I look at her again. Her lip trembles. Not in fear. In pain. In something I don’t want to name.
She’s not the monster here.
God help me—I think she might be the victim.
And I just became her executioner.
“Just talk,” I snap, voice rougher than I mean it to be. My patience is hanging by a thread. “Give me a name. Tell us what the hell you’re doing here, and this ends. This doesn’t have to get worse.”
I hear him before he comes into view—soft steps against concrete, a measured cadence only someone like me would notice from this far out. My brother moves with intent, not caution. Not hesitation. It’s respect that slows him, an understanding of what this place demands and what it costs to step into it. He knows what happens down here, underneath the blood and quiet. He knows some truths don’t surface without leaving scars.
Ronan and I—we’ve always been the ones to get our hands dirty. The muscle. The enforcers. And most of the time? We don’t mind. We don’t flinch when things get messy, becausethe people we deal with are usually bottom feeders. Liars. Threats. Scum that makes the world worse by waking up in it.
But this girl?
This girl is different, and I hate that I feel that. Hate that she’s burrowing into my thoughts even as I try to break her. She’s bleeding, trembling, but still silent. Still unflinching, like she knows something I don’t.
And that’s what eats at me most—not knowing.
I sense Emerson move closer, hear the soft shift in his breathing as he steps into the hall just beyond the room. He stays silent at first. Just lingers, taking in the scene, watching me like he’s trying to figure out how far gone I am.
The girl—Cupcake, I’ve started calling her in my head, if only to soften the fact that I’ve bruised her face—doesn’t react to him. She keeps her eyes low; her chin angled like she’s daring me to try again. She’s a mess, but even the shadows can’t hide the fire still burning in her expression. That same goddamn spark that keeps her from breaking.
And me?
I’m unraveling. Slowly. Quietly. But it’s happening.
My shoulders are locked, my fists tight, jaw clenched so hard it aches. The blood on my knuckles is dry now, but I still feel the sting beneath it—reminders that I crossed a line somewhere in the last hours. And I don’t know if I can uncross it.
Then I hear Emerson’s voice—low and cautious.
“Ro?”
The sound of it cuts deep, deeper than I expect. He doesn’t use that tone with me often. He doesn’t have to. But right now, there’s something in it that sounds a lot like worry, and it lands harder than any blow I’ve taken in this room.
He steps closer, slowly, like I’m a wounded animal that might lash out. Maybe I am.
I don’t look at him. I keep my focus on her, as if I just stare long enough, she’ll crack open and spill everything she knows. But nothing happens. Just more silence. More time slipping through my fingers while everything inside me screams that we’re missing something.
“Take a break, Ro,” he says gently, like he’s asking instead of ordering. “Just… breathe for a minute.”
For a second, I want to snap at him. Tell him I don’t need a break, that I’m fine. That I’m close.
But I’m not.
And he knows it.
I let my eyes linger on her one last time. Her face is battered, bloody, but there’s still that edge in her. A dare. A challenge. She’s hanging on by a thread, but somehow, I think it’s stronger than mine.
My jaw tightens as I reach for the rag at the edge of the table, wiping my hands with slow, methodical movements. The blood doesn’t come off. It’s dried in the lines of my skin, embedded like guilt I can’t scrub away.
I give Em a single nod. It’s stiff. Tired. But it’s all I’ve got.
Then I turn and head for the stairs, my boots heavy on the steps. Each one feels slower than the last, like the weight of what we’re doing down here is finally sinking into my bones. It’s not just her bruises I’m leaving behind—but a piece of my soul, too.
I don’t look back, because if I do, I’m not sure I’ll be able to walk away.
Chapter Seventeen