Page 25 of Avidian (The Demon and the Savior #1)

“Being knocked around by Marco’s security the second time fueled a fire inside me.

I started plotting. Watching. Learning everything I could about the staff, about Marco’s security detail, the routines, the weak spots.

When Marco took me out on my first real job, I thought it might be my chance.

” I take a deep breath, the memory of that night still sharp even now.

“I was left alone to contact the spirit, to ‘get comfortable in the scene.’ At least that’s what Marco told his men.

And I had spent months plotting, waiting, so when the opportunity came, I couldn’t refuse it.

I barricaded the door, snuck out the window, and ran as far as I could.

I stumbled across a woman working in her yard, and I begged her for help.

She took me in, fed me, gave me water.” The fury I felt back then resurfaces.

“But it only took Marco’s men a day to find me. ”

Malachi shifts in his seat, sitting up straighter, his attention locked on me. He doesn’t interrupt, but some uneasiness in his eyes suggests he has an idea where this is going.

“You have to understand,” I say, my voice softening, “I was only sixteen at the time. I should have been smarter about it, but I was so desperate to get away that I acted irrationally. I was naive enough to believe I had a chance.”

He exhales, the sound heavy in the confined space of the truck. “What happened when they found you?” he asks. It’s like he doesn’t want to know but feels he has to hear it.

I look away, my stomach churning. “They killed the woman without a second thought then dragged me back to the compound. And Marco... He made sure I’d never try to run again.”

I let out a heavy sigh. “How do you create an obedient pet? How do you make a girl determined to escape stay willingly and obey with a smile on her face?”

Malachi’s expression hardens, his eyes never leaving mine.

“You break her,” I continue, my gaze distant. “You tear her down until she’s ashamed and powerless. But Marco would never dirty his own hands—that would make me hate him even more. No, that’s when I met Orin.”

“Dammit,” Malachi mutters under his breath.

“Orin took me to a place not much different than those cages under the stables,” I say.

“He stripped me of my clothes, my food, my water—my dignity. He shoved me into a cage in the dark. I lost track of time. He didn’t touch me, not then.

He taunted me, broke me down piece by piece.

He reminded me how I ‘killed’ my family and my best friend, made me believe it was all my fault.

He convinced me I was nothing, that I should be honored to serve someone like his father.

He actually made me feel guilty for embarrassing Marco by escaping. ”

I let out a hollow laugh. “I don’t know how long he kept me down there.

Without daylight or meals to keep track, everything blurred together.

” I turn slightly, gazing out the passenger window, not wanting to meet Malachi’s eyes for this next part.

“On the last day, Orin finally pulled me out of that cell. He forced me to shower in front of him then took me to his bedroom where Marco was waiting. I thought maybe it was over, that Marco would forgive me. But he didn’t say a word.

He watched, emotionless, as Orin shoved me onto my knees before him. ”

I take a slow, steadying breath, tracing a foggy trail on the window with my finger. “I can still hear Orin’s voice. ‘Hold still now. Don’t want this to get messy.’ He pulled a rod from the fireplace—only it wasn’t a rod; it was a brand. A shield with a wolf on it.”

“The Volkov family crest,” Malachi whispers.

“‘Now everyone will know you belong to us. Try running again, and I’ll make sure the next mark is somewhere a lot more visible,’ Orin said.

He left me there, crying on the floor. But Marco held me while I cried, told me it hurt him as much as it hurt me.

He said I brought it upon myself but that no one would ever touch me again as long as I obeyed him.

He kept me in his bed, healed my wound, fed me until I started to look like myself again. And I buried that day deep inside.”

A single tear escapes down my cheek, but I quickly wipe it away before Malachi can see. I grab my sweater and pull it off over my head.

“What are you doing? You don’t have to—” Malachi hesitates mid sentence as I grip the hem of my shirt and lift it, exposing my back to him.

“I buried that night, but he gave me this so I could never forget,” I say quietly.

His fingers brush over the scar at the top of my back right in the center, tracing its jagged outline with a gentleness that contradicts the rage I see building in him. My skin prickles under his touch, the memory of how I got that mark still so vivid now when I let myself remember.

“He fucking branded me,” I say, struggling to hold my composure. “How could you not trust me?” I glance over my shoulder at him, and his face is an open book. Anger, guilt, regret—and something else, deeper, darker, that he’s holding back.

A tear slips down my cheek before I can stop it, hot and unwelcome. I lift my hand to swipe it away, but Malachi beats me to it. He pulls me into him, his arms strong and unyielding as they wrap around me, holding me against his chest like he’s trying to shield me from the weight of my own pain.

And I break.

The tears come, unchecked and relentless.

I sob quietly into his chest, his warmth and steady presence holding me in a way I hadn’t known I needed.

He doesn’t speak, doesn’t try to offer platitudes or empty words.

Instead, his hand moves slowly through my hair, smoothing it in soft strokes, while his other hand tugs my sweater back down, covering the scar like he wants to hide the evidence of what’s been done to me.

Minutes pass—maybe more. The truck is quiet except for my uneven breaths and the occasional sniffle.

His embrace doesn’t falter, his strength a silent reassurance that he’s here, that I’m safe.

And for a fleeting moment, I let myself believe it.

I let myself exist in this fragile, fleeting bubble of comfort.

But then the weight of reality creeps back in. I can’t stay like this. I can’t let myself fall apart in front of him. I push gently against his chest, forcing some distance between us, and he lets me go without protest.

I swipe at my damp cheeks, trying to erase the evidence of my breakdown, and straighten my sweater. “I’m fine,” I murmur, my throat tight and voice raspy.

Malachi watches me carefully, his eyes still stormy.

“At least he put it somewhere I can’t see it every day, and my hair usually covers it when my clothes can’t,” I whisper. “So you see, I have plenty of reason to hate Marco. I, more than anyone, have reason to want him dead.” I press my lips into a thin line, holding his gaze.

Malachi remains silent, his eyes searching mine. “Kat... I didn’t know,” he finally says, strained.

“Now you do,” I reply softly, the weight of my confession settling between us.

Malachi sits frozen, his hands gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turn white. He doesn’t say anything for what feels like an eternity, his eyes locked on some distant point outside the windshield.

“You didn’t have to show me, Kat. I believed you.”

I cross my arms over my chest, leaning back into the seat, and stare out the windshield.

“Maybe I needed you to see it,” I say. “Now I don’t want to talk about this anymore.

The point is, you can trust me. I’m not hiding some twisted affection for your father.

I did what I had to do to survive. That’s it. ”

I glance at him briefly. My fingers dig into my arms as the weight of everything I’ve said presses down on me. “Now take me to your home or to a hotel—whatever you want—but don’t bring this up again.”

The only sound is the low hum of the engine idling. I keep my eyes fixed on the hanger shelves, wishing I could get out and pace. I feel too exposed, too vulnerable. I need to move, to be anywhere but stuck in this moment.

“I’m taking you home,” Malachi finally says, shifting the truck into gear.