Chapter 18 Briella
Briella
I WILL NOT ROT DOWN HERE.
Citizen Soldier Playlist
“The Other Side of Pain”
It’s a pit.
What. The. Fuck?
The moment I peer over the edge, the blanket is ripped from my body.
I turn back, brandishing a glare at Rory, who tosses the wool over his shoulder. “Oops.” His eyes roam hungrily over me. Thanks to my wet hair, I’m shivering in no time.
My limbs are trembling, and my wounds howl with every breath.
“Level Four is simple,” Raphael tells me, his dark breath drifting across the side of my neck. “Survive the night.”
A metal ladder is propped against the pit wall before me. The air is colder. What? Do they want me to die of hypothermia and exposure?
The second I turn around, I meet the same sight as when I first bumped into them in the woods. The five-asshole formation to prevent me from even thinking of running.
“Vincent.”
Vinny or Tats—I haven’t decided which—steps toward me, following Raphael’s command. He levels me with his broody gaze. “You can either go down on your own and risk falling and ripping your stitches.”
“Or?” I glare.
“You be a good girl while I carry you down and make sure you don’t fall or get injured. Choice is yours, Girly.” He stuffs his hands in his hoodie pockets again.
I open my mouth, almost ready to tell them to go fuck themselves, but my legs are ready to crumble. My vision is still hazy from whatever they gave me earlier. Everything hurts.
“If I survive the night?” I lock eyes with Raphael.
“We take you back to the cabin. Bath, warm meal, and a real bed—all for you.”
I look over the edge again, my bones chilling when I find nothing but darkness. Is it 50 feet down? 100? More?
“And if I get out on my own?” I turn back.
Rory chuckles deeply while Vincent snorts.
“If you manage to get out,” Raphael continues, his voice patient, almost amused, “you won’t have to go far to find us.
The cavern’s just beyond. In addition to the hot bath, a warm meal, and a real bed, we will also spend the entire next day serving you and meeting any needs and desires you may have. ”
That must be the whole Kinship rewards thing. And I fully intend to reap those rewards, especially a full day of worship. But after what I went through, I expect a little more.
“Five days,” I bargain. “For Level Five.”
Jude stiffens but with a faint smirk while Seth lifts his brows, eyes wide at my challenge. But I keep my focus on Raphael because they will always obey his final word.
After what seems like an eternity of silence with my heartbeat pounding in my ears, Raphael nods. “Five days.”
Vincent carries me down the ladder like I weigh nothing. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t taunt. He never does. Just the steady inhale and exhale of his breath, and his muscles bulging as we descend.
The deeper we go, the colder it gets. The damp air clings to my skin, thick with the scent of earth and something else, something old. The walls loom around us, uneven dirt packed between jagged stone, stretching down into darkness.
My body is wrecked, my stitches pulling with every jostle, but I refuse to let them hear a sound from me. I focus on the softness of Vincent’s hoodie against my cheek, the steady rhythm of his breath. I tell myself I don’t feel safe in his arms. I tell myself I don’t care that he’s careful with me.
I hate how it’s a lie.
But I feel safest with Jude. Seth would be second, but he’s too much of a chameleon for my taste. Vincent’s right in the middle. I still don’t know what to make of him…or how he treats me.
Rory is easy. Fucking hate the socio and his monster dick, but we’re like two firestorms feeding on each other. He is the most fun to taunt.
And Raphael? Fuck, he scares the shit out of me.
He’s unreadable. And way too beautiful with his Peaky Blinders-scripted suit and long, dark hair that I could spend hours combing my fingers through.
But he’s the deadliest—able to snuff out my life in an instant.
No reservations, no hesitations, no heart.
It’s why I must challenge him most, test my boundaries, and show my teeth, claiming whatever power I can.
My breath catches when we arrive on the ground. It’s cold and damp, a vast cavernous hollow in the mine. When Vincent lowers me to the ground, he holds onto me like he’s making sure I can stand.
I hear a couple cracks before a subtle glow spreads around me from several multicolored plastic sticks, the kind filled with fluorescent dye.
Vincent tosses them on the ground before withdrawing a few other uncracked ones and handing them to me. “In the morning, bury them. Don’t tell the others.”
I cover my chest with my arms, putting on a brave face even though I’m scared shitless. “Are-are there rats down here?”
He shrugs, his face shrouded in shadows. “We’ve got traps set up. But they’re more afraid of you than you are of them. Common myth. They don’t attack unless they feel cornered. Here…” He fishes in his seemingly boundless hoodie pockets and hands me a small bottle. “It’s peppermint oil. It should—”
“I know what it does,” I interrupt, my spine prickling because I could kick all their asses in plant trivia.
“Last things.” He hands me three small pads. “Heating pads. Crack them, and they’ll warm you for a little while.”
I hold the gifts, but I’m unable to contain my panting breaths. “Why are you—”
When I look up, Vincent is already scaling the ladder. “Good luck, Girly,” he calls behind him.
“Thanks, Vinny.”
He pauses, his back tensing through the hoodie, but it lasts for all of three seconds before he starts climbing again.
After a minute or two, the ladder is gone.
My stomach tightens. Fury roars up my throat.
“How ye feeling, Firecracker?” Rory yells down at me, his voice reverberating in the pit.
Feeling devilish, I shout, “How’s your ear feeling?”
The laughter of the others echoes.
I decide I might as well have some fun before they leave. My dark humor might just get me through the night.
“Oh, Rory!” I sing-song his name with a higher pitch. “When I get out of here, I’m gonna cut your dick off and play pin the tail on the Gaelic donkey with it.”
His growl is so rewarding. And so are the spitting laughs of the others.
“Not done yet, boys.” I hum while getting my bearings. “Hey, Jude, something special for you. I’ll bite your hands off this time and use them to slap your dick so hard, the piercings fall out.”
“Charmed, Babydoll,” he practically booms in his deep voice.
“Hmmm, Vincent.” I pick up the glow sticks and scatter them around further to get a sense of how big the pit is. “Since you took me from behind and couldn’t face me like a man, I think a round of rodeo pegging will do nicely for you.”
Should’ve figured he’d grunt and nothing else.
“Seth, Darling,” I lay it on thick, “you think I’ll show you mercy because you’re oh, so sweet? Guess again. I got an axe to grind with you. Nice and slow.”
“Aww, shucks, you’re making me blush, Briella Darling.”
I roll my eyes with a huff, hating how nice his voice sounds. Shivering now, I’m half-tempted to use one of the heating packs, but I know I should save them. Besides, I have one final speech.
“Raphael.” Nothing but silence, but I know he’s damn well listening.
“I’m saving the best for last. You won’t die quickly.
You won’t even die by my hands. No, you’ll die by paranoia, by the slow, creeping certainty that I’m always just one breath away.
Every time our eyes meet, you’ll wonder if I’ll gouge them out.
Every time our hands brush, you’ll wonder if I’ll shatter your fingers one by one.
Every time you fall asleep, you’ll wonder if you’ll wake up at all.
I will be in every shadow, every whisper, every nightmare.
I’ll haunt you in life and beyond the grave. How’s that for becoming you?”
I hold my breath, but I shouldn’t expect a response. Silence thickens the air.
“Likewise, Briella.” My heart skips a beat. “Likewise.”
“Fare thee well, sweet maiden,” Seth exaggerates.
With a final, hellish fume, I scream at them, making sure they damn well hear me, “You boys better pray I don’t get out of here. Because if I do, I’m pissing in every single one of your beds!”
I’m not ashamed to say that I’ve spent a while curled up in the fetal position and clutching one of the heating pads to my chest. Everything is sore: muscles, bones, flesh, skin.
Even my blood feels sluggish. I battle the urge to fall asleep.
I can’t afford to take the risk. Not with the thought of rats, hypothermia, giant bugs, or anything else my imagination cooks up.
Somehow, I have to get out of here. Serving me. Any of my needs and desires. Five days. I replay the words in my mind, using them as fuel.
I remember what Raphael said about freedom. Fuck his version of freedom. Freedom with strings. It’s always freedom with strings. Strings they use to make me their puppet.
They haven’t drugged you. They didn’t mess with your mind. Blood and skin and flesh. One brand. Not endless electroshocks. Punishing you, suppressing you for your very thoughts and feelings.
It doesn’t matter.
Even if I get out of here, they could throw me back in here whenever they want—to die a miserable, slow death of dehydration and starvation.
So, I try the walls. They’re all packed dirt and crumbling stone. Digging my fingers into them, I test for a grip and try to pull myself up. My body protests instantly. My back hurts the most. I claw at the dirt, but it gives way beneath me, spilling down in useless clumps.
I can’t climb. Not like this. I’ll rip my stitches.
Grinding my teeth, I turn to the ground instead, running my hands through the dirt, feeling for anything I can use. A loose rock, a rope, maybe a second ladder.
My fingers brush something solid.
Hope flares in my chest as I dig deeper, prying at the object. It’s smooth, long. Maybe a plank of wood or a fallen tool. But when I pull it free, it’s too light.
I stare at the thing in my hands.
A bone.
Holy fucking shit!
I drop it, scrambling back, but my foot hits something else. Another. And another. I spin, hands plunging into the dirt, clawing at the surface, unearthing more. Bones. Skulls. Femurs. Ribs.
The realization slams into me like ice water down my spine. My heart hammers in my chest. A whimper escapes my throat. Human. They’re human.
I stagger back, pulse thundering, bile burning the back of my throat. My hands shake as I reach for another, lifting it into the dim light. The skull is average. The jaw hangs loose, empty sockets staring through me.
Then I make out the delicate curve of a hip bone, the slender phalanges still curled in the dirt. They’re all women.
I can’t breathe.
These are the ones who didn’t make it. The ones before me.
I stare down at the graveyard beneath my feet—all around me—my hands coated in their dust, and something inside me howls.
I refuse to be one of them.
A hot bath. A warm meal. A real bed.
I force down my terror, dig my nails into my palms, and realize…I may have just found my answer.
My fingers wrap around a femur, long and sturdy. My breaths come fast, shallow, but I grit my teeth and seize another. A jagged piece of bone. Maybe a broken tibia. It’s sharp enough to pierce the packed dirt if I drive it in hard enough.
A weapon. A tool. An organic ladder.
Swallowing a hard knot, I kneel, pressing the femur against the wall, and with the sharp edge of the smaller bone, I hammer it in.
It takes three solid hits before it wedges deep enough to hold.
My arms tremble with exhaustion, but I reach for another and repeat the process, spacing them like uneven ladder rungs.
I apologize the whole time.
It takes time to sort through all the skeletons. The bones of the dead will be my salvation.
My body aches, sweat drips down my temple, soaking through my bandages, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop. For all I know, Raphael could rescind the whole bargain, especially after what I swore I’d do to him.
I will not rot down here.
After biting down on a few light sticks to give me some visibility, I jam another bone into the earth, the tip sinking in with a satisfying crack.
My hands are slick with sweat, but I keep going, each strike harder than the last. My wrists are red and sore from the cuffs, my arms weak from the chains.
Halfway up, I lose my grip, slipping, but I manage to grab the closest bone stake above me, my bare feet dangling over 20 feet. A sharp pang slices through my side, and I wince, knowing my stitches tore. Shit. Blood seeps through the bandages, but I don’t stop.
My body shakes with the effort, but the next bone is already in my hand, and I hammer it in, one hit, two, three, until it holds.
I can feel the pit’s cold grasp tightening, but I refuse to let it have me.
I push through the pain, the dizzying exhaustion, one step, one bone at a time.
Adrenaline sings in my veins. A flashback threatens to disrupt me, taking me back to Easthaven and the night I climbed. But I climbed down that night.
I’m going up this time. Up to the “purest freedom” I could ever know. Up to five beautiful days of service and worship.
After, I will find a way to escape. Because I did not spend the last FIVE years remaking myself. Because this is wrong. And I am stronger. Years of questioning who I am. Years of choking up the lies—and feeding on the truth I made for myself.
My truth. Not theirs.
I won’t be one of them. Not now. Not ever. I will not be their puppet queen.
Finally, I reach the edge, hands grasping for the lip of the pit. I pull myself up, my body shaking with the effort, and when I finally roll over the edge, my stomach churns with exhaustion, blood dripping from my wounds. But I’ve made it.
My chest heaves, and all I want to do is stay right here and fall asleep. But better than escaping that pit will be the expressions on their faces when I walk right into that cavern like a goddamned ghost come back to life.
Their Goddess in hell. She will shed her skin and rise from the ashes as she always has done.
And then…she will fly far, far away.