3. Chapter 3
Arwen
Istare at the ceiling, counting cracks I can’t see, because the darkness swallows everything while the stone beneath me steals heat from my bones.
Despite Councilor Blaise’s smug promise that my “evaluation” would begin soon, no one has come for me. Not in seven days.
The universe must have its attention elsewhere… I feel oddly blessed.
The guards arrive twice daily and shove trays through the slot without a word. Food. Water. Nothing else despite our questions.
We’re left alone with our thoughts.
I have so much I should say to Atticus—questions, apologies, fears—but I think we’re both too worn down to reach for the words. We’ve only spoken on small occasions. Quiet check-ins. Are you hurt? Can you stand? Did you eat?
The rest of the time, we exist in the same hollow, waiting, wondering what’s next.
I know there’s a lot he’s trying to untangle. Turning against his father. Claiming our bond in front of the Council. Finding out Maddox is also my bond.
We have everything to talk about—but sitting here together, the silence holds tighter than any words ever could.
Each cell has a small, curtained corner with a sink, toilet, and a drain in the floor. It’s barely privacy, but it’s enough to keep a little dignity.
Every morning I splash water over my arms and face, rubbing at my skin until the chill bites, pretending it’s a routine instead of a reminder of how little control I have left.
Anticipation coils in my chest, making each hour stretch and scream like it’s being dragged through molasses.
And beneath it all, my freshly completed bond burns.
The ache flares, a constant pull deep in my chest, crying out for Maddox’s proximity. The other bonds stretch too, tugging in 3 different directions, but they’re distant, dulled.
This one is different. It’s raw. Some nights it hurts so bad that I have to bite down on my sleeve to keep from making a sound.
Staying close to Atticus helps. That part of my bond content to just be in the same room as him.
We’ve gravitated towards sleeping near the bars that separate our cells, close enough that I can feel the faint warmth of him through the cold steel dividing us. The pain eases, just a fraction, even if we aren’t touching.
I miss my friends.
I wonder if they think I’m dead. If the Council told them anything at all. If my bed at the academy is already empty, the gossip trail ablaze about the sinless who is now gone.
Despite having Atticus, the loneliness is torture. I didn’t have a lot to lose when I left Wrath. I lost Sadie, and that ripped a hole in me. But to lose my new best friends, five people who grew to mean the world to me… it’s all consuming.
A sob tears free—quiet but broken. I clamp my mouth shut too late.
A finger nudges against my hand through the narrow gap between the bars. Shifting closer, I thread my pinky with Atticus’s. The contact is small, but it anchors me.
I focus on that single point of warmth. A quiet promise that I’m not alone. Before I know it, the dark takes me.
***
I jolt awake, heart slamming before my brain catches up.
My eyes fly open and I freeze. At some point during the night, Atticus and I turned toward each other.
My limbs thread through his, despite the bars, like the cell barrier couldn’t keep us away.
His hand is under my head, fingers tangled in my hair.
My fist is locked around his forearm, grip tight like I anchored myself there and refused to let go.
One of my feet is wedged between the bars, tangled with his legs.
Atticus’s eyes open. Surprise flashes across his face—then turns to something softer.
We pull apart quickly, clumsy and flushed, as footsteps echo closer.
I expect to see the guards again, but my heartbeat spikes as Councilor Blaise strolls into the room. He looks out of place, untouched by the damp rot of this place with his crisp clothes, polished shoes, not a speck of dust on him.
A warm smile curves his mouth, looking all wrong on his face. It makes my skin crawl.
“Good morning, lovebirds,” he says. “Did you miss me?”
I bite back the urge to recoil.
He isn’t alone. Another man follows behind him, dressed in a dull gray jumpsuit and a ball cap pulled low over his face. He carries a case of electrical equipment. He works on the outside corner of Atticus’s cell.
“I apologize for the delay,” Blaise continues, clasping his hands together as if we’re guests he’s kept waiting.
“Council business has been… hectic.” His smile widens. “But the good news is—everyone believes you’re slowly starving to death in the outer Wastes.”
My face pinches in disgust.
“So,” he says, eyes flicking between me and Atticus, lingering with proprietary interest. “We should have plenty of time now to get back to business.”
“Shall we begin?” He swings attention back to me as a guard moves forward to unlock my cell door.
As the Councilor steps toward my cell, Atticus explodes.
“Back the fuck away from her.”
The words tear out of him, raw and furious. He’s not used to surrendering control.
“Atticus,” I say, forcing my voice to stay steady. “It’s okay.”
It isn’t. But I can’t afford to let him do something that would cause Blaise to retaliate.
I straighten, meeting his gaze through the bars, willing him to see what I’m doing. Trust me.
I can’t stay locked in this cell forever. If Blaise wants something from me, that’s leverage. Movement. Information. A chance to see more than these four walls. To find a weakness. A way out. Maybe even a way to get word to someone who can help.
I turn back to Blaise, letting steel edge into my tone. “We’re just going to do a few tests,” I say. “Isn’t that right?”
His eyes gleam as he steps closer, stopping just short of the bars. His cologne reaches me, invading my senses with revulsion.
“Oh, absolutely,” he says, shaking his head, mock-sincere. “Nothing dramatic. Just some… harmless testing.”
I don’t believe him for a second.
But I’m not afraid.
Whatever Councilor Blaise wants to label me—Gluttony, anomaly, asset—I know what lives at my core.
I am Wrath.
Pain doesn’t frighten me. It never has. Pain is familiar. It’s something I know how to survive.
I fought for years in the arena against people who had the upper hand with their powers, endured nights of starvation when rations ran dry… I caused harm to myself and spent years tearing myself down in my mind.… I’m moulded for pain.
Lifting my chin, I school my face into calmness.
“I’ll be fine,” I say quietly to Atticus. A lie, maybe—but a useful one.
Blaise’s hand closes around my arm, steering me toward the door like a child.
“Be good, little heir,” he calls over his shoulder, voice slick with satisfaction.
I don’t look back as he drags me from the room—but I feel Atticus’s stare burning into my spine the entire way out.
Disappointment hits me as we step through the heavy prison doors into a plain hall. It’s small and cramped. Nothing to give away about where we might be or how we would escape.
I guess the universe wouldn’t exactly hand me an archway with a neon sign flashing “Escape through here”.
Blaise moves toward the recessed metal panel and presses a button built into the wall. The door groans as it slides open, and I recognize it from the Greed dorms back at the academy. An elevator.
Blaise steps in behind me, his smell suffocating. The more it infiltrates my nose, the more it makes my skin crawl.
Blinding light assaults me when the lift comes to a stop and the doors slide open.
I stumble forward, blinking against the glare as my eyes struggle to adjust.
Everything is white.
Floors, walls, ceilings—so clean they feel hostile. At least twenty people in white coats move through the space with brisk efficiency, eyes flicking between massive glowing screens and armfuls of paperwork. Separate viewing areas ring the room, enclosed in glass.
“Welcome home,” Blaise murmurs, leaning close enough that his breath brushes my ear.
I shutter at the unfamiliarity of it all.
He straightens and gestures to a man in a white coat standing nearby.
“Arwen,” Blaise says smoothly, “this is Doctor Plinth. You will follow his every order. No resistance. No pushback.”
I study the doctor. He’s hefty and sharp-featured, with a mouth twisted into a sneer. His eyes rake over me, unimpressed.
“The nurses will clean you first,” he says, already turning away.
What follows feels less of a preparation and more like punishment.
Hours pass until I’m presentable enough for testing. Time blurs under scalding water and rough hands. They scrub me until my skin burns. No one meets my eyes. No one apologizes. They all stay silent through my comments and questions.
Eventually I’m led to one of the testing stations, my body already aching and abused from the cleaning.
This doesn’t bode well for me.
“Stand here,” says one of the white coats. I’m positioned beneath harsh lights, metal cold beneath my bare feet.
Beyond the glass walls of the observation room, I can make out several figures waiting. Blaise moves toward me, keys dangling from his fingers.
“Now,” he says, “we’re going to take these cuffs off so you can show your abilities for my team.”
My gaze snaps to his face.
“And you’re going to be a good girl,” he continues, voice turning silk-smooth, “and use your powers only as instructed.”
His eyes sharpen. “You know what’s at stake. If I sense even the slightest intention to harm me or anyone here… I will make sure Willshire feels it tenfold.”
My hands curl into fists.
“How do I know you haven’t already hurt him?” I demand. “I won’t be your experiment unless I see—with my own eyes—that he’s okay.”
“Spoiled brat,” Blaise mutters under his breath, irritation slipping through his polished exterior.
“Of course,” he says. “I expected this.”
He pulls a small remote from his pocket and clicks it toward the monitor mounted along the wall. The screen flickers to life, and Atticus’s cell fills the display.
He’s pacing, running a hand through his hair before dragging his fingers down his face. He looks wild and furious. But unharmed.
Blaise watches my reaction closely.
“Trust me,” he says. “I’ve had years to imagine what I’d do to Councilor Willshire’s spawn.”
His smile sharpens. “So don’t test me… unless you’d like to witness just how creative I can be.”
The locks click open one by one on my wrists.
Blaise hands me off as if transferring ownership. Doctor Plinth’s fingers close around my shoulders, and he steers me across the floor to a marked position. A thin circle is etched into the white surface.
“Remain within the circle,” Plinth continues, already walking away as he speaks. “You will wait until I count down from five. When I say begin, you will activate your Gluttony power and direct it at the target.”
He points at a blonde mannequin strapped to a chair fifteen feet in front of me.
A person-shaped thing meant to be consumed. The irony isn’t subtle.
“When I say stop,” Plinth says, “you will cease. You will stand in place with your hands behind your back and wait to be cuffed.”
He gestures toward the glass. “Your power cannot extend beyond the viewing room. Wards are in place. You are under constant observation, and you will have weapons trained on you.”
My skin prickles, awareness crawling up my spine.
He turns back to me, that same ugly sneer curling his mouth—one I’m suspecting isn’t an expression so much as a permanent feature.
“And no funny business.”
I panic a little. There may be a slight hum of power under my skin that came forward when he removed the cuffs, but it’s barely there. I don’t know how to call for this power and I definitely don’t know how to control it.
The doctor’s footsteps fade, and then his voice fills the room. “Counting down from five, Miss Davies.”
My pulse stutters.
Five.
I close my eyes and reach inward, past my fear, past the knot in my chest, searching to locate that familiar hum.
Nothing…
Four.
Digging deeper, I claw at the space where it should be. It has to be there. I felt it before—hot, hungry, undeniable. I try to summon it the way I’ve always summoned anger: by remembering every slight, every dismissal, every moment I was told I was nothing.
Three.
It slips away anyway. Like smoke through my fingers. Like trying to hold on to a dream the second you wake.
Two.
My breath turns shallow. Panic creeps in. Come on. Come on. I can’t let Atticus pay for this. I force my focus onto the target, onto the empty blonde face strapped to the chair, willing my power to surface.
One.
“And… begin.”
Holding my breath, I brace and wait for the violent rush to appear—
But nothing happens.
The silence drags out awkwardly.
“Stop,” Plinth snaps. “Hands behind your back.”
Councilor Blaise explodes out of the viewing room, fury radiating off him in waves. Doctor Plinth follows close behind, pale and tight-lipped. Blaise crosses the distance in seconds and grabs my shirt with both hands, hauling me forward as my bare feet lift off the floor.
His face is inches from mine. Gone is the smug amusement. Gone is the indulgent curiosity. What’s left is cold, naked rage.
“Do you think this is amusing,” he hisses, breath hot against my cheek, “you Wrath scum?”
He spins me toward the wall of screens.
Atticus’s cell fills the largest monitor just as two guards burst inside, weapons raised at him. Atticus freezes for half a second and then straightens, chest heaving, eyes lifting to glare straight at the camera.
“Wait—you fucking prick,” I choke. I fight his grip to get to the screen, but Blaise holds me back.
I can’t lose him! I can't! I won’t!
“Something’s wrong with my power,” I rush out, the words tumbling over each other. “I’m not lying. I’m not trying to trick you. It’s not coming to the surface—I don’t know why, but it’s not.”
My voice cracks as I stare at the screen. “You have to believe me.”
The seconds that follow stretch.
Finally—
“Very well,” Blaise spits.
A radio crackles in the viewing room. The guards lower their weapons and retreat from Atticus’s cell. My knees give out with relief, my lungs pulling in a shaky breath.
Blaise straightens. Smooths his coat. The mask slides back into place like it was never gone as his slimy smile returns.
“If you’re struggling,” he says lightly, “then we’ll simply have to work it out of you.”
He turns to Doctor Plinth. “Take her to the sensory deprivation cell. No supplies. We’ll give it twenty-four hours and try again.”
He walks away as the viewing room empties, white coats filing out like a typical workday. As if an actual human being isn’t standing there shaking, about to be tortured.
I take one last look at Atticus on the screen.
Then the guards take my arms, steering me toward the exit, and a cold, sinking dread settles deep in my gut—heavy and unshakable.