It was nothing. Two feet of additional space in a night that already included kidnapping and torture and a brother being hurt on a countdown clock. It should have meant nothing.
But she saw what it cost him. The way his whole body vibrated with the effort of staying still. The white-knuckle clench of his fists at his sides. The way he looked at the floor instead of at her, because if he looked at her, he might break.
Something cracked open in her chest.
She turned back to the door and hit it. One, two, three, four — until her knuckles split and pain bloomed hot up her wrists. The steel didn’t care. It would never care. She hit it anyway, because stopping meant accepting, and she wasn’t ready to accept a goddamn thing.
The fifth hit sent a bolt of pain through her right hand that folded her fingers inward. She pressed her forehead against the cold metal and breathed. In. Out. In. Focused on the contrast between the heat of her skin and the indifference of the door until the roaring in her ears dropped to something she could work with.
Then her legs gave out.
She slid down until she hit the floor, spine scraping steel, knees pulled to her chest, damaged hands wrapped around her shins. Same position as the Istanbul safe house. Curled inward. Making herself small. Holding her own body together because no one else was going to do it for her.
Across the hallway, she heard Dom lower himself to the floor. Slow and careful, the way you’d move around a wounded animal. She didn’t look up. She tracked the sound — the creak of his weight settling, the soft exhale as his ribs protested, the small shift as he found a position against the opposite wall.
Close enough to hear him breathing. Far enough that she couldn’t feel his warmth.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t offer comfort or platitudes or promises. Didn’t tell her it was going to be okay, that Sabin was strong, that they’d figure it out. He just sat there on the other side of the hallway and gave her space.
The minutes stretched. The ventilation hummed. The cameras watched with their red eyes. Somewhere beyond these walls, her brother was in pain, and she was sitting on the floor in an apartment she couldn’t leave, guarded by a door she couldn’t open, accompanied by a man she couldn’t forgive.
She looked at him. Finally.
He sat with his forearms on his knees, head bowed, staring at his own hands. In the dim light leaking through the reinforced glass at the end of the hall, she could see a bruise spreading across his cheekbone, the dried blood still in his hairline, the exhaustion carved into every line of his face.
He looked wrecked, but not from the beating. From staying still when every instinct he had would be screaming to help. To fix. To soothe.
But he stayed still. He let her hurt.
Damn him. He was doing exactly what she’d needed him to do in Istanbul. Back then he’d stepped in, decided, acted. Locked the door and called it love. Now he was sitting on the other side of a hallway with his hands open and empty, and the difference between those two things was something she didn’t have the energy to examine right now.
It wasn’t enough to make up for what he’d done.
It wasn’t close to enough.
But it was something. And right now, something was all she had.
six
Sabin’s pinkysnapped like a matchstick, the crack echoing off concrete walls as white-hot pain surged up his arm. He screamed — raw and unfiltered — because why the hell not? It wasn’t like biting it back would impress his captors, and if they wanted him to beg, they’d be waiting a long time. The guard twisted the broken finger just enough to send another lightning bolt of agony through him, punishment for the smart remark Sabin couldn’t resist making.
Some people stress-ate. Him, he stress-quipped, even when it earned him broken bones.
“You know,” he gasped, “there are easier ways to tell me you didn’t like my joke.”
The guard — a mountain with tactical gear and a black mask — didn’t respond. Just grabbed his ring finger next. The pressure built slowly, like the bastard was savoring it.
“Wait—” It was too late. The second snap came with a burst of nausea that rolled through him like a wave. He threw his head back, teeth bared, a sound tearing from his throat that didn’t sound human even to his own ears.
The guard released his hand and stepped back, satisfied. Sabin slumped in the chair, sweat beading his forehead, heart hammering so hard it felt like it might crack his ribs. Two down. Eight fingers to go. At this rate, he’d be lucky if he could still hold a lock pick when — if — he got out of here.
When. Not if. He couldn’t start thinking in ifs.
He took several shallow breaths and forced himself to look at his hand. His pinky bent at an unnatural angle, already swelling, turning the sickening purple-blue of a deep bruise. The ring finger was worse, the bone misaligned enough that it created a visible bump under the skin. The pain radiated in steady pulses, bright as a beacon.
Pain was information, not crisis. That’s what his father always taught him. Information about what was damaged, what needed fixing, what could still function. He systematically flexed each of his remaining fingers on his left hand. Index and middle still worked. Thumb moved but sent fire shooting through his wrist. His right hand was zip-tied to the chair but otherwise intact.
“Let me guess,” he said to the impassive guard. “You were the kid who pulled wings off flies.”
