24. Aries
Aries
S ix steps forward, six steps back. The pacing doesn’t help, but it’s all I can do to stop myself from screaming. The image of Lilian in my brother’s arms, his hands on her, her body responding—it burns behind my eyelids every time I blink.
I stop my pacing, head tilting to listen for the familiar sounds of Arson moving around upstairs. Music playing faintly. Water running through pipes. The creaking of floorboards that tells me he’s in his bedroom.
With her.
My stomach clenches.
What is he doing to her right now? What has he already done?
The thought drives me to the corner of my cell where the concrete meets metal framing. To the small section of wall I’ve been working on for weeks.
I glance at the security camera in the corner. It’s still on its timed sweep, just like every night. Thirty seconds facing my bunk, thirty seconds facing the toilet, thirty seconds facing the door. Which leaves a minute and thirty seconds where this corner isn’t invisible.
One, two, three...
The camera begins its rotation. I count silently, waiting for it to turn away from my bunk. When it does, I drop to my knees and begin prying at the loosened section of baseboard.
Behind it is a small cavity I’ve created by painstakingly scraping away concrete with a spoon stolen from a meal tray weeks ago. Arson never noticed—too busy with his grand revenge to count utensils. Too confident in his security system to imagine I’d try something so primitive.
The camera continues its rotation. I flatten myself against the wall, appearing to simply lean there in thought until it pans toward the door. Then I’m moving again, retrieving the spoon from its hiding place inside my thin mattress.
Back to the corner, digging frantically now. The concrete dust coats my fingers, gets under my nails, mixes with sweat to form a gritty paste. I don’t care. All that matters is getting deeper, reaching the wiring I know must run behind this section of wall.
Old wiring I noticed in the hall ceiling means vulnerabilities. Vulnerabilities I can exploit.
The camera completes another rotation. I press against the wall again, breathing hard, planning my next move. Thirty more seconds, then back to work.
I have to get out. Have to save her from him.
From herself.
The spoon’s handle snapped days ago, leaving me with just the bowl—a crude scraper that tears at my fingertips as I work. Each rotation of the camera allows another frenzied thirty seconds of digging. My fingernails split, the nailbeds turning bloody, but I barely notice.
All I see is Arson’s hands on her. His mouth at her ear. The look in her eyes—confused, afraid, but worst of all, interested.
“Come on,” I mutter, gouging deeper into the crumbling concrete. “Give me something.”
The cheap institutional construction is my only advantage. This building wasn’t made to hold someone determined to escape. It was made to store pharmaceuticals, not prisoners.
My knuckles scrape raw against the rough surface. I switch hands, using my left while my right throbs with dull pain. No time for caution now. No time for the careful approach that’s gotten me nowhere for weeks.
During the next camera sweep, I press my ear to the hole, listening for the telltale hum of electrical current. Nothing yet. Need to go deeper.
I work methodically through several more rotations, timing my movements to the camera’s predictable pattern. The hole is nearly forearm-deep now, my shoulders aching from the awkward angle.
Then—resistance. Something different from concrete. Something metallic.
My pulse quickens as I carefully scrape around the obstruction, revealing a metal conduit pipe. Exactly what I’ve been searching for. The main artery of Arson’s security system, running through the walls to connect cameras, alarms, and door locks.
The next thirty seconds pass with excruciating slowness as I wait for the camera to turn away again. When it does, I plunge my hand into the hole, fingers wrapping around the cool metal pipe. A twist—not too hard, don’t want to break it completely—and I feel it give slightly.
One more rotation. One more thirty-second window of opportunity.
This time when I reach in, I apply steady pressure, feeling the aged metal conduit bend under my grip. A crack appears, then widens as I work my fingers into it. Inside, a bundle of colorful wires—red, blue, green, yellow—the vital nervous system of my prison.
I suppress a triumphant laugh, instead memorizing the wire configuration before the camera swings back. Arson may know security systems, but I know electrical engineering—one of the many subjects Father insisted I master.
One of those wires connects to the fire suppression system. Another to the alarm. Find the right combination, create a short-circuit, and chaos follows.
Chaos I can use.
As the camera pans back toward my corner, I lean casually against the wall, heart racing but expression neutral. Just a man contemplating his captivity.
Not a man about to burn it all down.
The next rotation feels eternal. I rehearse the wire layout in my mind—blue and red for power, yellow for data transmission, green for ground. Standard commercial configuration. The system likely runs on a twenty-four-volt circuit—enough to hurt like hell but probably not lethal.
Probably.
When the camera finally turns away, I’m back at the hole instantly, fingers reaching for the exposed wiring. The conduit’s crack is just wide enough to access the bundle, but not enough to pull them out completely.
I’ll have to strip them in place.
Fingers won’t work—the insulation is too tough. Teeth, then. I wait for the next safe window, then plunge my hand in, pinch the blue wire, and pull it toward the opening as far as it will stretch.
Bending awkwardly to reach, I clamp the wire between my incisors and twist my head, feeling the plastic coating tear. The copper beneath gleams in the dim light, promising both danger and freedom.
I repeat the process with the red wire, timing each movement with the camera’s rotation. Sweat drips into my eyes, but I can’t spare a hand to wipe it away. One mistake, one miscalculation of timing, and Arson will know exactly what I’m doing.
Finally, both wires are exposed. Now comes the truly dangerous part.
During the next safe window, I maneuver the stripped sections close together. My hands are slick with sweat and blood from the concrete cutting into my skin. Can’t afford to slip now.
Three, two, one...
I press the wires together.
The shock hits immediately—a burning jolt that shoots up my arm and makes my teeth clench. I bite back a cry, fingers spasming but maintaining contact just long enough.
For a moment, nothing happens. Did I choose the wrong combination? Then?—
WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP!
The fire alarm blares at ear-splitting volume. Red emergency lights flash, bathing the cell in crimson pulses. I fall back from the wall just as the sprinklers activate, dousing everything in cold water.
“Fuck!” The exclamation escapes involuntarily as water streams down my face, plastering my clothes to my body.
But beneath the curse is elation. It worked. It actually worked.
The sprinklers spray relentlessly, turning the concrete floor slick and washing away the dust and blood from my efforts. Water cascades through the hole in the wall, potentially shorting more systems than I intended.
Even better.
I push soaked hair from my eyes, a laugh building in my chest. This is just step one—create a distraction, test the system’s vulnerabilities—but it’s more progress than I’ve made in weeks.
The water is cold, my cell is flooding, and I’m likely in for hell when Arson discovers what I’ve done.
But for the first time since my capture, I feel something like hope.
The sprinklers show no sign of stopping, turning my carefully executed plan into a waterlogged mess. Water streams into my eyes, my nose, my mouth, making it hard to see or breathe properly. The alarm continues its deafening wail, vibrating through the concrete walls.
“Fucking hell,” I mutter, wiping water from my face for the tenth time in as many seconds. This wasn’t exactly how I’d pictured it—I’d hoped to trigger a minor alert, maybe cause a localized system failure. Not transform my cell into an indoor swimming pool.
The floor is already ankle-deep with water with nowhere to drain. The tiny sink in the corner is backing up, adding to the flood. My thin mattress floats pathetically, spinning slowly in the rising water.
Still, the chaos is what I needed. While Arson deals with the alarms and flooding, I can work on the next phase—expanding the breach, accessing more critical systems. Maybe even finding a way to unlock the door.
But first, I need to hide what I’ve done.
The camera continues its rotation, now largely useless through the sheet of water falling in front of it. Still, I won’t take chances. Timing my movements with the spray, I wade to my bunk, yanking the thin metal frame away from the wall.
The water makes it heavier than expected, muscles straining as I drag it across the cell to position it over my work area. It won’t hide the hole completely, but it might make it less obvious during a cursory inspection.
Next, I grab my mattress from where it floats, folding it to stuff into the gap between bed frame and wall. The sodden material is perfect—it looks like I’ve just tried to block the water from coming in, not hide a breach in security.
The spoon goes down the toilet, flushed with a silent apology to whatever plumbing system has to deal with it. The evidence of my digging—small piles of concrete dust—washes away in the deluge, swirling down toward the floor drain that’s proving wholly inadequate for the volume of water.
Footsteps sound in the hallway. Cursing. Arson, coming to check on the alarm.
I position myself casually against the far wall, as far from my handiwork as possible. Arms crossed, expression annoyed—just a prisoner irritated by the unexpected shower.
The hole is hidden. The wires are out of sight. As long as he doesn’t look too closely, doesn’t decide to move furniture, I should be fine.
The door at the end of the corridor slams open. Time to put on a performance.
Because if Arson suspects what I’ve done, it won’t be me who pays the price.
It’ll be Lilian.
The observation window darkens as two figures appear through the spraying water. Arson’s scowl is visible even through the cascading droplets, his hair plastered to his forehead, clothes already soaking from the hall sprinklers.
But it’s the smaller figure beside him that makes my heart stutter. Lilian, wearing what looks like one of Arson’s T-shirts, far too large for her frame. Her hair hangs in wet tendrils around her face, eyes wide as she takes in my flooded cell.
Arson slams his palm against the intercom button. “What the fuck did you do?” His voice crackles through the speaker system, competing with the wail of alarms.
I adopt an expression of innocent confusion, spreading my arms wide at the deluge. “Me? I’m just enjoying the unexpected shower. Your security system appears to be having issues.”
His eyes narrow, scanning the cell for evidence of tampering. I force myself to remain relaxed, casual, though every muscle is tensed for flight or fight.
“Lilian, stay here,” he orders, not looking at her. “I need to check the main control panel.”
She nods, but her eyes never leave me. There’s something in her gaze—concern, relief at seeing me relatively unharmed, and something else. Something that makes my chest tighten.
The moment Arson disappears from view, she steps closer to the glass. Her lips form words I can’t hear through the barrier and alarms.
I move toward the window, careful to stay away from my hidden breach. Water streams down my face, soaking my shirt and and pooling around my feet. Through the glass, I can see she’s not much drier, the borrowed shirt clinging to her curves in a way that makes my throat go dry despite the water everywhere.
Arson reappears before we can communicate, his expression thunderous. He studies me through the glass, eyes moving methodically around my cell. Looking for what I’ve done. How I’ve compromised his perfect system.
Time to distract him.
I grin, slow and deliberate, then offer a casual shrug as if to say: What can you do? The gesture is calculated to infuriate him—dismissive and unconcerned despite the chaos I’ve clearly caused.His jaw tightens visibly. Behind him, Lilian watches our silent exchange, her expression torn between fascination and fear.
Good. Let him focus on me. On this challenge to his authority. Not searching for how I triggered the system.
Because next time, I won’t just set off alarms.
Next time, I’ll walk right out that door and take her with me.
The sprinklers continue their relentless downpour, soaking everything. Maintaining eye contact with my brother, I reach for the hem of my sodden shirt and peel it slowly upward, revealing the body that mirrors his own. Every movement is deliberate, unhurried.
Arson’s eyes narrow, understanding exactly what I’m doing.
I toss the shirt aside with theatrical carelessness, letting it slap wetly against the floor. Water streams down my chest, following the contours of muscles that have grown leaner but no less defined during my captivity. I’ve made sure of that, using the limited space to maintain my strength, preparing for this moment.
Through the glass, I see Lilian’s expression shift. Her eyes track the movement of water down my torso, a flush rising to her cheeks that has nothing to do with the alarm’s red glow. Does she look at him the same way? Does she notice we’re identical, yet fundamentally different?
I stretch, rolling my shoulders as if simply relieving tension. Every motion is calculated to remind both of them that Arson and I share the same form. The same genetic blueprint. The same potential for attraction.
The soap dish beside my small sink is still intact. I reach for the bar of institutional soap, turning it slowly in my hands. Arson’s jaw tightens further as he realizes what’s coming next.
With deliberate sensuality, I begin to wash. Hands moving in slow circles across my chest, down my abdomen. Nothing overtly sexual—just a man cleaning himself—but the subtext is unmistakable.
Look at me, my actions say.
Remember, we’re identical.
Whatever he offers, I can match, but I can do it better.
Lilian can’t seem to look away, her lips slightly parted. I see Arson notice her reaction, see the muscle in his cheek jump with suppressed fury.
This is how we’ve always fought—not with fists but with psychological warfare. Finding weaknesses, then exploiting them mercilessly. The difference is, now the stakes involve more than brotherly rivalry.
Soap suds mix with sprinkler water, sliding down my skin in rivulets. I maintain eye contact with my brother as I wash my neck, my shoulders, and down my arms. The same arms that could hold her. The same hands that could touch her.
You’re not special, every movement tells him. You’re just a copy. A reflection. Whatever claim you think you have on her isn’t unique. I had her first, and I’ll be the one who gets to walk away with her.
His expression darkens to something dangerous. Good. An angry Arson makes mistakes. And I only need one mistake to end this game.
I turn slightly, presenting my profile while continuing my impromptu shower. The movement places me directly under the brightest emergency light, highlighting the differences between us—my skin is smooth where his is scarred. Visual proof of our divergent paths.
A reminder that beneath identical exteriors lie very different men.
Arson’s reaction is immediate and visceral. His hand locks around Lilian’s wrist, yanking her back from the glass where she’s been watching me with undisguised fascination, to face him. The movement is possessive, territorial—claiming what he considers his.
The speaker flicks on again.
“Is this what you want? Is this what your little rebellion is about? Because from where I’m standing, she seems to be mine... All mine.”
“Enjoying the show?” he asks her, loud enough for the intercom to carry his voice to me. His eyes never leave mine as his hand moves higher beneath the shirt, making her gasp.
Lilian’s eyes flutter, caught between watching me and responding to his touch. Her back arches slightly, pressing into him despite herself. The sight makes my blood boil.
“This is what happens when you play games,” Arson continues, his free hand coming up to tilt Lilian’s face toward me. “You get to watch what you can’t have.”
His mouth finds her neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there while his hand continues its exploration beneath the shirt. Lilian’s lips part, her breathing visibly quickening even through the cascading water.
It’s a performance designed to torture me. To remind me of my powerlessness. Of what he can take while I watch, unable to intervene.
“She makes the most exquisite sounds,” he murmurs against her skin, eyes locked with mine in challenge. “Should I demonstrate?”
Before I can respond, he spins her around again, pressing her against the observation window. Her palms flatten against the glass, face inches from mine with only the barrier between us. Her eyes hold mine, filled with confusion and unmistakable arousal as Arson’s hands grip her hips from behind.