Page 64 of Horror and Chill

I test everything again. Wrists twist. Ankles kick. Nothing.

So I test myself.

How long until the burn in my shoulders forces me still? How many minutes before my skin starts to numb? How many times can I pull before my wrists swell so tight I won’t be able to slip them out even if the lock pops by chance?

This is what they want. To see me strain. To see me fight. To see how long before I break.

I spit out a laugh, sharp and bitter. If they want a show, I’ll give them one.

My thoughts shift, uninvited, to each of them.

Corwin. Blue eyes too sharp, tattoos crawling up his throat. He smiles like he already knows how the story ends. He wants to break me, and part of me wonders what happens if I let him try.

Garron. Steady, heavy, the one who carried me like I was nothing. His voice rumbles like something deep underground. He’s patient, solid, the kind of man who doesn’t push—terrifyingin a different way. Maybe worse, because you can’t fight inevitability.

Evander. Quiet. Watching. He doesn’t move until it matters. His words sink in deeper than they should, calm when everything else is fire. He unsettles me most of all, because I think he already knows what I’ll choose before I do.

I test the cuffs again and hiss when the edge scrapes skin raw.

“What the fuck do you really want from me?” I whisper because the question won’t stop gnawing at me.

Their voices echo in my head.

Forever.

Rule.

A knife in your hand.

The worst part? Some part of me thrills at it. Some part of me wonders what it would feel like to take the blade they’re holding out and make it mine. To carve out payback on the people who baptized me until I choked, who bound my wrists in rosary beads, who told me every inch of skin was already spoiled.

Could I do it? Could I cut someone open and feel nothing but relief?

I arch against the restraints and feel my chest rise hard, my breath jagged. My body betrays me, heat coiling low, sharp and hungry. I hate it. I love it.

My head tips back against the pillow. “You’re losing it, Agatha,” I mutter. “You’re really fucking losing it.”

But the truth is worse. I’m not losing it. I’m finding it.

And maybe that’s exactly what they want.

25

Evander

The cabin ispeaceful minus the sounds of Agatha cursing and the hum of the old fridge. We’ve always meant to replace it but somehow always forget. I pull out a chair and plop down next to Corwin at the kitchen table. Garron is across from us, opening a bag of frozen-crinkle cut fries.

“We could have made steaks,” Corwin mutters, drumming his fingers on the table.

“We didn’t come here for steak.” Garron dumps the fries onto a pan, spreading them out evenly. “Easy. Quick. No fuss.”

Corwin smirks. “You sound like Mom.”

“Shut up and preheat the damn oven,” Garron growls.

I lean back in my chair, arms crossed, watching them fall into the same rhythm we’ve had since we were kids. Corwin stirs shit up, Garron holds the line, and I keep the balance. I glance at the ceiling. Agatha’s up there, cuffed to the bed, seething. I can feel her fight even through the floorboards above us.

“She’s not going to eat,” Corwin says. “Not from us. Not without trying to bite the hand that feeds her.”