Page 143

I'm lying flat on something hard. Leather straps pin my arms against my sides. There's a light above me so bright it burns through my closed eyelids, and I can't stop shaking because the room is freezing. Someone is holding my head still. I can't see who. I can only feel gloved hands pressing against my hair. Then something sharp slices into the skin behind my ear.

The pain is instant.

Blinding.

I scream until my throat burns raw, but nobody answers. Nobody tells them to stop. All I hear is the scrape of metal against metal before the pressure disappears and warm blood begins running down my neck.

“The tracker,” Timothy says as I clutch his forearm. "They cut out the tracker your uncle put behind your ear."

“I didn’t even know it was there.” My fingers tremble against the scar. "But they knew exactly where to find it."

They had knowledge about me that I didn’t have about myself. How?

“Arianette,” Timothy’s voice works its way through my thoughts. “What happens after they remove the tracker?”

I swim through the murkiness, past the pain, until the memory appears. "I'm lying on the ground. The floor isn't concrete. It's... dirt." My brow furrows as the image sharpens. "Packed dirt." My breathing slows as I continue watching the memory unfold. "The room is so dark I can't see the walls at first. I only know they're there because water keeps dripping somewhere behind me, echoing over and over until it sounds like it's coming from every direction."

“What else?”

I close my eyes tighter. "There are bars."

The rusty metal rises in front of me as clearly as if I were standing there again.

"They're old. Orange with rust. I remember staring at them because they were the only thing I had to look at." My voice catches. "I thought if I counted them enough times, maybe I'd stop being scared."

Timothy's thumb brushes lightly across my hand. "You're safe. Nothing will hurt you ever again."

I know. I do. I feel it in my bones, but my pulse begins to race. My wrists begin aching before I even look down. "I was chained." I instinctively curl my own fingers against Timothy's arm. "There were cuffs around my wrists and my ankles. Every time I moved, they rubbed against my skin until everything felt raw." I wince at the remembered pain. "I kept thinking if I pulled hard enough, something would break." A shaky laugh escapes me. "It was stupid. I must have tried a hundred times."

“You’re not stupid.” Timothy’s voice is near my ear. His lips press against my temple. “You’re strong. You survived.”

"I'd throw all my weight backward until my shoulders hurt, then forward again. I'd twist my wrists until they bled." I glance down at my hands as though I can still see the torn skin. "Eventually, I stopped because it hurt more to fight than to stay still."

Silence builds between us for a moment before another memory rises.

"I wasn't alone." The realization makes my stomach clench. "I thought I was, at first. I couldn't see anyone, and nobody ever came into the room." My breathing catches. "But I started hearing them."

My eyes drift toward sounds only I can hear.

"There were other girls. I’m not sure how many. Everything down there felt confusing. Sometimes they'd whisper to each other through the walls. Sometimes they'd cry." My throat tightens painfully. "There was one voice that sounded so young. She used to sing to herself when she thought nobody was listening."

I stop speaking, swallowing back something that tastes too much like guilt.

Timothy waits.

"I don't remember the song." The admission breaks something inside me. "I wish I did."

“Do you remember anything else about them?” he asks.

"No." A tear slips down my cheek, and I feel the press of his lips as he kisses it away. The frustration wells inside me all over again. "Food would come through a little slot cut into the bottom of the door. Just enough for a tray to slide through before it slammed shut again." My hands move unconsciously, mimicking the motion. "It was always so fast. The tray appeared, and before I could get close enough to look through the opening, it was already closed."

"No voices?"

Timothy asks the question softly.

I shake my head. "Not at first." The answer is immediate. "They never spoke to me when I was in the cell. Whoever brought the food made sure I couldn't see them, and they made sure they couldn't see me." My chest tightens at the implication. I understand now that those men had been the former Barons, Billy and Liam. They’d been the ones holding the key to my cage. “But then, days later, someone came to the bars with a torch. Their mask was scorched black, but the firelight showed a hint of bronze. Ram horns curled from the top.”

Timothy’s arms wrapped around me, holding me tight, warding off a shiver.