Page 14 of Cruel Submission

“That’s the sedative Dr. Harrison gave you.”

“I heard him.” Her fingers pick at a loose thread in the blanket. “Talking about… he said I was…” She trails off, words slurring, her brow creasing like she’s listening to something far away. Then, quieter: “Never. He said never.” Her eyes grow distant. “I’m broken,” she whispers.

“You’re not broken, Debra.”

The laugh that comes out of her is wrong—sharp and airless, too old for her face. “I don’t even… Sometimes I can’t— My name. Who I…” She pulls harder at the thread. “He called me things. Princess, when he— When I was good. When I did what he… Other things. Other names. I had so many names I forgot which one was—” Her hand jerks, snapping the thread. She stares at it like she doesn’t know how it got there. “Pretty sure that counts.”

“Counts as what?”

She doesn’t answer. Her eyes have gone somewhere else.

“Debra.” I keep my voice low, even. “You’re Debra McLeod. Twenty-four years old. You have a twin sister, Mirabel, and a father named Peter.”

Her mouth moves. No sound. Then: “Mirabel.”

“That’s right.”

“She’s— Is she—?”

“She’s safe.”

Debra’s gaze snaps to mine with sudden, startling focus. “You’re his son.”

There’s horror in it. Raw, animal recognition—like she’s just smelled smoke.

“I am.”

“Then why…? You can’t— He said his sons were—” She’s shrinking back against the headboard, fingers clawing into the blanket. “He told me about you. He said you were— That you’d—”

“Whatever he told you was a lie.”

“—he said if I ever tried to leave, his sons would—”

“Debra. Look at me.”

She’s breathing too fast. Shallow, panicked gulps. The sedative’s fighting her adrenaline and losing.

“I don’t touch his business,” I say. Slow. Clear. “The trafficking. The girls. None of it. I see you as what you are: his victim. Not his property.”

She’s shaking her head, but I don’t think it’s disagreement. More like her body trying to shake something loose.

“I want to…” She swallows. Tries again. “I want to believe… but he— Every time I believed someone, it was a… There was a man once, who said he’d help, and Gavriil found out, and he…” Her hand moves to her ribs. An unconscious gesture. Old pain. “So I stopped. Believing.”

“I understand.”

“No, you— You can’t!” She stops. Blinks. The brief flare of fight drains out of her as fast as it came, the sedative pulling her back under. Her shoulders drop. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I… I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.”

The quiet that settles between us feels fragile, like thin ice over black water.

Then the dam breaks.

“It’s my fault,” she says, and the words come out fast and shapeless, tumbling, colliding, half of them swallowed before they form. “The fight. Mira and I… Before the trip, she said… I don’t, I can’t remember what, but I was so— And I said things, terrible— God, I can’t even— And then I left, I just left, and on the trip I was still… still angry, still stupid, and I went into— I wasn’t supposed to— the forest, the trees, it was—”

Her breath hitches. A sound like something tearing.

“—and if I’d just… if I’d stayed… with the group. Or called her back, said sorry… but I didn’t, because I’m— I was—”