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Pausing for a moment, he huffs, before stepping inside the room. “I don’t want to force you, Thalia. But I will not stand by while you waste away. You need to eat something.” There’s a ragged drag to his voice, and I hate myself for having brought him to this level of exhaustion.

I turn over and push myself to a sitting position.

His eye flickers with surprise, before he tamps it down with his usual permanent frown.

I let out an exhale through my nose and nod. “Okay. I’ll try.”

It’s strange to see this grown, formidable man lurch toward me, enthusiasm buried behind his stern expression as he dips the spoon into the bowl. Hand steady, he feeds it into my mouth, and I willingly drink.

The savory broth that he must’ve made from the venison meat warms my chest and stomach when I swallow it back, and I let out a slight, involuntary moan.

Brows lifting with relief, he dips the spoon again and fills it up, delivering another mouthful that I eagerly consume. He does it twice more, until I take the spoon myself and eat without his help.

To keep from having to watch how such a simple act on my part lights up his face, I stare down at his forearm that rests atop his thigh, eyeing the long, jagged scar that runs from his elbow to his wrist. Faint and white, it’s one I’ve seen before, but didn’t have the courage to ask about it.

“You’ve cut yourself before?”

Not bothering to look at the scar, he runs his finger along the length of it. “Many years ago.”

“Why?”

The gloom from before returns to his face, and he shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter.”

I glance down again, certain now that, whatever it was, at the time it turned him as inside out as I feel right now. “Please tell me?”

Maybe it’s the desperation bleeding through my voice that makes him contemplate the request for a moment, because the Titus I’ve come to know isn’t a man of compromise.

He nods and turns away from me, like he can’t bear to look at me. “I was twelve. Maybe thirteen. When we first took the injections, we were in excruciating pain. Doc Levins gave you those same few injections, while you were knocked out. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have been able to watch you ...” His frown deepens, and he shakes his head. “After the injection, we’d be placed in a dark room, in sensory deprivation, which was meant to settle us. Couldn’t hear. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t see. But I could feel. Beneath the current of pain that ran through my body, I felt the unspeakable things that were done to me.”

He grinds his teeth together, and rubs his hands, but his words are cold and detached. He doesn’t cry when he says them. Not a single tear, when he talks about what happened to him, and I envy his dissolution. I envy his ability to speak so freely, as if it’s someone else who was hurt, instead of him.

I can’t.

Even now, tears gather in my eyes, as I recall sitting in that cell after Remus had his way with me, lying curled up from the pain. As if I lay in that room beside Titus, I can somehow feel and understand his misery. An ache blossoms in my chest at the thought of a boy so young, enduring such a thing.

“It became routine. And I became reluctant to participate in the injections, knowing what always followed, which resulted in punishment. More pain.”

“Who did this to you?” I ask, noticing the shaky tone of my voice.

“One of the guards. As I got older, stronger, he moved on to other boys in the Alpha project.” He taps a finger at his temple and scowls. “Even as my mind and body were being conditioned to fight and endure pain, my head was locked in the memory of that twelve-year-old. So, when I found the guard alone one night, smoking his cigarette, I dragged him to a dark corner and gutted him with my bare hands.”

“You tried to kill yourself as a child?”

“No. That’s the problem. Even after he was gone, I was still locked in those memories.”

“This doesn’t get better, then. It doesn’t go away.”

“It gets easier, but no. It’ll never go away. Survive it, Thalia. Best thing you can do is survive and keep going. Don’t let him win.”

I stare down at my reflection dancing on the surface of the remaining watery broth in the bowl. Tired. Beaten. The defeat stares up at me and stokes the embers of anger still flickering inside of me. The small bit of life that still burns within. With a nod, I lift the bowl to my face, and drink the last bit of broth, swallowing down the pathetic reflection of myself.

When I’m finished, he takes the bowl from my hands.

“Why did you ask Atticus about Jack?”

“Don’t worry about him right now. You need to build your strength.”

“No. I want to know. Don’t leave me in the dark on this.”