Obedience.
Discipline.
My father's favorite words, delivered with fists instead of speeches.
Edwards' eyes found mine.
Held for a fraction of a second.
A silent warning wrapped in silent approval.
Both.
He knew what I was. What I came from. What I'd survived to get here.
And he approved of the methods even as he warned against their excess.
I held his gaze without flinching. Nodded once.
He moved on, but the message remained.
Control was everything. Lose it, and you lost the game.
I thought of Belle kneeling in my study, defiance burning in her eyes even as her body obeyed. Thought of her rage this morning—sharper, cleaner than her fear had ever been.
Good.
Fear broke people.
Rage made them fight back.
And I wanted her to fight.
Needed her to.
Because breaking someone who didn't resist wasn't victory.
It was just cruelty.
And I'd learned long ago that there was a difference.
When we headed to the locker room, Hades tossed his stick down hard enough that it clattered against the concrete floor, still muttering.
"Breaking wills. That's what we do. Not just bodies—wills."
Scar leaned back against his locker, that sharp smirk spreading across his face like he'd just uncovered something delicious and ruinous.
"You say that like you discovered fire."
"I say it because half of you forget."
Across the room, Jafar tilted his head toward the mirror mounted on his locker door, fingers adjusting hair that didn't need adjusting. Vanity as armor. Control as performance.
"I ruin lives on the ice," he said smoothly, "and off it when the mood strikes."
His reflection caught mine. Held.
He knew.
