The words hit me like a punch to the gut.
My breath stalled, vision blurring at the edges. For a heartbeat, I couldn’t move—couldn’t think; I just stood there, staring at the man on the screen, as realization crashed down and shattered everything I thought I knew. Heat flooded my face, and my hands trembled at my sides. The room seemed impossibly small. All I could choke out was a wordless sound, the reality of Sinclair’s reveal thundering in my chest, altering the ground beneath my feet.
I have a brother.
Chapter Thirteen
Rowen
My pulse hammered in my ears, anger and betrayal twisting together inside my chest, the urge to murder Sinclair almost overwhelming. My loyalty had always been unwavering, but now Sinclair’s interference felt like a personal betrayal as he watched through the screen with a cold smirk, knowing exactly how to manipulate my trust.
“Rowen, please let him explain. If you don’t, you will never know the truth.” Dante’s voice cracked, pleading and raw, the words cutting deeper than any warning. His eyes searched mine, begging me not to cross a line I couldn’t return from, fear and grief tangled in every syllable.
“I don’t give a fuck.” My voice was a blade, cold and unwavering, eyes locked on the man who had shattered everything I thought I knew.
I had a brother. A connection in this god-awful world and that son of a bitch kept him from me. He fucking knew all this time and said nothing as he used me, manipulated me, forced me to do his bidding.
The truth echoed in my mind, sending shockwaves through every memory I’d ever clung to. How could I have gone my whole life not knowing, not even suspecting? My heart pounded with questions I couldn’t voice, each one heavier than the last. Every conversation between Travis and me—every glance, every moment—shifted, morphing into something I didn’t understand, but now held a deeper meaning, recast in the harsh light of Sinclair’s revelation.
The room seemed to tilt, reality shifting beneath my feet. I struggled to find my bearings, desperate for some anchor that would make sense of it all. Behind my confusion, a flicker of realization sparked, tight, unbreakable as I roared, “You fucking knew who he was and sent him anyway. Why?”
When Sinclair refused to answer, something hot and wild snapped inside me. Rage surged through my veins—my fists clenched so tight my knuckles ached, breath coming in sharp bursts. I barely registered the snarl tearing from my throat as I grabbed Dante’s computer, my body trembling from the effort to hold myself together. “Fuck you!” I spat, voice raw, eyes burning holes into Sinclair as I squared off with him, while he just stared at me with the same icy indifference I knew well. “All you fucking care about is yourself! You don’t give a damn about anyone. Every twisted game, every lie—what’s it all for? Just more manipulation, more control. Well, I’m done being your pawn!”
Sinclair smiled slowly as he leaned forward toward the screen, his chair groaning beneath his weight. He steepled his fingers, eyes never leaving mine. “No, you’re not,” he said, voice so calm it made my skin crawl. The words hung in the charged air, and I stared at him, pulse thundering in my ears.
I slammed Dante’s computer down on his desk—hard enough to rattle the pens—my heart pounding so loudly I wondered if he could hear it. Sweat prickled at my hairline, jaw clenched tight. “You don’t own me, Sinclair,” I hissed. “I went along with your directives because I thought I had nothing to lose. But now I do.” The words tasted bitter, my mind whirling with images of every time I’d let Sinclair steer me—every moment I’d ignored the warning bells, believing I was alone.
Sinclair leaned back, a lazy grin stretching across his face, his arrogance a slap in mine. “Exactly,” he drawled, tapping his desk with one finger. “I warned you before—the past never truly stays dead. Now you’re about to learn just how deep that pastgoes.” His gaze sharpened, a flicker of something—regret, maybe—gone just as quickly.
Dante groaned, voice thick with frustration. “Enough of the mind games, Dad. Just tell Rowen what he needs to know.” He glanced between Sinclair and me, desperate for a break in the tension.
Sinclair’s lips curled, eyes fixed on me, unyielding. “And watch him flounder?” he shot back, voice cold and clinical. His gaze was a dare, as if he relished the unraveling of every secret he’d kept locked away.
I shook my head, struggling to steady my breath as my chest tightened. “This isn’t a game anymore, Sinclair. This is my life. A family I didn’t even know existed—until now.” My voice cracked with the weight of it, every word carved from disbelief and longing.
Sinclair’s expression hardened, his tone shifting—almost protective. “That’s right, Rowen, and I’m the reason you’ve all survived this long. I’ve kept them safe, whether you believe me or not. But the threat you’re facing now is real and closing in. Hate me if you want, but I won’t let anything touch the ones you care about. I will do everything within my power to protect you—even if you despise me for it.”
My hands balled into fists, nails digging into my palms. “By sacrificing my brother!” I shot back, voice hoarse—anger and anguish tangled together.
Sinclair’s eyes flicked to Dante, then back to me, unflinching. “And your other brother and sister as well, if it comes to that.” His words struck like a slap—cold, final.
My vision narrowed, a roar tearing loose that was equal parts fury and heartbreak as I grabbed Dante’s computer and threw it across the room and roared, “SON OF A BITCH!”
The heavy iron door groaned open, exhaling a breath of damp, stale air that clung to the back of my throat. It was a scent I’d grown accustomed to—the perfume of desperation. My boots echoed on the concrete floor, each step a deliberate punctuation mark in the silence that had been building inside me since I left Sinclair’s office. I was done with polite façades, carefully constructed civility, and sadistic men who felt as if they owned me.
Here, in the belly of Hell, was where the truth resided, raw and unvarnished.
A man with eyes like chips of obsidian and a scar that bisected his eyebrow nodded curtly as I approached. He didn’t ask for my name or a reason. He understood. He’d seen my look before—the simmering rage behind my eyes, my tightly clenched jaw.
“Down the tunnel,” he rumbled, his voice like gravel grinding against stone. “Fifth door on the left. Don’t expect a warm welcome.”
I offered a grim nod and turned, the weight of my own unresolved fury a physical burden. Every muscle in my body hummed with agitated energy, a desperate need for release. The tunnels were a labyrinth, dimly lit by flickering bare bulbs that cast long, dancing shadows, making the rough-hewn walls seem to writhe. The air grew warmer, thicker, with the faint murmur of voices and a low, guttural chant growing louder.
This was it.
My crucible.
Finally, I reached the fifth door. It was identical to the others, unremarkable, but the vibrations that seeped through it wereanything but. Pushing it open, I stepped into a cavernous space, the air thick with the acrid scent of exertion and something akin to primal fear. The noise hit me like a physical blow—a roar of the crowd, a symphony of grunts and thuds, the sharp crack of bone meeting flesh.
