Page 32 of The Ashes of Summer

Maybe.

I don't know enough yet. That's the truth of it—I know more than I did an hour ago, and vastly less than I need to. Every piece of information I've gathered this morning is a thread, not a plan. Threads can become something. But they need time and they need more of them and they need someone patient enough to weave them together without pulling too hard and losing everything.

Be patient.

Learn the patterns. Wait until you know enough to move.

I sit back down on the edge of the bed.

My wrists ache where he grabbed me last night. My fingers pulse with the deep broken-bone throb that doesn't ever fully go away, just ebbs and surges with every heartbeat. My jaw is tender where he held it. I breathe through all of it.

In.

Out.

A sound in the corridor jolts me from my thoughts. Footsteps, and there's more than one set.

My spine straightens automatically, every thought slipping back behind the version of me Jackson believes he's creating. I let my shoulders sag. Let my gaze lose its focus. Let the fight disappear from my face while keeping every last piece of it locked somewhere he can't reach.

He wants a girl who's beginning to fold. I can be that. Until I don't have to be anymore. Because Jacob is coming, and I’m going to break free. And I refuse to accept that there’s any possibility that I remain in this hell-hole.

The door opens. Donnie walks in first like he owns the place, like this is just another room to him, just another job. Just another woman. Another piece of meat. Jackson follows a step behind him, laughing at something Donnie's said. The sound is low and effortless, the kind of laugh people share over dinner or drinks, and hearing it here makes my stomach turn. They're carrying on a conversation that started somewhere else, neither of them in any hurry to acknowledge me, neither of them changing the rhythm of it simply because they've walked into the room where I'm being kept.

Like I'm not standing here. Like I'm no more significant than the furniture.

Jackson's eyes find me eventually, lingering only for a split-second before drifting past me to the breakfast tray. His gaze settles on the empty plate, then follows the trail into the bathroom. I hear the bin open. A second later he reappears in the doorway, the corner of his mouth lifting as he looks back at me.

"You've got to start eating, princess." His voice is easy, almost conversational, like we're discussing the weather instead of the fact I'm trapped in his house. "Or Donnie here will feed you."

"With my cock," Donnie says with a grin that makes my stomach turn.

Jackson turns his head just enough to look at him. He doesn't smile. He doesn't laugh. He doesn't tell him to stop.

The silence stretches between them, heavy enough that I almost convince myself Jackson's about to shut him down. Instead, he looks back at me. The faint smile returns.

"And neither of us wants that."

Jackson looks back at me, whatever passed between him and Donnie lingering in the hard set of his features for only a moment before it disappears beneath that same easy composure.

"We've come to start the show."

The words don't register straight away. They hang in the air between us, too calm for what they imply, my mind refusing to attach meaning to them until it has no choice.

"No."

The word leaves me before I can stop it, brittle enough that I barely recognize my own voice. I take an instinctive step backward until the edge of the sideboard catches the backs of my legs, the solid wood digging into me hard enough to remind me exactly where I am. The room has already run out of places to hide. My pulse surges, every muscle in my body screaming at me to move anyway, to fight, to do something.

My hand sweeps blindly across the polished surface behind me, fingers closing around the first thing they find. A bottle of water that I took from the breakfast tray. I don't think. I throw it with everything I have. It spins through the air, missing Jackson by inches before exploding against the marble floor. Plastic splits open on impact, water spraying across the room and racing over the polished stone in shimmering streams.

Jackson doesn't even blink.

His eyes follow the bottle to the floor before returning to me, and for the first time since he walked into the room, something unreadable settles across his face. He inclines his head once, almost lazily, as though I've merely confirmed something he'd already decided.

"Donnie." He doesn't raise his voice. He doesn't need to.

The single word has barely left his mouth before Donnie is moving, and by the time my body catches up with what's happening, he's already on me. His hand closes around my wrist with bruising force, fingers biting into my skin as he yanks me toward him. I stumble, catch myself for half a second, then fight with everything I have left. I twist violently, trying to wrench free, my broken hand slamming into his back hard enough to send a blinding bolt of pain through my fingers. It burns white-hot, stealing my breath for a heartbeat, but I hit him again anyway. I drive my knee upward, aiming for the space between his legs, but he moves. Not much. Just enough. My knee collides with the solid muscle of his thigh instead, the impact ricocheting back through my hip as though I've kicked a concrete wall.

"Don't make this harder than it has to be," Jackson says, his voice carrying the same detached boredom he'd use discussing the weather. As though I'm the one creating a problem. As though dragging me through this house against my will is the reasonable part of this conversation.