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Time loses all meaning, the world narrowing to a cycle of pain—relentless, raw, all-consuming. My ribs scream in protest, giving way with a sickening crack under the force of a particularly brutal kick.
A cold object presses against my thigh, and before I can brace myself, electricity surges through me, white-hot and unforgiving. My muscles seize, convulsing violently, every nerve set ablaze as a scream rips from my throat—ragged, desperate, the sound of a soul pushed to its breaking point.
My vision blurs, dark spots dancing at the edges, and I can’t tell if the tremors shaking my body are from the electricity or the sheer exhaustion eating away at my strength. Each breath is a struggle, a war against the crushing weight of pain that refuses to let go.
Through it all, Wolfe’s voice drones on, a dark and twisted lullaby demanding answers I refuse to give. Each refusal earns me another blow, another shock, another torment, but with every burst of agony, Blaze’s face flashes in my mind.
His eyes, fierce and unyielding.
His voice, promising safety.
His presence, my anchor.
I retreat deep inside of myself to a place Wolfe can’t touch, can’t corrupt. I’ve survived worse. I’ve endured more than he can imagine. This pain is temporary.
This will pass.
“Enough.” Finally, Wolfe’s patience shatters. He turns to the guards, a snarl twisting his lips. “Perhaps a different approach is needed.”
The room blurs, my consciousness slipping, the edges of reality fading as exhaustion pulls me under. But even as darkness claims me, one thought remains, burning bright amidst the haze of pain:
I didn’t break.
This isn’t defeat. This is only a temporary reprieve in a battle I refuse to lose.
THIRTY-ONE
Blaze
The door creaks open again,and I school my features into impassivity, but as Wolfe enters, a flicker of interest flashes in his cold eyes. He studies me closely, head tilted slightly as if reassessing a puzzle.
“Well, well,” he murmurs, a cruel smile on his lips. “Our little chat about Ms. Winters has given you something to consider. How fascinating.”
I say nothing, but it’s too late. Wolfe saw something in my expression, some telltale sign of Ember’s importance.
I handed him a weapon to use against me.
Wolfe circles me slowly, his polished shoes clicking against the concrete—the sound grates on my nerves.
“You know, Mr. Hawkins,” he begins, his voice deceptively casual. “I’ve done my homework on you. You were quite the troubled youth.”
I keep my face impassive, but my heart rate picks up. What does he know?
“Fort Wayne, Indiana,” Wolfe continues, stopping directly in front of me. “Not exactly a nurturing environment for a young boy, was it? Especially with a father like yours.”
The mention of my hometown, of my father, sends a jolt through me. I clench my jaw, fighting to maintain my composure.
Wolfe’s eyes gleam, sensing he’s struck a nerve. “John Hawkins. Quite the piece of work. Three DUIs, multiple domestic disturbance calls. Tell me, how old were you the first time he broke your arm?”
My breath catches. That night flashes through my mind—the sound of shattering glass, my mother’s screams, the sickening crack as my arm twisted unnaturally in his grip.
I was seven.
“You’re not the only one who’s faced adversity, you know,” Wolfe says, his tone almost sympathetic. “We have more in common than you might think. Both of us, shaped by the cruelties of those who should have protected us, a father who hurt you. A father who abandoned me.”
I recognize the tactic for what it is—a ploy to create a false sense of kinship and lower my defenses, but the knowledge doesn’t stop the memories from flooding back.
“You put three of your classmates in the hospital. Quite the fighter, even then. They claimed it was unprovoked, but we both know that’s not true, don’t we?” Wolfe continues, watching my reaction closely.