Page 12 of Glutton for Punishment

“Good morning, lovebirds,” he says. “Did you miss me?”

I bite back the urge to recoil.

He isn’t alone. Another man follows behind him, dressed in a dull gray jumpsuit and a ball cap pulled low over his face. He carries a case of electrical equipment. He works on the outside corner of Atticus’s cell.

“I apologize for the delay,” Blaise continues, clasping his hands together as if we’re guests he’s kept waiting.

“Council business has been… hectic.” His smile widens. “But the good news is—everyone believes you’re slowly starving to death in the outer Wastes.”

My face pinches in disgust.

“So,” he says, eyes flicking between me and Atticus, lingering with proprietary interest. “We should have plenty of time now to get back to business.”

“Shall we begin?” He swings attention back to me as a guard moves forward to unlock my cell door.

As the Councilor steps toward my cell, Atticus explodes.

“Back the fuck away from her.”

The words tear out of him, raw and furious. He’s not used to surrendering control.

“Atticus,” I say, forcing my voice to stay steady. “It’s okay.”

It isn’t. But I can’t afford to let him do something that would cause Blaise to retaliate.

I straighten, meeting his gaze through the bars, willing him to see what I’m doing. Trust me.

I can’t stay locked in this cell forever. If Blaise wants something from me, that’s leverage. Movement. Information. A chance to see more than these four walls. To find a weakness. A way out. Maybe even a way to get word to someone who can help.

I turn back to Blaise, letting steel edge into my tone. “We’re just going to do a few tests,” I say. “Isn’t that right?”

His eyes gleam as he steps closer, stopping just short of the bars. His cologne reaches me, invading my senses with revulsion.

“Oh, absolutely,” he says, shaking his head, mock-sincere. “Nothing dramatic. Just some… harmless testing.”

I don’t believe him for a second.

But I’m not afraid.

Whatever Councilor Blaise wants to label me—Gluttony, anomaly, asset—I know what lives at my core.

I am Wrath.

Pain doesn’t frighten me. It never has. Pain is familiar. It’s something I know how to survive.

I fought for years in the arena against people who had the upper hand with their powers, endured nights of starvation when rations ran dry… I caused harm to myself and spent years tearing myself down in my mind.… I’m moulded for pain.

Lifting my chin, I school my face into calmness.

“I’ll be fine,” I say quietly to Atticus. A lie, maybe—but a useful one.

Blaise’s hand closes around my arm, steering me toward the door like a child.

“Be good, little heir,” he calls over his shoulder, voice slick with satisfaction.

I don’t look back as he drags me from the room—but I feel Atticus’s stare burning into my spine the entire way out.

Disappointment hits me as we step through the heavy prison doors into a plain hall. It’s small and cramped. Nothing to give away about where we might be or how we would escape.