He straightens, hands in his pockets, relaxed.
“You’ll fight me. You’ll hate me. You’ll tell yourself this is temporary, that they’ll come for you, that Blade will walk through the door and fix everything.” His gaze sharpens. “But every hour that passes, that hope gets thinner.”
My chest tightens painfully.
“And eventually,” he continues, “you’ll realize something.”
I whisper, “What?”
“That the club won’t come for you,” he says. “Because they can’t. Because they’ll believe what I tell them.”
I start crying again, harder this time.
“When that settles in,” he says, voice low and certain, “when you finally accept that your old life is gone, you’re going to need something to hold onto.”
He steps back, giving me space again, like he’s confident he’s already won.
“That’s when you’ll look at me,” he finishes, “and realize I’m the only one left.”
I shake against the cuffs, anger and terror and grief twisting together in my chest. “You’re sick.”
He nods, unbothered. “Probably.”
Then his eyes meet mine one last time, sharp and possessive.
“But you’re strong,” he says. “And I don’t break strong women all at once.”
He turns toward the door.
“I take them apart slowly,” he adds. “Until they stop fighting because they don’t want to anymore.”
The door closes behind him with a soft click.
And alone in that room, cuffed and aching and terrified, I finally understand something that makes my blood run cold.
He doesn’t want to destroy me. He wants to own the fact that he didn’t have to.
TWENTY-NINE
BLADE
Pain dragsme back to consciousness like it’s got teeth. Not slow. Not gentle. It slams into me all at once, like my body remembers every second of last night and decides I don’t get a grace period. My ribs scream the second I breathe too deep. My gut burns, tight and angry, and my leg feels like it’s been beaten with a crowbar and left to rot.
I groan and immediately regret it.
The room smells wrong. Not oil. Not metal. Not home. It’s clean. Too clean. Bleach and antiseptic and something faintly floral that doesn’t belong anywhere near me.
I force my eyes open. Ceiling first. Not mine. Bare walls. A lamp on low. A chair pulled close to the bed like someone’s been sitting there a while. I try to sit up, but pain explodes through my ribs and abdomen, white-hot and unforgiving, and I choke on a breath.
“Don’t,” a voice snaps.
I turn my head and find that Bella’s standing at the foot of the bed, arms crossed tight like she’s holding herself together bysheer will. Her eyes are red and puffy. She’s been crying, hard and recently.
Switch is posted by the door, arms folded, jaw locked. Hawk’s near the window, shoulders tense, eyes sharp like he’s waiting for something to come through it.
And then I notice who’snotin my direct line of sight.
The door is cracked open. Rev is there, half in the hall, half in the room, one shoulder braced against the frame like he’s been pacing for hours and finally stopped moving because I opened my eyes. His face is hard, furious, eyes rimmed red in a way I’ve never seen before.
