Priest doesn’t have a New Orleans accent…he doesn’t act like a Sovereign heir…he can’t be. My mind goes numb. I was fucked by the son of the man who killed my father…
Sterling leans forward, elbows on his knees. The light casts harsh shadows across his angular face. “But he did deliver youto me, like a good soldier. So maybe he’s not a completely lost cause. Now, let’s talk business,” he continues, slipping into that same casual tone as before. “I want to know what yourdaddytold you.”
“Nothing.” I lift my head, the movement like razors across my neck. “He didn’t tell me anything.”
Sterling studies me. His dark ice eyes are calculating, soulless…just like Priest’s. The longer I stare at his face, the more I see the resemblance, and it makes me nauseous.
“He didn’t need to. You were there. And children see more than they understand.”
He stands, brushing imaginary dust off his tailored jacket. “You’ll break eventually. They all do. And when you do, I’ll know every secret he buried in you. I’m patient, Arlo. I can hurt you for years. Hell, Iwantto.”
He steps toward the door.
“You’re your father’s legacy,” he says as the lock disengages, “and I’ll see it ripped out of you piece by piece.”
The door slams behind him with a deafening clang.
I sag against the chains, my head dropping to my chest. The cold climbs up my spine. My teeth chatter. Blood seeps down my thighs, sticky and warm. My wrists throb. My ribs ache.
How could I have been so fucking careless?
I flinchwhen the door creaks open.
The scent of gasoline still clings to my skin. Every breath razors down my throat, the tissue shredded raw from being waterboarded. My fingers twitch at my sides. I want to curl theminto fists, but they won’t listen. They snapped too many of my fingers.
I press myself deeper into the corner of the cell. The concrete wall is cold against my spine, but I barely register it. I can’t lift my head. I can’t move. I can barely stay conscious.
One eye is completely swollen shut. The other sees just enough to show me blood-slicked floors, vomit, piss, and a bucket I can’t reach.
The air shifts as multiple men step inside.
I want to look at them—scream. Tell them to finish it.
Kill me.
Just fucking kill me already.
But my lips are split open. My throat’s ruined. I can’t speak. Can’t shout. I’m not even worth killing. I survived every fucking year in hiding. Every night alone. Every lie. Every drop of blood I spilled for the chance to be free.
And for what?
To die here.
For someone else’s sins.
For my father’s name.
I hear footsteps. Closer. I brace for hands to grab me, drag me back into that room again. The one with the hooks. The metal table. The soundproof walls. Where they cut and cut and cut just to see what’s left when a girl bleeds.
But then another voice speaks.
Arseny?
Something in me shatters.
I don’t know if I’m awake anymore. If I’m hallucinating. If the blood loss is finally catching up. But it’s his voice. Real.Unmistakable. I want to lift my head. Want to see him. But I can’t. I can’t look him in the eyes like this. In a pool of my own blood and vomit, naked, and tortured.
My ribs hitch. I make no sound. Just a weak, wet stutter of a breath as I tremble in place. My chest caves in with the weight of humiliation.
