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Goddamn-fucking-siren.

I go back to the bolt because the alternative is staring, and staring at her has been a problem since the second she walked through the gates, chin up and eyes steady. She had an entire yard full of creatures watching her, any one of us dangerous enough to give someone with common sense a reason to run, but she stood her ground and looked right back.

My hellhound locked onto that before I did.

The beast went quiet beneath my skin, all that restless anger suddenly focused on the silver-haired woman who walked into our compound like fear might be riding her hard, but she sure as fuck wasn’t going to let any of us see it.

Time passes with nothing but metal on metal and the occasional hiss of breath through my teeth when a bolt decides to be a stubborn piece of shit. Behind me, Echo stays settled on the crate, boots resting against the one below, hands loose in her lap as she watches me work. She seems perfectly fucking comfortable sitting there with me, content to let the silence stretch.

Her frequency keeps brushing against my hellhound, that low, steady thrum keeping the beast’s attention even while I try to keep mine on the bike.

Good-fucking-luck with that.

The wrench turns another stubborn bolt before her voice reaches me from behind. “I know what it’s like when someone else decides what happens to your voice.”

My hand stills on the wrench, and I don’t turn around right away. I let the words land first, let them sit in the space between my shoulder blades where I can’t shake them loose. When I do turn, Echo is not looking at me with pity dressed up as sympathy, the way half this clubhouse has since Malgrave finished his work. Her face is open, unguarded, like she just handed me something she doesn’t hand out easily.

She means it.

I stare at her. I mean, I really stare, the way I haven’t let myself since her pale green eyes locked on mine, and something low and unfamiliar cracked open in my chest. She holds the look without flinching, without dropping her gaze the way most people do when the hellhound gets too close to the surface of my eyes.

I don’t say anything.

I can’t, not in the way that matters.

But I don’t gesture for her to get out either.

She takes that as invitation enough. “They tried to take my voice too.”

My hand stills around the wrench.

Echo drops her gaze, picking at a loose thread on her sleeve like it’s easier to talk when she doesn’t have to look at me. “Not like yours. They never got far enough to actually take it.” Her hand lifts to her throat, fingertips brushing the skin just above her shirt collar.

That’s when I see it.

A thin scar curves around the base of her neck, pale against her skin and disappearing beneath her collar on either side. We barely got past introductions before everything went to shit. This is the first time I’ve been close enough to notice the small details.

My eyes linger on the scar.

Echo notices. “Yeah.” Her fingertip traces the edge. “That’s from them.”

Heat starts building beneath my ribs.

“I was sixteen when they decided my voice didn’t belong to me anymore.” She swallows, her fingers staying right there against the scar. “They never told me why, only that it needed to be removed because of the power they told me it held. I knew they wanted to strip it from me, knew whatever they were doing would make sure I couldn’t use it anymore, but nobody exactly stopped to explain the grand-fucking-plan.” The wrench tightens in my hand. “They’d already started cutting when somehow, I got loose.” Her voice drops a little. “I remember blood running down my neck. I remember screaming and feeling every frequency inside me fighting to get out. My scream made every siren in that room drop to their knees and gave me the time to get the fuck out of there.”

Metal creaks against my palm.

Her eyes flick toward my fist.

I force my fingers loose.

“I didn’t stick around long enough to find out what came next.” A humorless little laugh slips out of her. “I ran. Haven’t really stopped since.”

My gaze drops back to that scar.

Running with no idea why somebody wanted her voice badly enough to cut it out of her.

My hellhound pushes closer beneath my skin, anger heating my blood even though neither of us can make a fucking sound about it.