Chapter Eighteen
Berkley
Rowen’s hits aren’t the worst pain I’ve ever felt—but they might be the hardest thing I’ve ever had to endure. Not because of the force behind them—though he’s strong enough to tear me apart without even trying—but because I can tell he’s holding back. And that’s what really cuts.
He could have done actual damage. Broken bones. Dislocated joints. Shattered teeth. Hell, if he wanted to, he could’ve made me beg. But he doesn’t. He chooses restraint—and somehow, that hurts more than anything he’s actually done to me.
Instead, it’s a backhand now and then, the sting sharp but fleeting. No food and only sips of water. It hurts, sure, but some part of me—some twisted, fractured part—welcomes it. Because the pain reminds me, I’m still here. Still alive. Still in control, even if it’s of my own pain.
There’s a strange power in that.
Each strike, each graze of his knuckles across my skin, is measured.
Controlled. Almost like he’s punishing himself while pretending to punish me.
Maybe that’s why I don’t flinch the way he expects.
Why, through the ache and the tension and the pounding of blood in my ears, I watch him from under my lashes.
Not with fear. Not anymore.
With curiosity. With pity.
Because whatever monster people say he is—whatever reputation he’s built down here in this cold, silent hell—he’s breaking, too. Not with fists, but with every second he looks at me and sees something he doesn’t know how to handle.
And maybe that’s the only reason I’m still breathing.
We’ve spent hours down here—days—maybe more.
Time stretches and folds in on itself in this basement, blurring at the edges like a fever-dream.
There’s no window. No clock. Just the low hum of silence broken by the occasional creak of his boots on the concrete or the metallic clink of the chair when I shift my weight.
I avoid his eyes as if it’s the only power I have left.
As long as I don’t meet his gaze—unless my hair falls in just the right way—I can pretend I’m not unraveling.
I keep my expression blank, my body still.
The only sounds I let slip are the involuntary ones: a grunt when something aches too deep to swallow, a quiet exhale when pain flares sharper than I expect. But I won’t give him more than that.
I’m definitely not in good shape, but most of the bruises and scrapes are souvenirs from the earlier fight—the one with the shooter.
The chaos. The impact of a body hitting mine at full force.
That damage is honest. Earned. The kind you can wear without shame.
What Rowen’s done since dragging me down here? It barely registers in comparison.
Because he’s not going hard on me. Not really.
I can feel his hesitation in every move. The restraint with every slap. His strikes aren’t the kind that leave permanent damage—not physically, anyway. And the longer we’re down here, the more obvious it becomes that this isn’t about interrogation. Not the way it’s supposed to be.
He’s trying to play a role. But I can see it in him.
Every time his hand lands with a dull thud, it costs him something.
Every time I don’t flinch, when I bite back sound, when I meet his silence with silence—it carves into him a little deeper.
Whatever mask he wears up there in the world above, it doesn’t fit right in this room. Not with me.
This place—this grim, soundproof basement—was built to scare people into spilling secrets. It’s designed for confessions, for begging. But not like this. Not with me.
This isn’t Rowen’s arena when it comes to women.
I see it in the way he looks at me after each hit—not with triumph, not with relief, but with guilt.
The kind that settles deep in your chest and rots.
The kind that eats at your resolve until you can’t remember what you were fighting for in the first place.
That might be the only reason I’m still upright. Still breathing. Still managing to keep the fragments of myself from scattering completely.
He isn’t just breaking me down.
He’s breaking right along with me.
When Emerson finally creeps down the stairs and murmurs something low to Rowen, the tension in the room shifts.
It’s enough to pull Rowen away. Without another glance in my direction, he wipes his hands—slow, methodical—and disappears up the stairs, leaving behind the weight of everything he didn’t say.
Emerson doesn’t raise a hand to me. He tries something else.
Words. Gentle, probing, strategic. He asks questions in that quiet, measured way of his, but I don’t bite.
I’ve dealt with better manipulators and colder men.
I shut him out the same way I did Rowen—with silence and stillness. Eventually, he gives up too.
And then they leave me here.
Alone.
They don’t say it, but it’s a test. Or a punishment. Maybe both. Either way, I’m left tied to the chair in the dark silence of the basement, surrounded by the echo of every choice I’ve made to get here.
Time crawls.
There’s a stretch—minutes, maybe hours—where I don’t move. I don’t shift, don’t speak, don’t even try to fight against the restraints. I sit, breathing shallow, head tilted forward like I’m asleep, but my mind is wide awake. Spiraling. Drenched in a kind of dread I can’t shake.
I keep thinking about Ronan.
The way his body flopped back against the bed—bloody. No one’s mentioned whether he lived or died. Maybe that’s part of their plan; they’re keeping me in the dark on purpose.
The thought cracks something in my chest.
I’ve seen a lot of terrible things—caused more than my fair share—but the idea of Ronan dying while I’m chained down here. That makes something deep inside me splinter.
Who would come for him? Who’s bold—or reckless—enough to try?
Their family is thick with enemies. Years of backdoor dealings, silent vendettas, shattered alliances—they’ve made themselves a target more times than they care to admit. It could’ve been anyone.
And once I get out of here, I’ll find out.
Because no matter how tightly they think they’ve closed their inner circle, I’ve cracked it wide open.
They don’t know it yet, but I have eyes in all their shadows.
I’ve tapped every one of their phones. Even the backups.
Even the throwaways. I pay top dollar when I need access, and I’m not above getting creative.
Bryce especially, is a creature of habit—and impulse.
He burns through phones like cigarettes, never thinks twice about where they come from.
Lucky for me, his favorite girl has a grudge deeper than mine and just enough spite to plant what I need when I ask.
The trick is always in the setup, and the right woman. The right price, and a little patience.
They never see it coming.
It seems like days later—though time doesn’t mean much down here. There are no windows, no natural light, no clocks ticking away to anchor me to something solid. Just the weight of silence and the slow unraveling of my body. My mind.
I’ve pissed myself more than once. There’s no dignity in it, no pretending otherwise.
It’s humiliating in a way that crawls beneath your skin and settles there, but survival doesn’t care about pride.
I’m just grateful I hadn’t eaten within twenty-four hours of being strapped down.
My stomach’s always been a mess before a kill—tied in knots, acid churning like it knows what’s coming.
At least that saved me any added indignity of losing everything.
No food, no mess. No taco shits mid-beating. Small blessings, I guess.
Then, out of nowhere, a sound bubbles up from somewhere I didn’t know still existed—a laugh.
A ridiculous, out-of-place giggle bursts from my throat before I can swallow it.
It comes without warning, sharp and strange and jagged.
The sound shatters the silence like glass, jolting me back into my body.
Reality slams back into me like a punch to the chest.
I need to escape.
Not just from this room. Not just from the restraints or the thick air that clings to my skin like a second layer of grime—but from this house. From everything it represents. But before I get out, there are two things I have to do. Two threads that pull tighter every time I try to ignore them.
First—I have to find Reign.
And second, I have to check on Ronan.
I need to see him with my own eyes. I need to know that he’s breathing.
That they didn’t just leave his body to rot while they turned their attention to me.
Not knowing is worse than the pain, worse than the bruises blooming across my ribs, face, or the ache deep in my spine.
It gnaws at me, hollowing out my insides with every hour that passes.
Because if he’s dead…
No, I won’t let my mind go there.
Not until I know for sure.
Not until I see him—alive.
Decision made, I close my eyes and force everything down—every crack of fear, every flicker of pain, every thread of guilt that’s been winding tighter since they brought me here.
I bury it deep, locking it beneath the surface where it can’t touch me.
It’s not gone, not really, but I’ve learned how to tuck it away.
Jay taught me that. Taught me how to find focus when the world is chaos.
He used to call it meditation for psychos, laughing as he said it like it was just another inside joke between us.
Clear your mind of emotion. Act on instinct. Nothing else matters.
That’s what he’d whisper when things got bad. When blood was already spilled and decisions had to be made in seconds. Now, that voice lives in me, steady and calm, just beneath the pulse pounding in my ears. At this moment, it’s the perfect tool.
I open my eyes and let instinct take over.