Chapter 23
Symond
Symond staggered into the stall, pressing his back hard against the wooden planks.
His legs felt unsteady, like they might give out at any second, but he refused to let himself sink to the ground.
His breaths came fast and shallow, his chest rising and falling like he had just sprinted for miles.
Sweat clung to his skin, mixing with the filth of the barn, making him feel disgusting. Tainted.
His fingers curled into his scalp, nails biting into skin. The fight was already replaying in his head, over and over, like a fucking sickness.
The way she moved. The way she fought. The way she had stared him down, fearless even as he had pinned her.
His pulse pounded in his ears, a sick, twisting heat curling in his stomach, something primal and involuntary. He hated it. Hated himself. His body had betrayed him. Again. Just like all those times before when Gerard—
This is different, he told himself desperately. This has to be different.
It was the fight. The adrenaline. The rush of blood in his veins, and the heat of battle. But it was more than that. It was her. It had to be her.
That was normal. That was natural.
It wasn’t like with Gerard. It couldn’t be. This wasn’t about being pinned down, powerless, while someone took what they wanted. This was about him winning. Him being in control. Him forcing her down while she fought back with those blazing cat-like eyes.
It’s because she’s a woman, he repeated to himself like a mantra. That’s all this is. Normal reaction. Just hormones and adrenaline. Nothing like... nothing like before.
He clamped his eyes shut, but the images wouldn’t go away. Gerard’s weight pressing him into the mattress. The sick satisfaction in his voice. The way his own body had responded despite the fear, the revulsion, the desperate need to escape.
And now this. Now her.
Why now? This wasn’t the first time he had fought her.
He had hit her before. Pinned her before. Humiliated her, bruised her, degraded her. That night in her bedroom back at the Institute, he had wanted her to feel as defenseless as he had been. He wanted her to suffer.
But it hadn’t felt like this.
That night, she had been beneath him, breakable. Helpless. He had been the one in control, but it had been cold control. Clinical. He’d felt nothing but rage and the bitter satisfaction of watching her break.
But this—this had been different. She had fought back, bared her teeth, refused to cower. She’d been strong. Fierce. And when he’d finally overpowered her, when he’d pressed her down into the hay with her fangs still snapping defiantly...
Something in him had twisted. He rocked his head. It’s not the same. It’s not.
It was about wanting her. It had to be. Men wanted women—that was how it worked. Even when they were fighting. Even when they hated each other. Maybe especially then. The line between violence and desire, between dominance and attraction. That made sense, didn’t it?
He was just... attracted to her. Physically. In some fucked-up, primal way that had nothing to do with Gerard or the Institute or any of the sick shit that had been done to him. This was about him being the one with power. Him choosing. Him wanting.
His stomach clenched violently, his muscles still taut, his body still burning with something he desperately wanted to name as desire instead of the other thing. The thing that made him feel small and helpless and broken.
It’s attraction, he told himself again, digging his fingers into his hair and pulling hard. Just fucked-up attraction. That’s normal. That’s... that’s better.
Better than admitting that his body still responded the same way it had when Gerard held him down. Better than facing that some part of him was still that terrified boy who couldn’t control his own reactions.
And now he had a fucking hard-on, and he could pretend it was because Elora was beautiful and fierce and he wanted her in some desirable manner unrelated to trauma and everything to do with being a man who’d won a fight against a woman.
He could pretend that. He would pretend that.
A deep snarl rose in his throat, and he slammed his fist into the wooden stall wall, the pain shooting up his arm. Good. He did it again. Again. Again, until the sting cut through the confusion in his mind, until he could almost believe his own lies.
It’s her. It’s because of her. Not because of him. Never because of him.
He needed to figure this out. He refused to let the past control him like this. He would burn the feeling out, drown it out, beat it into the fucking ground. It meant nothing except what he decided it meant.
And he decided it meant he wanted her.
Somehow, that felt like the lesser evil.
He slid down into the pile of hay beneath him, arms draped over his knees. His body ached from the fight, his ribs sore where Elora had slammed into him, his arm burning from the bite mark she’d left behind.
A quiet scuff of boots on the barn floor made him tense.
He didn’t look up, just kept his head bowed as the presence neared.
He tensed, already preparing for more ridicule, for Rell to come storming in with another smartass comment, maybe an elbow to the ribs for good measure.
But when the steps slowed, measured, he knew it wasn’t Rell.
It was Violette.
Symond let out a breath and forced himself to sit up straighter, rolling his shoulders like he hadn’t just been spiraling into a panic about whether his body’s reactions made him weak or perverted.
He turned his head slightly, keeping his expression half-hidden in shadow.
“What, you come to tuck me in?” His voice came out rougher than he intended, but he forced a smirk anyway.
Violette didn’t react, didn’t flinch at his usual defenses. She just tilted her head, crossing her arms over her chest as she leaned casually against the wooden frame of the stall. “You look like shit.”
Symond let out a short, humorless laugh, rubbing his face. “Yeah, well, guess she’s tougher than she looks.”
And apparently I want her for it, he added silently, clinging to that explanation.
Violette didn’t reply right away, just let her gaze flick over him, assessing. Her eyes flicked to his hands. They weren’t steady. He realized it too late. Her gaze lingered just a second too long. He curled his fingers into fists, pressing them hard against his knees.
“You don’t have to tell me what’s eating at you,” she said. “But whatever it is, it’s gonna eat you alive if you let it.”
Something in him flinched at that. Because she was right. Whether it was trauma or desire or some sick combination of both, it was going to destroy him if he couldn’t get control of it.
He rolled his shoulders and forced another smirk, trying to find his footing in the conversation again. “Didn’t know you cared, Violette.”
She let out a short breath—something almost like a laugh, but not quite. “Please,” she muttered. “If I cared, I would’ve brought you a blanket.”
He finally looked up at her then, arching a brow. He kind of wished she had brought a blanket, at least then he could hide his body’s betrayal. Because that would surely make it go away...
Stop, he told himself. It’s just attraction. That’s all.
Violette’s eyes flicked down to his hand, where the dull metal ring sat on his finger. “The ring,” she said, not really a question.
Symond followed her gaze and flexed his fingers, the ring catching what little light filtered through the barn slats. “Yeah.”
“Where’d you get it?”
He shrugged, trying to appear casual, even though her scrutiny made his skin crawl. “Made it. Quick enchantment before we left the hideout.”
“Quick enchantment.” Her tone was flat, unimpressed. “That's why it barely worked on her?”
“It was just a coating,” he said defensively. “Must not have been strong enough. Should’ve taken more time with it, but—”
“But you were in a hurry to have a weapon against her.”
Symond’s jaw tightened. “I thought it might be good to have. Against Fane, mostly. And...” He paused, then shrugged again. “Against Elora too, if she decided she wanted to test out her new abilities on me.”
Violette’s gaze sharpened. “Why would you be worried about her doing that?”
Symond faltered, his casual mask slipping for just a moment. “Nothing. I just—” He stopped, searching for words that wouldn’t make him sound like the villain. “You know we have a history. From the Institute. She might hold grudges.”
“What kind of history?” Violette pressed. “What did you do to her that would make her want to attack you unprovoked?”
His throat felt tight. He couldn’t tell her about that night in Elora’s bedroom, about what he’d done. Violette wouldn’t understand. She’d see him as a monster, not as someone who’d been pushed past his breaking point by years of suffering that should have been Elora’s to bear.
“It’s complicated,” he said finally. “The Institute... it made us all do things. Pitted us against each other. She was protected while the rest of us—” He shook his head. “She never understood what that was like. At least not until she was made a ward.”
Violette studied him with that unnerving intensity of hers. “And when you used it on her earlier?”
“She wasn’t listening to Rell,” he blurted. “Wouldn’t shift back when he told her to. I was just trying to help, to make her cooperate. Expected it to actually work, you know? Get her to—” He gestured vaguely at his torn shirt, the bite mark on his arm. “Didn’t expect her to go feral on me.”
Violette shook her head. There was no anger there, just disappointment, which somehow felt worse.
“Right.” She pushed off the stall wall and pointed at the healing balm on the ground next to him. He hadn’t even realized he had dropped it. “Put that on. Wouldn’t want you bleeding out before we get back to HQ.”
And then, just like that, she was gone.
The silence felt heavier now, pressing down on him, suffocating. Violette’s questions echoed in his mind, each one picking at the careful justifications he’d built around his actions.
What did you do to her that would make her want to attack you unprovoked?
He knew the answer. He just couldn’t say it out loud. Couldn’t admit that maybe Elora had every right to want to hurt him after what he’d done. Back then and now.
But that line of thinking was dangerous. It meant admitting he was wrong, that his suffering didn’t justify what he’d done to her. And if he started down that path, where would it end?
No, he’d been pushed too far, broken down too much. Anyone would have snapped eventually. Elora had just been the convenient target for years of rage that should have been hers to begin with.
He clenched his fists harder, forcing himself to focus on something else. Anything else.
It’s her, he repeated to himself, grasping for the earlier rationalization like a lifeline. It’s because I want her. That’s normal. That’s... that’s not what Gerard did to me.
But the words felt more hollow now, after Violette’s probing questions. After being forced to confront, even obliquely, what he’d actually done.
Even as he said it, he wasn’t sure he believed it anymore. But believing it was still better than the alternative.
It had to be.