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“You were to be my crowning achievement.”
I drag myself up, ignoring the agony radiating through my body. The unlit candle still sits on the table, silently witnessing my suffering. My fingers brush against the rough wax, and something ignites inside me—an idea, desperate but undeniable.
Wolfe wants his perfect weapon back. His lost prize. His obedient soldier. He doesn’t want me broken. He wants me bent.
Turned.
Loyal.
I scan the room, my eyes moving over the boarded window, the rusty keys just out of reach, the cigarette burns on the table—each detail a potential tool, a possible way out.
“You could have been magnificent.”Wolfe’s words echo in my head. “My perfect weapon.”
A dangerous and reckless plan begins to form. To save Blaze, I need to become precisely what Wolfe wants.
His perfect soldier.
I need to make him believe he’s won.
The guards’ voices grow closer.
“—starting up again soon. Waterboarding this time.”
“Yeah, wonder how long hero-boy’ll last.”
Time is slipping away. I steady myself, leaning against the wall, my mind racing through options, calculating risks.
It’s insane. Probably suicide. But as Blaze’s muffled scream echoes through my memory, I don’t have a choice.
Let Wolfe think he’s breaking me. Let him believe his mind games are working. Let him see his perfect weapon taking shape.
I touch my split lip, smearing blood between my fingers. I’ll play his game. I’ll be his perfect soldier.
And then I’ll burn his whole empire to the ground.
THIRTY-THREE
Ember
Minutes blur into hours,the room growing colder as I wait, calculating, biding my time. The dull ache in my ribs and the bitter taste of blood fuel the rage simmering beneath the surface.
I keep my face blank, my breathing controlled. Patience is a weapon, and right now, I’m sharpening mine.
Soft Eyes returns with water. His gaze skitters away when he catches me watching him—uncertain, wary. Perfect.
“Please,” I whisper, letting my voice crack, sounding fragile. “I need to speak with him.”
“Can’t.” Soft Eyes puts the water down, careful to stay out of reach. “Boss’s orders.”
I kick away from the wall, swaying slightly.Make it real. Make it convincing.“Tell him… Tell him I’m ready to talk.”
Soft Eyes shifts his weight, uncertainty written in every movement. “He said not to?—”
“You know what he’ll do if he finds out I’m ready to talk, and you kept it from him?” I press, watching fear flicker in his eyes. “That I tried to cooperate, and you stopped me?”
A bead of sweat rolls down his temple. The seeds of doubt take root.
“Just tell him,” I add, softening my tone, making it almost pleading. “What’s the harm in passing a message?”