Chapter 2
Brooke
Ifeel like I’m in a nightmare I can’t wake up from.
Every instinct in my body wants to move, to fight, but none of that will help me right now.
Panic burns energy too fast, and I can’t afford to waste any.
I focus on breathing, on keeping my expression calm, on remembering that John watches everything.
He always has. He likes patterns. He likes compliance. He likes thinking he is ahead.
If I want out of this, I need him to believe I am already where he wants me.
The door opens again. John steps back into the room with his phone still in his hand. He glances at Mary first, then at me.
“So what’s it going to be, Brooke?”
Mary straightens immediately, her spine stiffening like she’s been called to attention. I tighten my grip on the armrest, angling my wrist to keep the loosened screw out of view.
John sets his phone down on the dresser and folds his arms.
My gaze drops to the tray in front of me. The smell of eggs makes me nauseous. I look at the toast that is untouched. Then to the glass of water Mary brought.
“Fine,” I whisper. “I’ll eat.”
Mary lets out a breath of relief. John gives a single nod, already satisfied.
I lean forward slightly. The movement shifts the chair.
Mary reaches for the fork like she is about to feed me herself.
“I’m not an infant,” I snap. “I can feed myself.”
She recoils, then nods quickly and places the fork in my hand. My cuffed hand. The metal presses into my skin.
I lift the fork, scoop a bite of eggs, and bring it halfway to my mouth.
The smell hits me. My stomach lurches violently. Heat rushes up my throat and I gag, twisting my head away just in time as bile burns my tongue. I bend forward, dry heaving, eyes watering, breath tearing out of me.
Mary is at my side instantly. “Brooke,” she says softly. Watching me too closely now. “Are you nauseous?”
I swallow hard, fighting it down. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not.” Her gaze flicks to the plate, then to my face. Something clicks behind her eyes. She picks up the tray and steps out of the room.
John watches from across the room.
Mary comes back with a warm biscuit and a little jar of honey. She breaks the biscuit in half with her fingers and drizzles honey over it.
“Here,” she says gently. “Eat this. It’ll settle your stomach.”
I stare at it for half a second too long.
Refusing will draw attention. Eating will buy me time.
I take it.
The biscuit is soft and sweet, the honey sticky against my fingers. I chew slowly, keeping my breathing calm, forcing my body to cooperate.
Mary smiles, relieved. “That’s better,” she murmurs.
I nod, swallowing the last bite. I wipe my fingers on the napkin, lower my gaze, and let my shoulders slump.
The screw shifts again under my palm. Almost there. I shift hard in the chair. The armrest groans, wood complaining under pressure.
“Brooke.” John’s voice cuts through the room.
I freeze.
“Don’t,” John warns. “Do not do something stupid.”
Too late.
I throw my weight sideways and wrench the armrest with everything I have.
The wood cracks and the bracket holding the lower cuff tears free from the chair with a loud snap.
The cuff is still locked around my wrist, but the armrest comes with it, splintered wood and chain hanging from my arm as I shove the chair aside and scramble to my feet.
Mary screams behind me as I shove the chair aside.
John is already moving.
I swing the broken armrest and catch him across the side of the head. It is not clean enough to drop him, but it staggers him long enough for me to run.
The cuff still circles my wrist, the chain dragging the jagged piece of wood behind me as I tear into the hallway.
“Brooke!” Mary cries. “Stop!”
“Stay the fuck away from me!”
I reach the kitchen door and yank the handle.
Fuck, it’s locked.
John slams into me from the side and drives me into the wall hard enough to knock the air out of my chest. I fight anyway. I claw at him, kick his ribs, twist against his grip.
“Stop it,” he shouts. “Stop it right now!”
I drive my knee into his side and tear loose for half a second.
It is not enough.
He grabs me again before I can run and slams me back against the wall. A gun appears in his hand, the barrel pressing hard against my temple.
“Settle the fuck down,” he says coldly. “Or I walk into that garage, shoot the dog and the cat first, and then come back here and put a bullet in your head.”
My body goes completely still.
Krueger.
Luna.
The fight drains out of me all at once.
“That’s better,” he mutters.
He forces me into the bedroom and slams me back into the chair. The broken cuff still dangles from my wrist, the splintered armrest dragging with it.
John grabs it, yanks the wood free with a sharp crack, and tosses it aside. The loose cuff snaps against my skin as he drags my other arm forward. Cold metal bites down as he locks the second cuff around my free wrist, forcing both hands together in front of me.
Then he reaches for the rope.
It winds tight around my torso and the chair slats, pulling me back until my shoulders strain and the wood cuts into my ribs. He cinches it harder, testing it once, making sure there is no give.
Mary hovers near the doorway, panicked and shaking.
“John, please,” she whispers.
He ignores her and crouches in front of me.
“The Collective wanted you executed years ago,” he says. “I could’ve killed you that night.”
My jaw locks, but I don’t look away.
“You were supposed to die with your parents,” he continues. “Mary begged me not to do it. She is the only reason you’re still breathing.”
Mary’s voice trembles. “She’s still your niece.”
John’s expression hardens.
“No,” he says calmly. “She’s a liability.”
He leans closer, his voice dropping.
“So here are your only two options. I can send you to Elliot’s manor where The Collective will decide how useful you still are.”
His gaze locks onto mine.
“Or I execute you right now and finally finish what should’ve been done years ago.”
The room goes very quiet.
He straightens and adjusts his sleeve as if the decision means nothing to him.
“Think carefully about which option you prefer.”
Then he turns and walks out, leaving the rope tight around my ribs and the cuffs locked around my wrist.
Mary lingers a few feet away. Her eyes are wet, rimmed red.
“Brooke,” she says softly, “why would you do that? You are only making this harder than it needs to be.”
I don’t answer. I force my breathing to slow, drag it down into my chest until the shaking eases. Panic won’t save me. It never has.
Mary watches me too closely.
“Brooke,” she tries again, gentler now, coaxing. “Please. Say something.”
I lift my head slowly and meet her gaze.
“Where’s Luna and Krueger?”
“In the garage, we shut them in there so they wouldn’t run when we brought you in. They’re safe.”
“Did you hurt them?”
Her brows knit together, almost offended. “Of course not. I would never. We aren’t monsters.”
I almost laugh. The sound lodges in my throat and burns there.
My wrists throb where the cuffs bite into skin. I take a shallow breath.
“Mary,” I say quietly, “I’m pregnant.”
She goes still. Her expression shifts, eyes narrowing slightly as if she is fitting a final piece into place.
“Oh, Brooke,” she murmurs. “I knew it.”
My stomach drops. “How?”
“The biscuit,” her voice softens. “With the honey. That’s what your mother craved when she was pregnant with you. She couldn’t keep anything else down.”
“You have to help me,” I beg, leaning forward as far as the restraints allow. The rope cuts deeper into my ribs. “Please. I can’t stay here.”
Mary’s gaze drops for a second, like she’s weighing something she already decided.
“Sweetheart, this is bigger than you and me. Decisions are already in motion.” Her voice lowers. “There are things I can’t interfere with.”
“Auntie,” I whisper. “Please.”
Her eyes flicker, just once. Pity maybe, or regret, then it is gone. She looks at me as if she has already made her choice and learned to live with it.
The door creaks.
Mary straightens instantly, hands folding neatly in her lap, composure snapping back into place like a reflex.
John enters with the calm of a man delivering a verdict.
“Your best option is not a pleasant one,” John continues, “you’re being transferred to Elliot’s Manor.”
Mary’s composure wavers. “John…she’s pregnant.”
John turns toward her slowly. “What?”
“She’s pregnant,” she repeats. “That changes things, right?”
John stares at her for a long moment. Then his gaze slides back to me.
“You should have told me.”
I glare at him. “And what would you have done? Give me a baby shower?”
“How far along?”
“I don’t know.”
He nods once.
“This complicates things,” he says.
Mary steps closer, her voice tight with hope. “Does that protect her?”
John looks at her.
“No.”
My grip tightens against the chair until the wood digs into my palm.
“If Brooke is just another capable young woman, they can find ways to use her for a long time,” he continues. “But pregnancy changes that. She’ll slow down. She’ll get tired. Eventually she’ll be too far along to do much of anything.”
My jaw tightens.
“They are not the kind of people who enjoy maintaining complications,” he adds. “They prefer efficiency.”
John slowly paces in front of me, hands behind his back.
“If Brooke is compliant and keeps her head clear, they may decide she is worth keeping alive for a while.”
“And if they don’t?” I ask.
John doesn’t hesitate.
“Then they will eliminate you.”
He adjusts his sleeve as if the conversation has already ended.
“You leave in the morning,” he says. “Grant will handle the transfer.”
He looks at me one last time.
“Do not mistake this for mercy. It’s a negotiation.”
John walks out. The door closes behind him.
Mary lingers in the doorway, hands folded neatly in front of her. Whatever guilt lives on her face never reaches her eyes.
“Try to breathe, sweetheart,” she murmurs. “It’s all for the best.”
The way she says sweetheart makes my blood run cold.
Then she turns off the light, closes the door, and locks me in.
And the last family I had left chooses The Collective over me.