Chapter 16 Arlo
The chains bite into my wrists, metal cuffs slick with blood from where the skin split hours—days?—ago. My arms hang limp above my head, dislocated or close to it. My shoulders scream. My thighs are raw. My ass is bruised. Every inch of my body is one long nerve ending, flayed open.
I’m still naked and exposed.
The cold is relentless. The kind that gets inside your bones and never leaves. Concrete walls. Concrete floor. The air stinks of mildew and metal and me. There’s one flickering bulb overhead, but it cuts out sometimes, leaving me in pitch-black.
I lost track of time somewhere between the second blackout and the third beating. Minutes bleed into hours. Or maybe days. It’s impossible to tell.
I don’t cry anymore. Not because I’m strong, but because there’s nothing left to cry with. My face is swollen. Lip cracked. One eye nearly swollen shut. Even blinking feels like work
The metal door groans, hinges squealing, and I flinch without meaning to. My spine stiffens. My heart doesn’t race—there’s no energy left for that—but my breath hitches. My body bracing for something it already knows is coming.
Bright light floods the cell. I squint against it, blinking fast as a silhouette fills the frame.
“Good morning, Arlo.” A thick New Orleans drawl makes my stomach twist.
When the light stabilizes, I see him and my blood ices.
Sterling Carmichael. High Chancellor. He’s tall and lean, with an angular face, his hair is dark and slicked back. I met him, once, as a child. My father despised him. I never forgot his face.
“Seems you’ve been a very busy girl.” He smirks, setting a chair in front of me.
My head throbs from holding it upright, but I don’t look away.
“I didn’t do shit,” I rasp, voice shredded from screaming.
Sterling slowly smiles. “You’ve got your father’s mouth. Shame how that ended.”
“Don’t you dare talk about my father.” I spit. The blood-tinged glob hits his cheek. He wipes it off with a silk handkerchief, folding it like he’s dealing with wine stains.
“I can see why my son was drawn to you. You’ve both got that rabid defiance.”
I still at the word.
Son.
“What…?” My voice breaks on the word. “Priest…is your son?”
“By blood. Though he’s always been a disappointment. No refinement. No loyalty. No legacy.”
Priest doesn’t have a New Orleans accent…he doesn’t act like a Sovereign heir…he can’t be. My mind goes numb. I was fucked by the son of the man who killed my father…
Sterling leans forward, elbows on his knees.
The light casts harsh shadows across his angular face.
“But he did deliver you to me, like a good soldier. So maybe he’s not a completely lost cause.
Now, let’s talk business,” he continues, slipping into that same casual tone as before.
“I want to know what your daddy told you.”
“Nothing.” I lift my head, the movement like razors across my neck. “He didn’t tell me anything.”
Sterling studies me. His dark ice eyes are calculating, soulless…just like Priest’s. The longer I stare at his face, the more I see the resemblance, and it makes me nauseous.
“He didn’t need to. You were there. And children see more than they understand.”
He stands, brushing imaginary dust off his tailored jacket. “You’ll break eventually. They all do. And when you do, I’ll know every secret he buried in you. I’m patient, Arlo. I can hurt you for years. Hell, I want to.”
He steps toward the door.
“You’re your father’s legacy,” he says as the lock disengages, “and I’ll see it ripped out of you piece by piece.”
The door slams behind him with a deafening clang.
I sag against the chains, my head dropping to my chest. The cold climbs up my spine. My teeth chatter. Blood seeps down my thighs, sticky and warm. My wrists throb. My ribs ache.
How could I have been so fucking careless?
I flinch when the door creaks open.
The scent of gasoline still clings to my skin. Every breath razors down my throat, the tissue shredded raw from being waterboarded. My fingers twitch at my sides. I want to curl them into fists, but they won’t listen. They snapped too many of my fingers.
I press myself deeper into the corner of the cell. The concrete wall is cold against my spine, but I barely register it. I can’t lift my head. I can’t move. I can barely stay conscious.
One eye is completely swollen shut. The other sees just enough to show me blood-slicked floors, vomit, piss, and a bucket I can’t reach.
The air shifts as multiple men step inside.
I want to look at them—scream. Tell them to finish it.
Kill me.
Just fucking kill me already.
But my lips are split open. My throat’s ruined. I can’t speak. Can’t shout. I’m not even worth killing. I survived every fucking year in hiding. Every night alone. Every lie. Every drop of blood I spilled for the chance to be free.
And for what?
To die here.
For someone else’s sins.
For my father’s name.
I hear footsteps. Closer. I brace for hands to grab me, drag me back into that room again. The one with the hooks. The metal table. The soundproof walls. Where they cut and cut and cut just to see what’s left when a girl bleeds.
But then another voice speaks.
Arseny?
Something in me shatters.
I don’t know if I’m awake anymore. If I’m hallucinating. If the blood loss is finally catching up. But it’s his voice. Real. Unmistakable. I want to lift my head. Want to see him. But I can’t. I can’t look him in the eyes like this. In a pool of my own blood and vomit, naked, and tortured.
My ribs hitch. I make no sound. Just a weak, wet stutter of a breath as I tremble in place. My chest caves in with the weight of humiliation.
The voices fade. I think they’re gone. My hearing’s going in and out. I allow myself to look where Arsen stood, and I see it.
A glint of metal in the grime.
A lock pick.
For a second, I don’t believe it. My vision blurs. I blink, blink again. It’s still there.
Arsen…he left it.
My limbs scream as I move. I crawl—barely more than a drag. My broken fingers twitch toward it. I close my fist around the pick, whimpering as the bones shift inside my hand. I roll back to the corner, collapsing against the wall with a thud.
Thank you, Arsen.
I lift my hands. My wrists are shredded—skin flayed where the cuffs rubbed raw. My grip fumbles. I can’t even tell if I’m holding it right.
But I try.
I try because it’s the only thing I have left.
The cuffs open. My arms fall like deadweight as they fall at my side.
Still chained at the ankles.
Still bleeding.
Still wrecked.
But now I have a chance.
And for the first time in days…
I want it.
I don’t know how much time has passed. If it’s day. If it’s night. Time doesn’t exist down here—just pain. Hunger. Fear.
But I press my ear to the steel door, listening.
Nothing.
Not a single footstep in the corridor.
My heart races. My body trembles. But this is it. My only fucking shot.
I’ve memorized every inch of the hallway outside. At least—I think I have. My brain feels fogged. But I can still see the map in my mind. The elevator’s maybe thirty feet from here. Around the corner is the stripping room—where I saw them taking clothes off prisoners when I first arrived.
I’ll find something. Anything.
My bare feet sting against the cold floor as I ease the door open.
It creaks.
I freeze, breath lodged in my throat.
Please. Please. Don’t let there be anyone out there.
My eyes adjust slowly. The lights above buzz in a sickening flicker—but the hallway’s empty. Quiet.
I run.
Arms wrapped tight around my naked body, my ribs screaming, my knees buckling with every step. I don’t stop. I don’t look in the cells where others moan and scream. I can’t. If I stop—I’ll never move again.
I round the corner. My pulse is deafening.
There. A bin. Filthy, bloodstained clothes dumped in a heap.
Throwing myself at it, I grab the first hoodie and pants I see. They’re wet. Sticky. Covered in vomit or piss or something worse.
I don’t care.
Shoving the hoodie over my head, I yank the drawstrings so tight I can barely see. The pants sag low on my hips, but I hold them up with trembling fingers. My hands barely work. My skin’s too raw.
Sprinting again.
The elevator looms ahead—god, please work—and I slam my fist against the button. The light blinks. The metal doors creak open, and I dive inside, jamming my fingers over and over into the button for the surface.
The doors close.
The elevator rises.
Tears blur my vision.
My body shakes so violently, I can barely stay standing. Blood drips down my legs. I feel every wound, every fracture, every fucking reminder of what they did to me.
When the elevator dings and the doors open to the night, I bolt.
Into the freezing street air, surrounded by warehouses and towering concrete. The Sovereign’s underground lair tucked below the filth of the city.
I don’t stop running.
I don’t know where I’m going—just away.
My lungs burn. My throat is raw. I feel the sobs clawing up my spine, but I won’t stop. I can’t stop.
Click.
A car door opens.
My heart stops.
I spin.
A tall figure steps into the glow of a nearby streetlamp, and my legs buckle beneath me.
“Arsen…” I whisper.
I run to him. Throw myself into his chest. I hit him so hard, we both stumble. His arms close around me, and I shatter.
He lifts me. Carries me to the car. I don’t even feel the door close. I don’t hear the engine. There’s only this screeching, high-pitched ringing in my skull.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t breathe—
Then I’m in his lap. His arms around me. Rocking me.
And I realize—
That sound isn’t in my head.
It’s me.
The ringing is me.
Screaming.
Loud and raw and endless. The sound ripping out of my throat, trying to take everything with it.
And it does.
My body convulses.
Every part of me is gone. Every wall I ever built, every mask, every trick I used to survive—obliterated. I scream until my throat gives out. Until all that’s left of me is broken breath and the shake of Arsen’s hands as he holds me tighter.
We’re parked on the side of the road, somewhere on the outskirts of hell. His hoodie is soaked in blood and tears. He keeps whispering something I can’t hear.
I bury my face in his chest and let everything swallow me.
Because I have nothing left to give. Not even the strength to want to live.