“If you go septic, that’s on you,” he mumbles before dousing my arm in alcohol. I don’t flinch. Pain is welcome. Pain makes sense.
“Where you headed?” he asks while prepping the needle.
“East Coast Section.”
“How long?”
“Few weeks. Maybe more.”
He nods and gets to work.
I lean back, sucking on the joint, the beer sweating in my hand, pretending the pain in my arm is why my chest feels tight. Pretending it’s not because some traitorous little cunt with blood on her name and venom in her smile got in my head.
Fucked me up.
And now I’m leaving.
Because if I stay—I’ll never be able to claw her out from under my fucking skin.
The chains bite into my wrists, metal cuffs slick with blood from where the skin split hours—days?—ago. My arms hang limp above my head, dislocated or close to it. My shoulders scream. My thighs are raw. My ass is bruised. Every inch of my body is one long nerve ending, flayed open.
I’m still naked and exposed.
The cold is relentless. The kind that gets inside your bones and never leaves. Concrete walls. Concrete floor. The air stinks of mildew and metal and me. There’s one flickering bulb overhead, but it cuts out sometimes, leaving me in pitch-black.
I lost track of time somewhere between the second blackout and the third beating. Minutes bleed into hours. Or maybe days. It’s impossible to tell.
I don’t cry anymore. Not because I’m strong, but because there’s nothing left to cry with. My face is swollen. Lip cracked. One eye nearly swollen shut. Even blinking feels like work
The metal door groans, hinges squealing, and I flinch without meaning to. My spine stiffens. My heart doesn’t race—there’s no energy left for that—but my breath hitches. My body bracing for something it already knows is coming.
Bright light floods the cell. I squint against it, blinking fast as a silhouette fills the frame.
“Good morning, Arlo.” A thick New Orleans drawl makes my stomach twist.
When the light stabilizes, I see him and my blood ices.
Sterling Carmichael. High Chancellor. He’s tall and lean, with an angular face, his hair is dark and slicked back. I met him, once, as a child. My father despised him. I never forgot his face.
“Seems you’ve been a very busy girl.” He smirks, setting a chair in front of me.
My head throbs from holding it upright, but I don’t look away.
“I didn’t do shit,” I rasp, voice shredded from screaming.
Sterling slowly smiles. “You’ve got your father’s mouth. Shame how that ended.”
“Don’t you dare talk about my father.” I spit. The blood-tinged glob hits his cheek. He wipes it off with a silk handkerchief, folding it like he’s dealing with wine stains.
“I can see why my son was drawn to you. You’ve both got that rabid defiance.”
I still at the word.
Son.
“What…?” My voice breaks on the word. “Priest…is your son?”
“By blood. Though he’s always been a disappointment. No refinement. No loyalty. No legacy.”
