I stare at Jag’s ruined face and tell myself to breathe like this is just another room, another problem, another monster I can handle.I’m still the one in control.
“Remember the mission.”Oliver exhales.“Get Jag and Dove and get out.”
Dove.
My vision tunnels.
“There’s a screen,” Oliver says.“I need you to show me what he’s being forced to watch.”
I already know.
The screen sits out of my line of sight, angled away from me, positioned perfectly so Jag can’t escape it.I don’t want to look.I don’t want confirmation of the thing already tearing holes through my heart.
Because if they’re using her as leverage, if Jag’s still resisting, they’re hurting her.Probably right now.
“Wolf,” Oliver says, sharper this time.“Pull your shit together.I need eyes on that screen.”
I can’t feel my feet.They’re disconnected from the rest of me as I force them forward, each step mechanical, completely detached from the body that’s trying its damnedest to fold itself in half.
I move toward Jag.Toward the screen.Toward whatever they’re using to break him.And I pray to the false God of miserable Earth that I’m wrong.
As I pass Crowe, I grip his arm and drag him with me, keeping him close enough to remind him why he’s still alive.
When I step into Jag’s view, I don’t glance at him.I can’t.Not yet.I don’t trust myself to meet his eyes and keep my face vacant.One crack, and they’ll see it.One twitch, and Crowe will call my bluff.
Instead, I turn my body toward the screen, angle the pendant at my throat, and let the tiny lens catch what I don’t want to see.
Then I force myself to look.
The soundless feed is already rolling.
My brain skids, scrambles, and grabs fragments.
Dove.
Restrained to a bed.
Naked.
Gagged.
Body stretched like an X.
A man between her legs.
Hurting her the way Denver hurt me.
Thrusting.
Thrusting.
Thrusting.
The video, the room, everything smears into a hot, violent, blood-red blur.
It hurts.
It hurts in ways I’ve never hurt before.
