Chapter Thirteen
Rowen
My pulse hammered in my ears, anger and betrayal twisting together inside my chest, the urge to murder Sinclair almost overwhelming.
My loyalty had always been unwavering, but now Sinclair’s interference felt like a personal betrayal as he watched through the screen with a cold smirk, knowing exactly how to manipulate my trust.
“Rowen, please let him explain. If you don’t, you will never know the truth.” Dante’s voice cracked, pleading and raw, the words cutting deeper than any warning. His eyes searched mine, begging me not to cross a line I couldn’t return from, fear and grief tangled in every syllable.
“I don’t give a fuck.” My voice was a blade, cold and unwavering, eyes locked on the man who had shattered everything I thought I knew.
I had a brother. A connection in this god-awful world and that son of a bitch kept him from me. He fucking knew all this time and said nothing as he used me, manipulated me, forced me to do his bidding.
The truth echoed in my mind, sending shockwaves through every memory I’d ever clung to.
How could I have gone my whole life not knowing, not even suspecting?
My heart pounded with questions I couldn’t voice, each one heavier than the last. Every conversation between Travis and me—every glance, every moment—shifted, morphing into something I didn’t understand, but now held a deeper meaning, recast in the harsh light of Sinclair’s revelation.
The room seemed to tilt, reality shifting beneath my feet. I struggled to find my bearings, desperate for some anchor that would make sense of it all. Behind my confusion, a flicker of realization sparked, tight, unbreakable as I roared, “You fucking knew who he was and sent him anyway. Why?”
When Sinclair refused to answer, something hot and wild snapped inside me.
Rage surged through my veins—my fists clenched so tight my knuckles ached, breath coming in sharp bursts.
I barely registered the snarl tearing from my throat as I grabbed Dante’s computer, my body trembling from the effort to hold myself together.
“Fuck you!” I spat, voice raw, eyes burning holes into Sinclair as I squared off with him, while he just stared at me with the same icy indifference I knew well.
“All you fucking care about is yourself! You don’t give a damn about anyone.
Every twisted game, every lie—what’s it all for?
Just more manipulation, more control. Well, I’m done being your pawn! ”
Sinclair smiled slowly as he leaned forward toward the screen, his chair groaning beneath his weight.
He steepled his fingers, eyes never leaving mine.
“No, you’re not,” he said, voice so calm it made my skin crawl.
The words hung in the charged air, and I stared at him, pulse thundering in my ears.
I slammed Dante’s computer down on his desk—hard enough to rattle the pens—my heart pounding so loudly I wondered if he could hear it.
Sweat prickled at my hairline, jaw clenched tight.
“You don’t own me, Sinclair,” I hissed. “I went along with your directives because I thought I had nothing to lose. But now I do.” The words tasted bitter, my mind whirling with images of every time I’d let Sinclair steer me—every moment I’d ignored the warning bells, believing I was alone.
Sinclair leaned back, a lazy grin stretching across his face, his arrogance a slap in mine.
“Exactly,” he drawled, tapping his desk with one finger.
“I warned you before—the past never truly stays dead. Now you’re about to learn just how deep that past goes.
” His gaze sharpened, a flicker of something—regret, maybe—gone just as quickly.
Dante groaned, voice thick with frustration. “Enough of the mind games, Dad. Just tell Rowen what he needs to know.” He glanced between Sinclair and me, desperate for a break in the tension.
Sinclair’s lips curled, eyes fixed on me, unyielding. “And watch him flounder?” he shot back, voice cold and clinical. His gaze was a dare, as if he relished the unraveling of every secret he’d kept locked away.
I shook my head, struggling to steady my breath as my chest tightened. “This isn’t a game anymore, Sinclair. This is my life. A family I didn’t even know existed—until now.” My voice cracked with the weight of it, every word carved from disbelief and longing.
Sinclair’s expression hardened, his tone shifting—almost protective.
“That’s right, Rowen, and I’m the reason you’ve all survived this long.
I’ve kept them safe, whether you believe me or not.
But the threat you’re facing now is real and closing in.
Hate me if you want, but I won’t let anything touch the ones you care about.
I will do everything within my power to protect you—even if you despise me for it. ”
My hands balled into fists, nails digging into my palms. “By sacrificing my brother!” I shot back, voice hoarse—anger and anguish tangled together.
Sinclair’s eyes flicked to Dante, then back to me, unflinching. “And your other brother and sister as well, if it comes to that.” His words struck like a slap—cold, final.
My vision narrowed, a roar tearing loose that was equal parts fury and heartbreak as I grabbed Dante’s computer and threw it across the room and roared, “SON OF A BITCH!”
The heavy iron door groaned open, exhaling a breath of damp, stale air that clung to the back of my throat.
It was a scent I’d grown accustomed to—the perfume of desperation.
My boots echoed on the concrete floor, each step a deliberate punctuation mark in the silence that had been building inside me since I left Sinclair’s office.
I was done with polite facades, carefully constructed civility, and sadistic men who felt as if they owned me.
Here, in the belly of Hell, was where the truth resided, raw and unvarnished.
A man with eyes like chips of obsidian and a scar that bisected his eyebrow nodded curtly as I approached. He didn’t ask for my name or a reason. He understood. He’d seen my look before—the simmering rage behind my eyes, my tightly clenched jaw.
“Down the tunnel,” he rumbled, his voice like gravel grinding against stone. “Fifth door on the left. Don’t expect a warm welcome.”
I offered a grim nod and turned, the weight of my own unresolved fury a physical burden.
Every muscle in my body hummed with agitated energy, a desperate need for release.
The tunnels were a labyrinth, dimly lit by flickering bare bulbs that cast long, dancing shadows, making the rough-hewn walls seem to writhe.
The air grew warmer, thicker, with the faint murmur of voices and a low, guttural chant growing louder.
This was it.
My crucible.
Finally, I reached the fifth door. It was identical to the others, unremarkable, but the vibrations that seeped through it were anything but.
Pushing it open, I stepped into a cavernous space, the air thick with the acrid scent of exertion and something akin to primal fear.
The noise hit me like a physical blow—a roar of the crowd, a symphony of grunts and thuds, the sharp crack of bone meeting flesh.
The center of the room was a roped-off arena, bathed in the harsh glare of floodlights.
Bodies slick with sweat and blood tangled and thrashed, a brutal ballet of survival.
The spectators, a motley collection of faces etched with a shared hunger for vicarious violence, pressed in close, their profiles illuminated by the inferno of the fight.
There was no judgment here, no condemnation, only the primal acknowledgment of a shared struggle.
This was a place where the unspoken anxieties of the world found their physical manifestation, where the pressures that would shatter ordinary men were instead transformed into raw, unadulterated power.
A man, his face a mask of stoic determination, approached me. His arms were like tree trunks, his knuckles scarred and swollen. “Rowen. Heard rumors you were around. What are you doing here?”
“I need to fight.”
“Fuck, man,” he groaned, looking around.
“Just looking for a release, John,” I replied, my voice raspy. “The world... it’s too much.”
He gave a knowing smile, with a flicker of understanding in his eyes. “Fine,” he replied, turning to survey the fray, the cheers of the crowd rising and falling with each decisive blow. “I’ve got a few guys,” he stated, his gaze meeting mine. “Just don’t kill them, okay?”
“No promises.”
The man nodded, a slow, deliberate movement.
Then he turned and melted back into the crowd, leaving me alone with the roaring cacophony and the burning in my gut.
I walked toward the edge of the arena, the smell of blood and sweat filling my lungs.
It was time to shed my skin of civility, to let the storm within me rage.
Here, in this underground arena, the only currency was pain, and for the first time in a long time, I felt like I had something valuable to spend.
Ripping off my hoodie, I kept my back to the crowd as the announcer’s voice boomed, amplified and distorted, a guttural chant that was both an invocation and a challenge.
My muscles tensed; every fiber of my being screamed for the release I had come to find.
The harsh lights of the arena burned away the last vestiges of the outside world.
Here, only the visceral truth mattered, the truth of bone and sinew, of raw emotion laid bare.
I could feel the stares of the spectators, a thousand pairs of eyes dissecting me, searching for weakness, for the same desperate hunger that had brought them here.
A hulking figure, his face a canvas of old scars, emerged from the shadows at the edge of the arena.
His presence was a silent affirmation of the brutality to come.
He met my gaze, and in his eyes, I saw a reflection of my own coiled fury, a recognition that transcended language.
He grunted, a sound that was both an acknowledgment and a warning, and then he advanced, his steps heavy, deliberate, like the march of an inevitable fate.
I turned to face him, the roar of the crowd a deafening wave that washed over me, fueling the fire in my gut.
My hands balled into fists, the calluses on my knuckles a testament to a different struggle, a struggle for survival in a world that offered no quarter.
I met him head-on, not with fear, but with a wild exhilaration, a desperate, primal joy.
The crowd roared, a single, ravenous entity, their cheers a baptism by fire.
Then the bell tolled, and the world outside ceased to exist.