Page 80 of Fire

His back hadn’t been touched in over sixteen years.

He closed his eyes as goose bumps sprang to his arms, and he swallowed thickly, choking back unexpected emotion.

“Why?” Her voice was thick, her throat sounding as choked as his felt, but he didn’t have the courage to face her—see whether she shed the tears he refused to let fall.

“You hear about cults on the news.” He chuckled humorlessly, too many feelings vying for supremacy, making his head confused. “But I bet you never thought you’d meet a survivor of one.”

“A cult?”

He knew she wasn’t asking for clarification, was only processing his confession so remained silent.

“Does it hurt?”

Her touch was so feather-light he barely felt it. “Only the thought of you seeing it.”

“Why a pentagram?” Her finger continued to trace the pattern branded and then left to fester, ensuring high raised scars on the entire expanse of his back from just under his shoulder blades to the small of his back.

“A pentacle.”

“Pentacle? What’s the difference?”

“The circle surrounding it. In Pagan beliefs, each section of the pentagram represents earth, water, air, spirit, and the divine. When enclosed in a circle, all five elements are united, bringing the bearer protection, harmony of mind, and power over the elements. Most believers are satisfied wearing a talisman of the symbol as either a necklace or ring.” He couldn’t keep the bitterness from his tone when he added, “Dear ol’ dad thought it more effective this way.”

“Your father did this?”

Reluctantly, he pulled away from her touch as pseudo pain ignited nerves long dead.

He was pulled back into that room,so suffocatingly hot, it was hard to breathe. A raised fire pit filled with white-hot coals sat at its center and in the center of that was the iron that would brand him.

Make him a man.

Sweat from the heat—from his fear—covered his body, dripping from his pores. More fell down his brow, burning his eyes, but he couldn’t wipe it away. His fear immobilized all but the uncontrollable shaking he couldn’t suppress.

His father stood at his back, ten others at his front, watching. Waiting to witness hot iron meeting raw flesh. Chanting filled his ears—echoed through his head. Nonsense words that held no meaning for him. His father entered his periphery, grabbing the branding iron handle with both hands to heft its weight.

Blake gritted his teeth and his hands formed tight fists in preparation for the coming pain. But he never could’ve prepared for the blinding agony that hit him.

“Stay upright boy!” his father’s booming voice shouted, and he automatically locked his knees, keeping himself standing by some miracle.

His breaths came faster, making him lightheaded, but he kept his eyes open, trained on the men in front of him until the branding iron caught his attention as it was placed back into the coals. He stared at it, unbelieving it wasn’t still searing his back as the pain grew worse, not better. Darkness encroached on his vision, and he blinked it away, refusing to pass out. Nausea churned his stomach, but he swallowed down the saliva pooling his mouth, not wanting to be sick in front of the men.

Because he was one of them now.

And that was even more repulsive than what he’d just endured.

“Are you okay?”

Gwen’s voice called him back to the present. Nausea churned in his gut and sweat dotted his brow from the horrors he refused to let himself think about often. Wiping his forehead, he bent and nabbed his shirt from the floor, slipping it on but not bothering to button it. “Yeah.” His voice sounded scratchy, and his throat was parched, as if he were still in that room, breathing in the hot, foul air.

He walked the expanse of the bedroom to the sunken living area, feeling Gwen’s presence keeping time with his steps. Honestly, he was surprised she wasn’t running in the opposite direction.

Going to the mini bar, he opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of water, uncapping it and pouring some into a glass tumbler. Raising the glass to his lips, he tossed back its contents, closing his eyes as the icy water washed away the burning in his throat. “Times like this, I wish I drank.”

“Why don’t you?”

He looked over at her. She’d stopped in the middle of the room, but he didn’t know if it was because she didn’t want to come closer or if she feared he didn’t want her closer. “Because ofhim.”

“Your father?”

---