doing his job.
Finally, the man inside the room steps out. "Clear."
The grip on my arm tightens, and then he pulls me toward the door and I’m shoved forward.
I stumble into the room and fall hard to my knees, catching myself too late. Before I can inhale, the door slams behind me and the lock clicks.
I stay on my knees for a few seconds, head down, hair falling around my face, and take a few deep breaths.
Slowly, I lift my head and I see the room.
It's nice.
Not just compared to a basement or a forest or a ritual ground, but by normal standards I barely remember.
There's a bed, an actual bed, with a mattress and pillows and a comforter and clean sheets. A nightstand with a single drawer. A dresser against the far wall. And a window, tall and framed in dark wood, with curtains pulled halfway open.
I blink at everything, feeling disoriented. It feels like I stumbled into someone else’s life. Someone who’s allowed softness.
I push myself to my feet, my legs shaking, and take a step forward.
Then another.
The window draws me in, and I walk over to it. It's dark, but I can see a huge garden and pool. Trees line the property, and it all looks so peaceful.
