Chapter 3
Brooke
The house stays too quiet, every small sound carrying farther than it should.
I work at the cuffs until my wrists throb, pulling, twisting, testing for anything that might give.
Nothing does. The rope digs into my waist each time I shift.
My legs go numb, then sting as feeling comes back.
My shoulders ache from being held in place.
My thoughts continue to spiral until it lands on one thing.
The thought finally settles but my mind refuses to see it properly.
My father, Greg. The man who baked cookies on Sundays and drove me to softball practice.
The man who told me to question everything and trust my instincts.
A killer. Just like John. Just like Seth.
The connection is there whether I accept it or not.
If John is right, if violence runs through blood the way he believes it does, then this isn’t chance. It was always there. Not something I turned into. Something I started as. The thought hits hard enough that I have to force myself to breathe through it.
And my baby.
If killers make killers, if this thing is passed down instead of learned, then what does that mean for the life growing inside me? Is it already marked? Already destined to be a killer. Or is that the lie John needs to believe so he can justify everything he’s done.
I don’t know which answer terrifies me more.
Sometime deep into the night, the door opens again.
Light spills in as Mary steps inside carrying a tray.
A bowl of grits sits in the center, steam rising faintly from the surface, butter melting into pale swirls, salt dusted across the top.
A glass of cold water rests beside it. She closes the door behind her with the same careful quiet she always uses.
“You need to eat.” Mary sets the tray down with careful hands, her voice still soft.
The smell hits me and my stomach twists hard. Hunger claws upward.
I shake my head weakly. “I don’t want to eat.”
“Stop.” She straightens, fingers tightening around the spoon. “You’re pregnant. You can’t afford to be stubborn.”
She dips the spoon into the grits and stirs once before stepping closer. She lifts it toward my mouth.
I turn my head away. A cramp seizes low in my abdomen, stealing my breath.
“Brooke.” Her tone lowers. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.”
I hesitate. The room tilts. Dark spots crowd the edges of my vision. Hunger wins.
I open my mouth.
The grits are warm and thick, salted just enough to taste good. The butter coats my tongue. I swallow with effort, forcing it down while every instinct tells me not to take anything from her. She feeds me slowly. Between bites, she lifts the glass and presses it to my lips.
“Drink.” She tips the glass slightly.
The water is cold. It slides down my throat and settles in my stomach.
When the bowl is empty, she wipes my mouth with a napkin as if I am a child. Then she lingers, watching my breathing even out.
I stare at her. “Did you ever love me?”
Her hand stills midair.
“Of course I did.”
“Did?”
She lowers the napkin. “I love you like a daughter.”
“Then how can you let this happen to me?”
“This is the only way you survive.” She folds her hands together. “Any other way and they kill you.”
“And what you’re doing right now isn’t killing me?” I lean forward as far as the restraints allow. “Sending me where you’re about to send me isn’t killing me?”
Mary’s face tightens. “If there was any other way, I would’ve begged John to make it work.”
“John doesn’t give a fuck about me.” I hold her gaze. “Do you?”
She doesn’t answer.
“John told me he wanted me with Nick.” I swallow hard. “That means you both knew. You knew what Nick was. You knew what Amber was. And you let me trust them anyway.”
Mary’s throat moves as she swallows.
“John believed being close to the Talberts and the Vosses would make you harder to touch.” She shifts her weight, avoiding my eyes for a second. “Nick’s family has power. Being tied to them would have put you under their protection.”
“I was raped.” The word breaks on the way out. “That was your idea of protection?”
“That was not supposed to happen.” Her jaw tightens. “Nick stepped out of line.”
I let out a sharp breath.
Her shoulders sag. “He was supposed to be the best option. After you killed him, The Collective stopped seeing you as manageable.”
“What about when I first brought Seth over?” I press. “You said he was good for me. You said you hoped he’d help me find my voice.”
Something shifts across her face.
“I did hope that.” Her voice softens despite herself. “I hoped he’d take you far enough away that none of this could reach you.”
Her voice cracks.
“He couldn’t.” She looks down for a second before meeting my eyes again. “And now he’s most likely dead, sweetheart.”
“And you still stayed with John…after all this?” I scoff. “Knowing what he planned to do?”
“I stayed because leaving wouldn’t have protected you.” Her tone sharpens. “Staying gave me access. It gave me leverage. It gave me a way to keep you alive.”
Tears slide down my face and I can’t wipe them away.
“You’re sending me there.” My voice breaks. “You’re letting them take me.”
Her jaw clenches. “You don’t understand how close they are to deciding you aren’t worth the trouble. There are men who think killing you would be easier. John barely kept that from happening.”
“And you?” I ask. “What are you?”
She hesitates.
“I’m the reason he argued for you.” Her voice lowers. “I’m the reason you’re not already dead.”
A cold dread creeps up my spine. “What is Elliot’s Manor?”
She pauses again. Just long enough to make me think she might actually change her mind.
“It’s a place the Collective uses…For discipline.”
“Discipline?”
Her gaze drops, then lifts again. “All I can tell you is this. You need to survive.”
My voice cracks. “How the fuck am I supposed to survive?”
“You endure.” She leans closer, eyes locking onto mine. “You don’t provoke them. You don’t challenge them. You don’t test their pride. You make yourself useful….That’s how you live through it.”
The way she says it tells me she knows exactly what that means.
“You survive first.” Her voice softens again. “You hate me later.”
Tears slide down my face. The silence that follows is worse than shouting.
“Grant will be here soon.” She steps back toward the door. “Get some rest.”
She touches my arm once then she steps back and waits by the door until John calls her name from somewhere down the hall. She leaves without looking at me again.
The house goes silent.
My thoughts keep circling back to Seth. I try not to imagine him dead.
I don’t sleep. My arms ache, my legs go numb. Every time the chair creaks, my heart jumps. I count breaths until I lose track.
Morning arrives without warning.
I hear a vehicle pull up outside the house. An engine cuts off. Car doors open and shut. Voices murmur somewhere beyond the walls.
Then the front door opens and footsteps cross the entryway.
They move through the house, down the hallway, getting closer with every step until they stop just outside the bedroom.
The door opens.
Grant steps into the room first, filling the doorway before walking fully inside. His eyes sweep the space once slowly, before settling on me. Still tied to the chair where they left me.
A small, satisfied smile touches his mouth.
John appears a second later behind him, lingering near the doorway instead of stepping fully into the room. Mary hovers in the hall.
Mary speaks first.
“John… please.” Mary steps closer, her voice low. “Tell Grant to remind Elliot not to harm her.”
John doesn’t answer.
She moves another step in, fingers twisting together. “Please.”
He exhales, jaw tightening, then shifts his attention to Grant.
“You will remind Elliot that she is not to be killed. Not to be harmed. No mysterious accidents.”
Grant glances over his shoulder, one brow lifting.
“You talk about my brother as if he’s a monster.”
John meets his eyes. “He is.”
A slow breath leaves Grant’s nose, amusement flickering across his face.
“He’ll make her obedient.” His gaze drifts to me. “That much I can promise.”
“Don’t let him kill her.” John’s tone stays flat.
Grant tilts his head, studying him. “Protective. That’s new.”
John doesn’t react.
Something in me snaps.
“Where’s Seth?” I lunge forward as far as the restraints allow, the chair jerking violently. “Is he alive? Where is he?”
Grant turns toward me, unhurried.
“Someone is loud this morning.”
Mary lingers just inside the doorway, hands clasped tight. She says nothing.
“Answer me,” I shout. “Where the fuck is he?”
Grant crosses the room in two calm steps. He pulls a gag from his pocket and shoves it into my mouth. Leather presses hard against my teeth as he ties it tight behind my head until the corners of my lips burn.
“That's better. Women should be quiet when men are talking,” he smirks.
Before I can react, John grabs the back of the chair and drags me across the floor. The legs scrape loudly over the wood as he hauls me out of the bedroom and into the hallway.
Mary follows behind them. She doesn't protest. She simply closes the bedroom door as we pass it.
Her voice comes again, thin and strained.
“John… please make sure she—”
“She’ll survive,” John cuts in. “She’s strong. We raised her to be.”
Something cold slides through my chest at that.
The tension between the men hangs heavy in the air. I don't know the full history of Grant and Elliot, but the way their names are spoken makes one thing clear.
Elliot is not someone people trust. He is someone people endure.
Two men step forward and cut the rope binding me to the chair. The tension snaps loose all at once, and my body pitches forward. My legs buckle the second the pressure releases, but they catch me before I hit the floor.