For a heartbeat, I think he’s going to ignore me. His jaw flexes, eyes locked on her like she’s the key to everything. But then, slowly, he wipes his hands on the rag beside him and nods. No words. Just a stiff, tired nod before he turns and walks up the stairs, slower than usual, like the weight of everything we’re carrying is finally pressing down on him too.
I don’t get too close. I can’t. Not because I’m afraid of her, but because being near her—seeing what’s been done—makes something twist in my chest that I don’t want to name.
I crouch a few feet away, keeping my voice low. Gentle. As gentle as I can be in a place like this.
“We don’t want to hurt you,” I say, and it’s the truth, at least for me. “This… it doesn’t have to go on like this. Just tell us what you know. Help us understand.”
She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just stares, those eyes like black pits, so dark in the shadows I can’t find a hint of light in them. Her face is a mask, unreadable, but her silence is ascream in itself. There’s a pulse of defiance in her stillness, a wall I can’t break through with logic or kindness.
Her hair hangs damp and mats against her face, slick with sweat and blood, clinging to her temples and jaw. She’s breathing through her nose, slow and steady, like she’s focusing on staying grounded, not giving anything away.
Still, I try once more. “Help us or at least help yourself.”
Nothing.
I sigh, pushing back to my feet slowly. The silence stretches between us, heavy and thick. She’s not ready to talk, and that unsettles me more than anything else.
“Fine,” I mutter, the word heavier than it should be.
A breath rushes through my nose, sharp and exhausted, as I glance down at her one last time. “We’re going to give you some reflection time. A day or two. Maybe that’ll be enough for you to realize silence won’t save you.” My voice sounds distant even to me, like I’m reciting something I don’t quite believe in anymore.
She doesn’t react—not a flicker of acceptance, not a twitch of emotion. Just those steady, defiant eyes, locked on the ground like she’s the one waiting for me to crack.
I sigh deeply, disappointment sinking into my bones. “I’m tired of being an asshole,” I say more to myself than her. Because it’s true. I didn’t sign up for this kind of darkness. I didn’t want to become someone who hurts people to find answers. And yet, here I am.
I turn toward the stairs, the weight of the room settling onto my shoulders as I take each step slowly, quietly. I don’t look back. Afraid if I do, I’ll see something I can’t carry—something that makes this feel even more wrong than it already does. Guilt’s clawing its way up my throat, and if I meet her eyes… I’m not sure I’ll survive what’s staring back.
Chapter Eighteen
Berkley
Rowen’s hits aren’t the worst pain I’ve ever felt—but they might be the hardest thing I’ve ever had to endure. Not because of the force behind them—though he’s strong enough to tear me apart without even trying—but because I can tell he’s holding back. And that’s what really cuts.
He could have done actual damage. Broken bones. Dislocated joints. Shattered teeth. Hell, if he wanted to, he could’ve made me beg. But he doesn’t. He chooses restraint—and somehow, that hurts more than anything he’s actually done to me.
Instead, it’s a backhand now and then, the sting sharp but fleeting. No food and only sips of water. It hurts, sure, but some part of me—some twisted, fractured part—welcomes it. Because the pain reminds me, I’m still here. Still alive. Still in control, even if it’s of my own pain.
There’s a strange power in that.
Each strike, each graze of his knuckles across my skin, is measured. Controlled. Almost like he’s punishing himself while pretending to punish me. Maybe that’s why I don’t flinch the way he expects. Why, through the ache and the tension and the pounding of blood in my ears, I watch him from under my lashes.
Not with fear. Not anymore.
With curiosity. With pity.
Because whatever monster people say he is—whatever reputation he’s built down here in this cold, silent hell—he’s breaking, too. Not with fists, but with every second he looks at me and sees something he doesn’t know how to handle.
And maybe that’s the only reason I’m still breathing.
We’ve spent hours down here—days—maybe more. Time stretches and folds in on itself in this basement, blurring at the edges like a fever-dream. There’s no window. No clock. Just the low hum of silence broken by the occasional creak of his boots on the concrete or the metallic clink of the chair when I shift my weight.
I avoid his eyes as if it’s the only power I have left. As long as I don’t meet his gaze—unless my hair falls in just the right way—I can pretend I’m not unraveling. I keep my expression blank, my body still. The only sounds I let slip are the involuntary ones: a grunt when something aches too deep to swallow, a quiet exhale when pain flares sharper than I expect. But I won’t give him more than that.
I’m definitely not in good shape, but most of the bruises and scrapes are souvenirs from the earlier fight—the one with the shooter. The chaos. The impact of a body hitting mine at full force. That damage is honest. Earned. The kind you can wear without shame. What Rowen’s done since dragging me down here? It barely registers in comparison.
Because he’s not going hard on me. Not really.
I can feel his hesitation in every move. The restraint with every slap. His strikes aren’t the kind that leave permanent damage—not physically, anyway. And the longer we’re down here, the more obvious it becomes that this isn’t about interrogation. Not the way it’s supposed to be.