Dropping the trimmer, I slam my fist into his jaw. His head whips sideways, bone cracking under my knuckles. Blood spatters the wall in a bright, wet arc and sprays across my cheek.
There’s a sick satisfaction in it—the weight of the blow, the taste of violence. It reminds me that even if I’m dead inside, I’m still breathing. She might’ve torn my heart out and crushed it under a stiletto heel, but I’m still here. Still alive enough to bleed.
Conor slumps in his chains, gasping. Blood leaks from his mouth, dribbling down his chin.
“Fuck—” I flex my hand, pain blooming in my knuckles. I turn away, trying to slow my breathing. Trying not to drown in the surge of rage rising under my skin.
But he laughs again, ragged and wet. “See? Just like your old man. You pretend you’re different, but you’re not. You’ll always end up here, losing your temper until you're covered in blood.”
“Fuck off, you rat. If you’re going to talk, at least make it worth listening to.” Da’s voice cuts through the space behind me, smooth and sharp enough to draw blood. A second later, something skids across the floor and stops at my boots.
A hammer.
It catches the light—steel gleaming like a promise, the handle slick with someone else’s sweat. I crouch, fingers curling around it, and the weight fits too easily in my palm. Like it belongs there.
Behind me, Da grunts his approval, and something in my chest twists—not fear, not pride, something darker. The kind of thing you inherit like a curse and learn to call power.
“Good,” Da says behind me, his voice low, almost indulgent. “Now make him talk.”
Conor’s eyes are swelling shut, but he’s still grinning through blood and broken teeth. Not on my fucking watch. He’s already broken in a dozen small ways—split lip, swollen jaw, one eye barely open—but still clinging to whatever secret he thinks can save him.
I circle him slowly. The hammer dangles from my hand, tapping against my thigh with each step. The sound is steady, like a metronome counting down and his breathing quickens to match it.
I raise the hammer. “Tell me who gave you the ink.”
He spits blood onto the floor, pink froth pooling around his lips. “You’re already dead, you just don’t know it. He’s coming for all of you, and you don’t stand a fucking chance.”
A chill crawls down my spine, rooting itself in my bones.
I bring the hammer down on his kneecap. Bone crunches under the blow and his scream rips through the Pit, reverberating until it vibrates in my ribs.
“Who the fuck ishe?” I snarl. My voice sounds foreign even to my own ears. More like my Da and less like me.
Conor crumples sideways, shaking. For a moment, I think he’s passed out, but then he laughs, high and manic, like he’s unravelling.
“I can’t,” he whispers, his breath hitching. “You don’t understand. Saying his name is a death sentence.”
I grab his shirt, drag him upright. “And you think you're making it out of here alive if youdon'ttalk? Think again.”
He shudders, squeezing his eyes shut like he’s bracing for something worse than me. When he opens them, there’s terror there, but behind it, something else. A flicker of sick satisfaction.
“I could tell you,” he rasps, blood slipping between his teeth. “But it wouldn’t matter.”
I press the hammer harder into his skin.
He grins, wild and broken. “You don’t stand a fucking chance.”
“Tell me,” I growl.
Conor coughs, choking on spit and blood. “The one who wears the ring… the man with the mark… he’s been watching for years. Waiting. You’re all just pieces on his board…”
I swing lower this time. The hammer slams into his shin and he howls, body bucking so violently the chains clink and shiver like ice in a glass.
“Names,” I grind out. “Give me names, you bastard!"
Blood bubbles on his lips. “Check… the ink… it’s not real… there’s something hidden… in the ink…”
I glance up at Da. He’s watching me, expression unreadable, and a faint smile curving his mouth. There’s pride in it, and something colder. I’ve seen that look my whole life—when he kills, when he commands, when he tests me.
