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I try to laugh it off, but the sound dies in the space between us, and so I hold her tighter, locking it all away.

For a few more hours, the paperwork doesn't matter. There’s only her. Because truth-be-told, something in the machinery of my chest has shifted. I haven't spent that much time with Eden, but I feel... changed. Recalibrated.

I’ve spent my existence watching souls break, but I never thought I’d be the one struggling to keep mine in one piece.

Chapter 33

Malachi

“Get your hands off her!” I roar, straining against the pressure on my shoulders and the cuffs on my wrists. “You’re being too rough, you ham-fisted troglodytes!”

The Wardens ignore me, of course. They handle Eden like she’s nothing more than livestock, forcing her down onto the slab. The sound of her skin slapping against the freezing rock makes my stomach roll over. She’s hyperventilating in shallow, desperate gasps that echo too loudly in this damp tomb of brick walls and CRT monitors spitting nothing but white static.

Iron locks her down—a sacrifice on a grey stone altar. And there, on a velvet cushion, sits her imminent pain: a crown of needles and cold steel.

It’s a monstrosity of engineering. A rigid metal cage designed to bolt directly into the skull, fitted with thick, hollow needles positioned perfectly to drill into the temples. I’ve seen these before. Hell, I’ve worked with them thousands upon thousands of times during my life. Recollection Extractors. Nasty things.

The sharp clack of stilettos on granite cuts through the static as Veraxia glides into the room, clipboard tucked against her chest.

“Oh, do be quiet, Malachi,” she sighs, not even looking up from her paperwork. “Your theatrics are exhausting, and the acoustics in here are terrible enough without your bellowing.”

I stop fighting the Wardens. It’s pointless physically, so I switch tactics. I plant my feet, squaring my shoulders, drawing myself up to my full height.

“I am staying right here, in the room” I snarl. I look at Eden—her eyes wide, terrified, staring at the ceiling—and rage, hot and molten, floods my veins. “She is terrified. And I am not leaving her side.”

Veraxia finally stops walking and looks at me, a flicker of dark amusement dancing in her golden eyes. “I know you aren’t leaving, Malachi. It would be rather difficult to conduct the procedure from the hallway.”

I blink., the air in the room dropping ten degrees. “What?”

She gestures lazily to the table, to the tray, to that horrific, needle-lined cage waiting to be bolted onto Eden’s head.

“You’re the one performing the extraction,” she says.

The world tilts. The white noise from the screens surges, buzzing hard against the backs of my eyes like a swarm of angry wasps in my skull.

“No,” I spit out. “Absolutely not. I will not put her through that.”

Veraxia circles the slab slowly.

“Oh, spare me the clutching of pearls, Malachi,” she drawls, running a manicured fingernail along the edge of the metal helmet. “You’ve served as a Torture Administrator for long enough. You’ve performed thousands of memory extractions. You’ve peeled secrets out of the damned like zest from a lemon.”

“Yes, for torture!” I snap, straining against the guards again, desperate to make her understand the difference. “I did that to murderers! To molesters! To the scum of the mortal realm who deserved to have their minds flayed open! She is innocent!”

“Semantics,” she dismisses. She stops at the foot of the table, leaning in, her face bored and cruel. “I really don’t give a singular fuck about your newfound conscience. This is your punishment, brother. Not hers. And I have a lengthy, creative list of miseries planned for you, but this? This is just me starting at the lower tier. Consider it the amuse-bouche.”

“I refuse,” I grit out. “I won’t do it.”

Veraxia straightens up, checking her nails. “Fine. Have it your way.” She turns toward the door. “Warden? Bring in... who’s on rotation today? Ah. Michas.”

The blood drains out of my face so fast I nearly faint.

Michas.

No. Not him. That idiot doesn’t have hands; he has fucking shovels. He’s a blunt instrument in a surgery that requires a scalpel.

“No!” The shout rips out of my throat. “He’ll scramble her mind! He doesn't know how to navigate the cortex—he’ll turn her brain to slush!”

Veraxia turns back, a slow, predatory, fang-filled grin splitting her face. “Better get to it then, haven’t you?”