Chapter 24
TEDDY
Iwake up pressed between two warm bodies, and for a moment, I forget where I am. Forget who I am. There's only heat and the scent of skin and sex, the weight of an arm across my chest, soft hair tickling my shoulder.
Then it all comes rushing back.
The forest. Silas inside me. Me inside Nova. The way I fell apart completely, begging for more, for them, for everything they were willing to give.
My body aches in places I've never been sore before, and the memory of how those aches were earned sends heat straight to my cock. Which is already embarrassingly hard again, trapped between my stomach and Nova's hip.
“Morning, sunshine.” Silas's voice is rough with sleep, amused. His arm tightens around my waist, pulling me closer against his chest.
“Someone's awake,” Nova observes, shifting against me. The movement makes me hiss as my cock drags against her warm skin.
I should be mortified. Should be scrambling for clothes, for distance, for some way to salvage what's left of my professional dignity. Instead, I find myself pressing closer, chasing the warmth of their bodies.
“This is your trailer,” I realize, taking in the space around us. It's larger than the holding cell, more personal.
“Very observant, Agent Coleman,” Silas says, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at me. His blue eyes are still dark with satisfaction from last night. “You were pretty out of it when we brought you back.”
“We carried you,” Nova adds with a grin that's pure feminine satisfaction. “You were like a drunk college kid after his first party. All boneless and mumbling about how good we made you feel.”
Heat floods my face. “I did not.”
“You did,” Silas confirms, his hand sliding down to rest just above my hip. “Also said you'd never felt anything like that before.”
The embarrassment is real, but it's overshadowed by contentment. By belonging.
“I need to understand something,” I say, struggling to form coherent thoughts with Nova's leg draped over mine and Silas's hand drawing patterns on my skin. “Everything I believed about myself, about who I am… you've turned it upside down so fast.”
“Have we?” Nova tilts her head, genuinely curious. “Or did we just help you stop lying to yourself?”
The question hits harder than it should. I think about my relationships with women—pleasant, comfortable, ultimately forgettable. The spark was always missing, no matter how hard I looked for it.
“I've been straight my entire life,” I say weakly.
“Labels are just boxes,” Silas murmurs against my neck. “And you look much better outside the box.”
His mouth finds the sensitive spot below my ear, and I can't stop the sound that escapes. Nova watches with obvious interest, her green eyes tracking every expression that crosses my face.
“The question is,” she says, “what are you going to do about it?”
“About what?”
“About us. About this.” Her hand spreads across my chest, over my racing heart. “About the fact that you're never going to be able to go back to who you were before.”
The truth of it settles over me like a lead coat. She's right. Whatever happens next, I can't unknow what I've learned about myself. Can't unfeel the way they make my blood sing.
“I came here to investigate you,” I sigh. “To gather evidence about the missing men, about what you're doing to the Prophets.”
“We know,” Silas says calmly. “Question is, what are you going to do with that evidence?”
I think about Malachi Voss's terrified face, about the files on the Sanctum of Ash, about children failed by a system that should have protected them. About the man who hurt Nova, still walking free. About justice.
“I started questioning the law when I saw what happened with the case that brought me here,” I say slowly. “When I realized how deep the corruption goes, how many people in power helped cover up what happened to survivors. When I saw how the system failed you.”
Silas goes very still. Then he takes a deep breath.
“You want the truth about what made us?” His voice is quieter now, careful. “About why we hunt monsters in the night?”
I nod, not trusting my voice.
“I was born in a Sanctum of Ash religious commune,” he begins, his fingers still tracing absent patterns on my skin. “It wasn't a church, despite the name. It was a compound. Hidden away in the mountains, isolated from the outside world.”
Nova shifts beside us, her hand finding mine and squeezing gently. She's heard this before, I realize.
“As you know, the men who ran it called themselves Prophets,” Silas continues, his voice taking on a mechanical quality, like he’s reciting facts to avoid feeling them. “Malachi Voss was their leader. My father. Elias’s father too, though we had different mothers.”
The casual way he mentions paternity makes my stomach turn. “Different mothers?”
“Women in the Sanctum weren't people. They were breeding stock.” His jaw tightens. “Vessels to produce the next generation of the faithful. My mother died not long after I was born. She'd served her purpose.”
Nova's grip on my hand tightens, and I can feel the tension radiating from both of them.
“The Prophets had this theory,” Silas says, his gaze distant. “That pain purifies the soul. That children needed to be broken down completely before they could be rebuilt in God's image.”
My throat constricts. “What kind of pain?”
Silas's laugh is hollow, brittle. “Every kind you can imagine. And some you probably can't.” He pauses, swallowing hard. “They had special rooms. Punishment chambers. Places where screaming was expected, encouraged even.”
“Jesus Christ,” I breathe.
“He wasn't there,” Silas says with bitter humor. “Trust me, we looked for him.”
Nova makes a soft sound of comfort, shifting closer until she's pressed against both of us. The contact seems to anchor Silas, pulling him back from whatever dark memories he was drowning in.
“The Prophets justified everything through scripture,” he continues. “'Spare the rod, spoil the child.' 'Blessed are those who suffer for righteousness' sake.' They had verses for every atrocity, chapter and verse to excuse the inexcusable.”
I think about the children who lived in that compound, about tiny voices raised in prayer and pain. “How many of you were there?”
“Dozens. Maybe more.” Silas's hand finds Nova's, linking the three of us together. “Boys and girls, ranging from infants to teenagers. We lived in dormitories, slept on thin mattresses, ate watery gruel and stale bread. But the worst part wasn't the physical conditions.”
“What was the worst part?” I ask, dreading the answer.
His eyes meet mine, and I see twenty years of nightmares reflected there. “The way they made us complicit in each other's suffering. The way they turned love into a weapon against us.”
Nova speaks for the first time since he started, her voice barely a whisper. “Tell him about the choosing ceremonies.”
Silas flinches like she's struck him. “Every week, we'd gather in the main hall. The Prophets would select children for special instruction. Sometimes it was religious education. Sometimes it was manual labor in the gardens or workshops.” He pauses, his breathing shallow.
“And sometimes it was other things. Things that left marks on your soul instead of your skin.”
I don't ask for details. The hollow look in his eyes tells me everything I need to know about what those other things entailed.
“The truly diabolical part,” Silas continues, “was that they made the older children choose who got selected. Made us complicit in the abuse. They'd line up five or six kids, and you'd have to point to one. Had to choose which child would suffer so the others could be spared.”
The horror of it hits me like a physical blow. “They made you choose who got hurt.”
“Every week. For years.” His voice cracks slightly. “Do you have any idea what that does to a child's mind? Knowing that your friend's pain is the price of your safety? That your safety means someone else's hell?”
Nova's thumb strokes across my knuckles, and I realize my hands have clenched into fists without conscious thought.
“That's how they controlled us,” Silas explains. “Not just through fear of punishment, but through guilt. Through the knowledge that we were all equally responsible for each other's suffering. That we were all complicit in our own imprisonment.”
I think about the way the seven of them move together, the fierce loyalty I've witnessed. “But you found each other. Despite everything.”
“We did. Elias, me, Logan, Rowe, Jonah, Cole, Marek… we formed our own family within the hell they created. Protected each other when we could, shared what little comfort was available.”
“How did you escape?”
“Elias planned it. Even as a kid, he had that... quality. That ability to see ten moves ahead.” Silas's eyes soften slightly when he speaks about his brother.
But he mentioned dozens of children, yet only six by name. “What about the other children? The ones who aren't here?”
Pain flickers across Silas's face. “We tried to save as many as we could. But seven teenage boys can only do so much against armed adults who've been planning for every contingency.”
Nova's voice is soft when she asks, “Tell him about Zach.”
Silas's face twists into pure hatred as he visibly struggles to calm his breathing.
“Zach was five years old,” he finally manages. “Sweet kid, always trying to make everyone smile despite everything.”
“What happened to him?” I whisper. It's like we can keep the horror contained if we don't speak too loudly.
“The night we escaped, Logan set a fire, and Elias stayed behind to hold the Prophets' attention. We were almost clear… almost free when Zach succumbed to his injuries from... Logan held him while he died. There was so much confusion on his face.”
Tears blur my vision. The image Silas paints is too vivid, too heartbreaking to process.
“I'm sorry.” The words feel inadequate, meaningless against the magnitude of their loss.