Chapter 55 #2
Rell turned toward her, his face a mask of conflict she could read as clearly as if he’d screamed it aloud. He took one step, then another, his hand raised—not to strike, but to reach.
She didn’t give him the chance. She partially shifted and bared her fangs at both of them. Rell froze mid-step and Thorn watched with clinical fascination from the doorway.
“Breathe,” Rell said, his voice suddenly soft. His posture relaxed, shoulders dropping as he made a calming motion with his hands. “Just breathe, Elora.”
She played her part, letting the command cut through the beast’s artificial rage. She stopped snarling, her breath coming in ragged pants that made her chest heave against the thin fabric of her leotard.
“I can’t hit her if she’s shifted,” Rell said, turning back to Thorn. “That will undo the conditioning. If you want a demonstration, I could show you how—”
Thorn’s hand moved to a small lever beside the door and flipped it.
White-hot agony exploded through Elora’s wrists.
The manacles surged with electricity, tearing through her body like a thousand needles driving into her bones.
The partial shift shattered, forcing her back to simply human.
She crashed against the cot, her body convulsing, every muscle locking and releasing in rapid succession.
The pain lasted only seconds, but it left her gasping, trembling, her skin burning where the manacles had scorched new wounds into her flesh.
She pushed herself up, her arms shaking violently as she forced herself to sit.
Thorn didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His gesture was clear—a slight nod toward her, a lift of his chin that said everything. I can keep her human. I can keep her right where I want her. And you will do as I say.
She yelled at him in her mind. Just hit me. Please.
Rell approached faster this time. He didn’t hesitate—not outwardly, not where Thorn could see. But when he reached her, his eyes met hers for just a fraction of a second. The expression there was unmistakable.
I’m sorry.
His hand connected with her cheek. The slap cracked through the small cell, sharp and sudden. Her head snapped to the side, the force of it sending her sprawling across the cot. The impact stung—not the worst pain she’d ever felt, but the humiliation of it burned hotter than the electricity had.
She breathed. Just one second. Just enough to feel the sting blooming across her cheekbone, hot and bright, the ghost of his hand still pressed into her skin like a brand.
Then she let the shift roll through her—not all the way, not the full nightglider, but enough.
Claws splitting her fingertips, fangs dropping, the world sharpening into crystalline focus as she hauled herself off the cot and launched at him.
The chains screamed behind her, but they were long—Thorn had given her enough slack to move, to pace, to thrash against the walls.
Enough to reach almost every corner of this miserable cell.
Her claws arced toward Rell’s chest, aimed for the soft leather of his jacket, and she had a single, stupid, human thought: don’t ruin it.
He caught her wrist at the last second. His grip closed around the raw, bleeding skin where the manacle had chewed through her, and she hissed at the contact—not from pain, but from the gentleness of it.
Even now, even when he was supposed to be rough, his thumb found the space between her tendons and pressed there, light enough to be a caress.
She twisted.
The motion was sharp and practiced—a pivot on her heel, her arm rotating against his grip until his fingers slid off the slick, bleeding skin of her wrist. She was free for half a heartbeat, her body coiled and ready, and then his hand came at her again—reaching for her shoulder, her arm, anything to catch her back under his control.
She dropped. Not far—just a quick duck beneath his grasping fingers, her knees bending, the chains singing behind her as she slipped under his reach. His hand closed on empty air. She heard the soft exhale of surprise from him, barely audible over the blood pounding in her own ears.
Her gaze found Thorn.
He stood in the doorway, still as a statue, those dead eyes watching her with the patient attention of a man observing an experiment unfold exactly as predicted.
No flinch. No step backward. Not even the slightest twitch of his hand toward the shock lever.
He simply watched, cataloguing, measuring the distance between them and finding it irrelevant.
She couldn’t kill him. Not yet. Not with Florence still working her angle, not with the plan still hanging by threads. She knew that. Every rational part of her brain screamed it.
But Thorn didn’t know that.
He expected the beast. He expected rage, fury, the mindless lunge of a creature that couldn’t think past its own pain. And if she didn’t give it to him, he’d know. He’d see the calculation behind her eyes, the restraint where there should be none, and the whole charade would crumble like ash.
So, she gave him what he expected.
She charged.
Her bare feet hit the cold floor, claws still extended, the chain whipping behind her like a living thing.
The distance between them was short—three steps, maybe four—and she crossed it in less than two, her body low and fast, claws aimed for his throat because that was what the beast would do, that was what the broken animal would do, that was what she needed him to believe she was.
Thorn didn’t move.
Not a flinch. Not a step. Not even a blink. He stood in the doorway with his hands clasped behind his back, academic robes pristine, and watched her come at him with the serene patience of a man who had already calculated the exact moment Rell would intervene.
Rell’s arm locked around her chest from behind.
The impact drove the air from her lungs—not painful, just sudden, his forearm a steel bar across her sternum, pinning both her arms against her body.
Her claws raked uselessly at empty air, a yard away from Thorn’s impassive face.
She snarled, a sound that tore from somewhere deep in her chest and thrashed against the hold.
Rell nearly lifted her off the ground, putting distance between her and Thorn, bringing her back toward the cot.
“Easy. Easy, it’s okay. You’re okay.” His voice was low, steady, murmuring into the space between her ear and the curve of her shoulder.
The words were nonsense—soothing sounds meant for Thorn’s ears, meant to fill the silence with something that sounded like control. “Breathe. Just breathe. I’ve got you.”