Page 40 of The Ashes of Summer

The room suddenly feels too small. Too bright. Too difficult to breathe in.

"Donnie." One word. One nod. That's all it takes.

Donnie pushes himself away from the wall and starts walking toward me. Every instinct in my body screams at me to move. I back up a step but he doesn't slow down.

My heart lurches.

Donnie closes the last of the distance between us, his shadow swallowing mine beneath the harsh overhead light. He's so much bigger up close. His shoulders seem to fill the room, his expression utterly blank as he reaches for my arm.

His fingers clamp around my upper arm hard enough to make me gasp. Pain blooms instantly beneath his grip. I twist on instinct, trying to wrench myself free, but it's like pulling against concrete. My struggle doesn't even seem to register.

"Please..." The word escapes before I can stop it.

Donnie doesn't acknowledge it—he simply tightens his grip another fraction.

"Sit her down," Jackson says quietly.

Donnie starts forcing me toward the chair, but I dig my feet into the ground, begging for something, someone to stop what’s about to happen.

"No—wait—please!"

"Or..." Jackson's calm voice cuts cleanly through the room.

Donnie stops.

I freeze, chest heaving, tears burning behind my eyes.

"You can sit down by yourself."

Donnie's hand is still crushing my arm and the gun still hangs inches from his thigh. I look from him to Jackson, searching desperately for some sign that there’s a way out of this.

But I know there isn't one.

Jackson waits patiently, like he already knows which choice I'm going to make.

My legs give out before my courage does. And slowly, I’m lowered into the chair. Only when I'm sitting does Jackson nod once.

"Let her go."

Donnie releases me immediately.

I snatch my arm back against my chest, rubbing at the throbbing skin as tears blur my vision. Finger-shaped marks are already beginning to bloom beneath my sleeve. Jackson's eyes linger on them for only a second before he picks up the brush once more.

"Good girl," he says softly.

The words chill me far more than if he'd shouted.

He picks up the bowl again, stirring the thick, dark mixture with slow, methodical movements before setting it back onto the tray. Every movement is controlled, practiced, as though he's done this a hundred times before. There isn't the slightest hint of uncertainty in him.

He steps behind me and my whole body locks.

I don't dare turn around.

The chair feels suddenly too small, my hands gripping the edge of the seat until my fingers ache. Every instinct tells me to scream. But Donnie is still there. I can hear him shifting his weight near the door, a silent reminder that there’s no one here who will save me.

A strand of my hair slips over my shoulder and Jackson’s gloved fingers slide beneath it, gathering the copper lengths together with infuriating care. He lets it run through his hand, watching the color catch beneath the harsh light overhead.

The brush disappears into the bowl before emerging coated in thick, dark paint.