Chapter 1 #2
“What the fuck?” I yell. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
I lunge forward on instinct. The cuff snaps me back hard. Pain shoots through my arms as the chair tips and slams down again.
John leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees.
“You could’ve lived quietly,” he says. “I would’ve continued smoothing things over. You would’ve finished school. You would’ve married strategically.”
“Married who?” I ask. “Nick?”
“Yes.”
John gives a tight-lipped smirk, as if I missed a fortunate opportunity.
“Being married to a Talbert would’ve saved you,” he continues. “Their name carries weight in the Collective.”
I press my lips together, forcing them to stop shaking.
“You were manageable,” he goes on. “You weren't drawing attention. Seth was.”
I draw in a breath and hold it, then let it out slowly.
“He killed members. He killed his own father. He disrupted things that are meant to stay contained.” His eyes lower to me. “He was marked long before Stratford.”
My mind flashes to masked men again, to blood on tile, to Grant’s face.
“When you chose him, you attached yourself to instability.” John moves his hands in a small gesture, as if weighing options. “But then you killed Nick and Amber.”
“They tried to kill me.”
“That is irrelevant to them.”
“You made yourself expendable,” he continues. “And you placed me in a position where I had to answer for you.”
A broken sound leaves me. “You’re insane.”
“No.” He tilts his head slightly. “I’m practical.”
My mind struggles to keep up with it, with how easily the man who once felt like a father can talk about me like I am nothing but a pawn.
“They want you and Seth dealt with. Killed if possible. Locked away if necessary. Public consequences matter when certain families are involved.” He shakes his head. “You force their hand.”
I stare at him. I look at his face and understand I have never known him.
What unsettles me more is the realization that I don’t know what I have been living inside of all these years, and I don’t know what part of me has been shaped by it.
Mary steps closer, hands lifted in a careful gesture that tries to look gentle. “John, that’s enough for now.” Then she turns to me, and her voice slides back into the softness she uses when she wants me calm. “Brooke, sweetie, you need to eat.”
“Did you know about this?” I ask.
She blinks once. “When was the last time you ate, Brooke?”
“No. Answer me.” My voice shakes. “Did you know he killed my parents? He killed your sister.”
Mary exhales. “Brooke, there is nothing I could’ve done. Your father brought this on himself.”
“What the fuck do you mean you couldn’t stop it?” I demand. “If you knew, you could’ve warned them.”
“Some choices have consequences,” she murmurs. “And some outcomes can’t be changed.”
Something inside me snaps.
“Shut the fuck up, Mary.”
John stands abruptly. “Do not speak to your aunt like that.”
“Shut the fuck up!” I scream. “Both of you. You are liars. You are murderers. You are fucking insane!”
His hand strikes my face before I can react. My head snaps to the side, and the cuffs jerk my arms back hard enough to sting. The taste of copper fills my mouth.
“I don’t know what’s gotten into you,” John says, his voice tight with contained rage, “but it stops now. You have never spoken to us this way. Not once. We aren’t starting now.”
“This isn’t real,” I whisper. “This isn’t real. This isn’t fucking real.”
“It is real,” John steps back as if nothing has happened. “And you need to accept what comes next. If you don’t, you won’t survive.”
Mary hovers beside me. “Please don’t cry, sweetheart. You’re overwhelmed. The trip was long. You must be hungry.”
“Don’t touch me,” I say as I jerk away from her touch.
John clears his throat. “She’s disoriented. Give her space.”
They call it disoriented. They don’t call it restrained. They don’t call it kidnapped.
Mary leaves and returns with a tray of scrambled eggs. Toast cut into triangles and a glass of orange juice. It looks like a normal morning in a house that has turned into a prison.
“Eat,” she says gently.
I stare at the food, and my stomach lurches with disgust and hunger at the same time.
“Eat.” John doesn’t look away. “You're going to need your strength.”
“Brooke,” Mary whispers. “Please. Your uncle is trying to help you.”
“He is not my fucking uncle.”
I shift my wrists slightly, testing the restraints again. The bracket bolted into the chair arm feels weak.
John’s eyes drop to my hands. “Don’t.”
He bends closer until I can smell his cologne, and the familiarity makes my skin crawl. “If you break that chair, I will put you on the floor and make sure you can’t move. Do you understand me?”
“Fuck you.”
“We will fix that attitude.” His mouth tightens. “One way or another.”
He moves behind me, his hand pressing into the back of the chair. He doesn’t need to touch me to make his threat clear.
“If you want to survive, you will cooperate.” His grip on the chair tightens. “You will eat. You will listen. You will learn.”
Then he steps away and leaves the room. The door closes.
Mary stays, standing close enough that I can feel her presence even when I don’t look at her.
“How could you let this happen to my mother?”
“I loved my sister,” Mary says, and her voice wavers. “Once the decision was made, there was nothing I could do. If I interfered, they would’ve killed me too. They would’ve killed you.”
I let out a harsh sound that isn’t a laugh.
“John spared you.” Mary steps closer.
“No.” I shake my head. “You spared me because you felt guilty.”
“No.” Her eyes harden. “I love you.”
“Stop.”
She falls silent.
I let her believe there's still a version of me she can reach. I need her distracted. I need her watching my face instead of my hands. I shift in the chair again and test the bracket. If I pull the armrest at the right angle, it will give.
Mary slides the tray closer. “At least eat something.”
I keep my eyes on the plate until hers follow. When her gaze drops, I twist my wrist carefully. The screw shifts slightly.
Mary lowers herself into the chair across from me. “You were out for a long time. The medication was strong.”
“How long?”
She hesitates, and her throat moves as if she has to swallow the answer.
“Two days,” she whispers. “Almost three.”
My mouth goes dry again.
“What did they give me?”
“A strong sedative,” she says carefully. “From one of our doctors. You were hysterical. We had to keep you safe.”
Safe is not the word for drugged and transported and hidden.
“Can I have water?” I ask.
Relief flashes across her face so fast it makes me sick. She wants signs of cooperation.
“Of course,” she says quickly.
The moment she steps out, I yank the armrest hard. The chair groans, and the screw turns another notch. I stop moving the second I hear her footsteps return. I let my shoulders sag and force my breathing to slow.
Mary comes back with a glass of cold water, condensation slicks the outside.
Mary steps close, steadies the glass and brings it to my lips. “Drink slowly.”
I drink carefully, taking small sips while she watches my face. The water tastes clean, and it makes me realize how dehydrated I am.
Mary exhales. “Once this settles, once you see how important this is, you’ll understand.”
I flex my fingers against the armrest again, hiding the motion in the small tremor of my hands. One more screw. One more. Then I'll be free or I'll be dead. Either way, I won’t stay here.
I pull back from her and swallow. “I will never understand any of this.”
She smiles. “You will.”