Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
THORNE
Ilost track of time. It became a foreign concept, one that didn’t fucking matter to me anymore, because inherently nothing mattered.
The moment Oren had looked at me with a soullessness I’d never wished for him, and told me that he’d destroyed the last pieces I had of myself, of my family, I’d given up.
I had nothing to fight for anymore.
I was finally done.
Raw from the restraints, my wrists ached even though I hadn’t battled against them.
My throat was scratchy from lack of water, the dehydration settling in only giving me a sliver of an idea of how long it’d been since I’d seen Oren.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d blinked, but the dryness of my eyes reminded me of the tears I’d shed, tears that I’d held back for years, tainting my skin the instant he left me alone.
How many days had passed? How long had I been trapped in here? Had anyone wondered where I’d gone, and why I hadn’t returned since Venezuela?
It was ultimately a baseless curiosity, because I already knew the answer.
No one cared.
Why would they? I’d never been worth the fight, the battle, the time, so why the fuck would it start now?
Part of me was grateful no one had returned to test the depth of my sanity.
I was too tired to care, too incoherent to have a conversation—there was nothing more to say because they’d already won.
Words had dissolved off my tongue just like my soul had vacated my body, leaving nothing behind but a hollowed shell of a man who was beyond salvation.
If they wanted me beaten down to where I became mindless, they’d succeeded.
They’d fractured my essence; the two years I’d spent in these cells were nothing compared to the damage Oren had inflicted in mere hours.
It wasn’t the blade, or even his fists, that carved a hole in my resolve; it was his words, the way he looked at me as if I’d never mattered to him.
And maybe I hadn’t. Maybe that’s why he’d never believed anything I said or the truths I tried my damndest to utter.
I’d always been told I was unbelievable, untrustworthy. Any time I’d tried to confide in someone about my father—no one had listened.
No one asked why I left home at sixteen, why I ran from my lineage as if I could somehow save myself from the damage.
While part of me wished someone could hear that little boy inside of me screaming to be held, the other desired nothing more than to bury that trauma so deep that it’d never be salvaged, never be used as leverage against me.
And still, even after he’d tainted me, used my body to his satisfaction so he wouldn’t do the same to my sister, I’d cared.
I’d always cared.
I’d convinced myself it’d been a byproduct of his mental illness, a side of him that never would’ve been born into the world if it weren’t for the harshness of war. But I secretly knew that was a lie, and even as I begged and pleaded for my mom to just believe me, to see me, she never did.
And yet, I had still cared.
That was my downfall in this world. It was a weakness that continued to be exploited, and Andrew knew that. Sure, he didn’t truly know about the abuse, but he had always been able to pick apart people’s souls and what made them tick.
With me? He’d uncovered the nuances of my empathy, and as soon as he found out Oren had become a valuable asset in his scheme to keep me under wraps, he wasted no time pulling that lever.
The Oren who’d looked at me wasn’t the man I fell in love with.
No. It was a dead soul, asphyxiated by the pressure of Andrew’s expectations.
And still, even before he’d slipped from my grasp and into the suffocating hold of his father, he’d been like everyone else—never believing in my truth even as I screamed it until my lungs rotted.
Perhaps that was because I was always the problem. Perhaps it was the reason my own mother had turned a blind eye to my cries of desperation—I’d been undeserving of the acknowledgement and the love that wove itself through the nuances of understanding.
Even having experienced the neglect by those who birthed me into the world, I’d still been stupid enough to think the compassion Oren had looked at me with was genuine.
God, I’d been a fool because, when it came to monsters like me, there was no concept of love. Only abuse. Taint. Darkness and blood.
The door opened and slammed shut. A few moments later, I lifted my battered face and watched as General Valens pulled a chair from the opposite side of the room before sitting in front of me. A glass of dark amber liquid swirled as he brought it to his lips, eyes roving over the state I was in.
Oren stood behind him, the stance I’d once been forced into with every meeting now his—a statue in his father’s shadow, void of life. His gaze was trained to the ceiling, but every couple of minutes, he’d glance down at me, something like sorrow swirling in his eyes.
“Commander, what a privilege it is to finally have you back. I can’t thank my son enough for destroying the final string to your heart.”
Silence.
I had nothing more to offer, nothing left to say—not if I desired to execute what needed to be executed.
Dropping my chin with every ounce of emotional and mental exhaustion I felt, my eyes met the ground again. My body ached, sure, but it was a dulled pain compared to everything else.
I swallowed, my throat bobbing as I pushed myself further into the recesses of my mind, into a place I’d never escape from again.
They’d won; I’d slipped off the edge of the tower of defiance I’d climbed to, Oren molding me back into the man his father wanted me to be.
Continuing to look at Oren was the last thing Thorne Graves could handle—not when he’d once stared into my eyes, into my soul with so much hope.
He’d killed me completely; his brutality was far more swift and efficient than his father’s had ever been.
The man who’d once cradled him in his arms, determined to create a beautiful world for him, was gone.
And now, only an obedient commander remained, whipped so far into submission that the very concept of rebellion became something I’d lost sight of completely.
I’d speak when they demanded, march when they ordered, and execute when they instructed, for I was nothing but a puppet in the hands of its masters.
Or so they’d think.
“Oren.”
He stepped forward, the key to my chains dangling around his neck as he ripped it off in one fluid motion.
He inserted it into the locks, and not once did he look at my eyes as he undid the chains holding me.
He stepped back and gave a nod to his father.
“You’ll report each day to me. You’ve been demoted, recruit, and I suggest remaining in line. ”
“Yes, sir,” I responded, the two words coming from me with no emotion, no drive, no care.
“General Valens has made it clear you’re unfit to lead the squad, so I’ll be taking over your men. Like you did with me, one misstep and I’ll use them against you.”
“Understood, sir.”
“Obedience suits you,” Andrew said, finishing the drink in his hands. “You’re dismissed. My son will escort you back to your quarters as a precaution.”
“Yes, General.” Slowly, I pushed myself to stand, my legs shaking beneath me, but I wouldn’t falter—I couldn’t. Once upright, I saluted them both, my gaze still fixed on the ground. I had no desire to place it anywhere else.
“Let’s go.” Cold, calculated. That’s who Oren remained as he followed behind me. What once would have been a lively conversation remained silent, and an air of distrust lingered between us.
I obeyed, walking in front of him with my head down and hands tucked behind my back just as I had years ago when I’d joined Special Operations. But this time, there was no smirk, no smugness, no identity.
I was theirs.
Oren pulled up next to me, reaching over to open the door to my room. Nothing passed between us, simply a trading of prisons. A prison I welcomed with open arms.
One shove and the space I once considered my safe haven came into view.
Instead of feeling relief or happiness to be back with Oren, who had come to occupy it frequently, I felt nothing.
Nothing as my eyes swept over the destruction Oren had left behind, photos of my past shredded into as many fractured pieces as my soul.
Moving inside, I did what I knew he was going to command me to: clean up all he’d left behind.
I squatted, gathering the scraps of my familial line without question or backlash.
One piece after another, I slowly picked them up, not a tear falling in response to his destruction.
I’d deserved it after all; this was merely the aftermath of the damage I’d caused, the opposition that would never flow from me again.
Crumpling up the remnants of my father’s letter and the photo of my mother and sister that I’d kept on the bulletin board as a means to watch over me, I turned to address my commander. “How would you like me to dispose of these, sir?”
“Put them in here.” The box I’d once used to hide them now became a trash pile as I discarded them inside per his demands.
Oren closed the lid, tucking it under his arm. “Six o’clock sharp. Tomorrow. Also, you’re due for a trim and cutting hair with a knife really isn’t my forte.”
“Yes, sir. I will see to it.”
He turned, and I thought he’d accomplished his goals, but he stopped, his hand resting on the threshold of the door.
“You know, I didn’t want to become like this.
I thought… I thought we might’ve had a future, but I was blinded by a mask you refused to take off.
You left me because I was weak, so I rid myself of it.
It wasn’t until I started that I discovered the weakest part of me was tethered to you. ”
It was a cut into an already gaping wound, but I’d bled far too much for it to matter.
I was numb, unsavable, and he wasn’t wrong—I’d failed him in every definition of the word.
But it would never happen again. I’d be his best soldier, the one who he could command to do whatever he pleased because that’s all that remained.
An obedient mutt molded into a life of servitude.
“I apologize for the weight of my negligence, Commander. I will comb through my faults until nothing remains but submission,” I stated, each syllable monotone, any remaining feelings vacating.
His hand gripped the threshold tighter, and I almost expected him to talk again, but he solidified his agreement with a nod.
“Is there anything else you need from me, sir?” The question came naturally, as if I’d always been molded to bow to him – easy and instinctive. “If not, and with your permission, Commander, I’d like to excuse myself to follow through with your orders on a trim.”
“Go for it, recruit.” He squared his shoulders, and looked over his shoulder at me. “You might not cry like I did, but at least I know you’re too numb to fucking care.”