He’s trying to play a role. But I canseeit in him. Every time his hand lands with a dull thud, it costs him something. Every time I don’t flinch, when I bite back sound, when I meet his silence with silence—it carves into him a little deeper. Whatever mask he wears up there in the world above, it doesn’t fit right in this room. Not with me.
This place—this grim, soundproof basement—was built to scare people into spilling secrets. It’s designed for confessions, for begging. But not like this. Not with me.
This isn’t Rowen’s arena when it comes to women. I see it in the way he looks at me after each hit—not with triumph, not with relief, but with guilt. The kind that settles deep in your chest and rots. The kind that eats at your resolve until you can’t remember what you were fighting for in the first place.
That might be the only reason I’m still upright. Still breathing. Still managing to keep the fragments of myself from scattering completely.
He isn’t just breaking me down.
He’s breaking right along with me.
When Emerson finally creeps down the stairs and murmurs something low to Rowen, the tension in the room shifts. It’s enough to pull Rowen away. Without another glance in my direction, he wipes his hands—slow, methodical—and disappears up the stairs, leaving behind the weight of everything he didn’t say.
Emerson doesn’t raise a hand to me. He tries something else. Words. Gentle, probing, strategic. He asks questions in that quiet, measured way of his, but I don’t bite. I’ve dealt with better manipulators and colder men. I shut him out the same way I did Rowen—with silence and stillness. Eventually, he gives up too.
And then they leave me here.
Alone.
They don’t say it, but it’s a test. Or a punishment. Maybe both. Either way, I’m left tied to the chair in the dark silence of the basement, surrounded by the echo of every choice I’ve made to get here.
Time crawls.
There’s a stretch—minutes, maybe hours—where I don’t move. I don’t shift, don’t speak, don’t even try to fight against the restraints. I sit, breathing shallow, head tilted forward like I’m asleep, but my mind is wide awake. Spiraling. Drenched in a kind of dread I can’t shake.
I keep thinking about Ronan.
The way his body flopped back against the bed—bloody. No one’s mentioned whether he lived or died. Maybe that’s part of their plan; they’re keeping me in the dark on purpose.
The thought cracks something in my chest.
I’ve seen a lot of terrible things—caused more than my fair share—but the idea of Ronan dying while I’m chained down here. That makes something deep inside me splinter.
Who would come for him? Who’s bold—or reckless—enough to try?
Their family is thick with enemies. Years of backdoor dealings, silent vendettas, shattered alliances—they’ve made themselves a target more times than they care to admit. It could’ve been anyone.
And once I get out of here, I’ll find out.
Because no matter how tightly they think they’ve closed their inner circle, I’ve cracked it wide open.
They don’t know it yet, but I have eyes in all their shadows.
I’ve tapped every one of their phones. Even the backups. Even the throwaways. I pay top dollar when I need access, and I’m not above getting creative. Bryce especially, is a creature of habit—and impulse. He burns through phones like cigarettes, never thinks twice about where they come from. Lucky for me, his favorite girl has a grudge deeper than mine and just enough spite to plant what I need when I ask.
The trick is always in the setup, and the right woman. The right price, and a little patience.
They never see it coming.
It seems like days later—though time doesn’t mean much down here. There are no windows, no natural light, no clocks ticking away to anchor me to something solid. Just the weight of silence and the slow unraveling of my body. My mind.
I’ve pissed myself more than once. There’s no dignity in it, no pretending otherwise. It’s humiliating in a way that crawls beneath your skin and settles there, but survival doesn’t care about pride. I’m just grateful I hadn’t eaten within twenty-four hours of being strapped down. My stomach’s always been a mess before a kill—tied in knots, acid churning like it knows what’s coming. At least that saved me any added indignity of losing everything. No food, no mess. No taco shits mid-beating. Small blessings, I guess.
Then, out of nowhere, a sound bubbles up from somewhere I didn’t know still existed—a laugh. A ridiculous, out-of-place giggle bursts from my throat before I can swallow it. It comes without warning, sharp and strange and jagged. The sound shatters the silence like glass, jolting me back into my body.
Reality slams back into me like a punch to the chest.
I need to escape.
