Chapter 6
Brooke
Iwake up before the sun.
The door snaps open, the lights flip on, and Asher’s voice cuts through whatever fragile sleep I’ve managed to fall into.
“Get up.”
I'm hauled to my feet and marched through the halls, still half-dizzy, still feeling the fear from the screams I heard last night.
The Manor grounds are freezing. Morning fog hangs low across the yard, blurring the treeline into a gray smear. Dew soaks the grass under my bare feet. My breath puffs clouds in the air. Knox, Asher, and Sophie surround me like I'm a prisoner on display.
Elliot waits in the center of the yard. His hands are tucked behind his back, his posture relaxed, as if this is a morning yoga class and not whatever fresh hell they have dragged me out here for.
“Bring him,” Elliot says.
The back door opens, and two men drag someone out into the yard, a man I have never seen before.
His shirt hangs in shreds from his shoulders, soaked through and clinging to his skin.
His face is badly swollen, one eye nearly sealed shut, his mouth split and dark with dried blood crusted along his jaw.
Deep purple bruises spread across his ribs and trail down his arms in ugly patterns.
Each breath comes out of him with a harsh rattle.
He looks barely conscious until they shove him down onto his knees.
Then his eyes fly open. Panic tears across his expression as if a switch has been flipped. He tries to stand, but his strength fails him, and he pitches forward into the wet grass, palms slipping as he claws for balance.
“Please,” he gasps, voice breaking. “Please, don’t do this. I’ll do anything. I swear.”
His voice cracks in terror.
Sophie watches with disinterest. Knox and Asher smile. Elliot doesn’t react at all. He steps forward, pulls something from behind his back, and holds it out to me.
A gun.
My stomach drops.
“Brooke,” Elliot says softly. “Shoot him in the head.”
The man sobs. He presses his forehead to the dirt, whispering please over and over like a prayer.
I glare at Elliot. “No.”
Elliot’s face doesn’t change. “So you’re not following the rules?”
“I’m not killing him.” My voice shakes, but the words come out anyway.
“I’ll only ask one more time,” Elliot extends the gun again. “Shoot him.”
My fingers curl. My brain screams. The man begs harder, crawling toward me on shaking elbows, leaving streaks of red in the grass.
I step back. Sophie grabs my shoulder to keep me from retreating farther.
Elliot shouts. “Now!”
My hand feels like it doesn’t belong to me as I reach for it.
I lift it with trembling hands, pointing it toward the man who is begging for his life. His eyes are wild. His breath hitches between sobs. Every inch of him pleads.
My vision blurs.
Elliot watches me with that unreadable calm, like he is grading a test I am destined to fail.
My finger hovers over the trigger.
I shift the gun away from the man and turn it on Elliot.
His brows lift the slightest bit.
“Brooke,” Sophie hisses behind me.
I ignore her. I aim right between Elliot’s eyes and pull the trigger.
Click.
Nothing.
I pull it again.
Click.
My stomach drops. I pull it again, frantic now, desperate—
Click.
Empty.
Of course.
Elliot steps closer, taking the barrel of the gun with two fingers and lowering it like I'm a child holding a dangerous toy incorrectly. He holds it loosely at his side.
Then with the same steady posture, he reaches behind his back with his other hand and pulls out a second gun. Black metal catching the gray morning light.
The kneeling man sees it and wails, his voice shredding itself in panic. “No—no, please, please, I’ll—”
Elliot doesn’t let him finish.
He aims and fires.
The shot cracks across the yard like lightning. The man’s body snaps backward, collapsing into the wet grass. His blood spreads fast, mixing with dew, turning the ground into mud.
My ears ring, Knox grins, Asher wipes his boots in the grass and Sophie just watches me.
Elliot finally looks up from the corpse and meets my eyes with terrifying calm. Then he steps in close. Close enough that I feel the warmth of the gun he has just used. He lifts the empty pistol I tried to fire and taps the barrel lightly against my chin.
“Now,” his tone lowers, “you’ve broken Rule Two.”
My throat locks.
“You didn’t follow instructions.”
His voice isn’t angry. It is clinical and precise. As if this is just data for him. Brooke Sinclair: noncompliant, defiant, requires correction. He lets the cold barrel slide down from my chin to my collarbone before lowering it completely.
“You won’t like the consequences,” he adds.
And behind him, the dead man lies facedown in the grass, punishment for a rule I hadn’t even known existed yesterday. Now I am about to learn mine.
“Oh and by the way,” Elliot smirks. “No one is coming for you. You’re ours now. Grant just confirmed a few hours ago, Seth is dead.”