Page 102 of Rescuing Ember

“You’ll help identify the promising ones. The fighters, the survivors. Like calls to like, after all.”

Behind him, the girl watches, her wide eyes a reflection of my own fear. Her lips part, but no sound escapes—just a silent plea, a message that settles in my chest like a stone.

Hold on. Stay strong. Survive.

“The ones with grit are special,” Wolfe continues, his voice almost coaxing, as if explaining something sacred. “Like you, Ember. They’re the ones worthy of training, worthy of becoming something greater.” He pauses, his smile widening, teeth white and predatory. “Something special.”

My stomach twists, my voice barely a whisper. “Training for what?”

His smile doesn’t falter, but there’s something cold and final in his gaze. “To be the perfect companions for my wealthy clients.” He tilts his head, studying my reaction with a casualness that makes my blood boil. “Those who lack grit—those already broken—will be sold as chattel. There’s no place for weakness.”

The room tilts and bile rises in my throat. The words slam into me, each one a new horror. Companions. Chattel. My disgust wells up, almost blinding me, and fear knots itself into every inch of my body, a cold, merciless grip.

“You’re a monster,” I manage, my voice cracking, raw with the revulsion that surges through me.

He laughs, a low, condescending sound that echoes in the emptiness of the room. He leans in, his breath brushing against my ear, his whisper almost intimate.

“I may be a monster, my love, but you’re the real Frankenstein. After all, it’s you who will create them—under my guidance, of course. You are my companion, my love.”

The words twist into something more, a chilling promise of what he wants me to become, and I realize with a jolt that “my little flame” was never the endgame. He wants all of me—control, obedience, and something that churns my stomach in a way that feels almost like possession.

My gaze flicks back to the girl. Her wide, frightened eyes cling to me, her small frame trembling as Wolfe continues to speak, oblivious or indifferent to her terror.

The weight of what he’s saying settles in—a fate sealed for her, no spark, no fight. She’ll be sold.

But the boys …

I force myself to ask, my voice tight, barely masking the dread.

“And the boys? What do you intend for them?”

Wolfe’s eyes glint, and he smiles, almost as if pleased with my question. “The strong ones will be groomed to be my foot soldiers—my loyal, obedient enforcers.” He pauses, letting the words hang, the intent behind them chilling. “The weaker ones… Well, they have their uses as well.” He shrugs, the casualness of the gesture slicing through me, and I feel a fresh wave of nausea hit.

I clench my jaw, shaking my head, the words spilling from me before I can stop them. “You expect too much from me. I can’t?—”

“Ah, but you will, my love,” Wolfe interrupts smoothly, his voice slipping back into that false, twisted tenderness. He raises a hand, cupping my cheek, his thumb grazing my skin. “Yousee, you have no choice. You’re special, Ember. You’ll make them, mold them, just as I will mold you. Together, we’ll create something remarkable.”

My heart pounds, the revulsion so strong it threatens to overwhelm me, but I force myself to keep my expression even, my eyes locking onto his.

“Of course.” I lean into his touch, feeling bile rise in my throat, but I shove it down, playing my role. “I understand what you’re building now.”

“Do you?” His smile stretches wider, manic energy rolling off him in waves. “Tell me.”

“An army.” The word tastes like poison. “Not just trafficking victims. You’re creating weapons. Soldiers forged in pain, loyal only to you.”

“Yes.” His hands frame my face, grip bruising. “You see it. You understand and proved my theory. The best weapons are the ones who fight the hardest to survive.”

Madness dances in his eyes, decades of obsession crystallizing into this moment. He pulls me closer until his cologne fills my lungs, suffocating me.

“You’ll be my masterpiece.” His thumbs stroke my cheeks, a parody of tenderness. “My perfect weapon, teaching others to embrace their darkness. And when you’re ready…” He gestures to the rows of cells. “All of this will be yours to command.”

A sob echoes from one of the cells. Wolfe’s head snaps toward the sound, nostrils flaring. “Silence!”

The word bounces off concrete walls. Several girls flinch. The one we stood before doesn’t—her eyes stay locked on mine, searching for something.

Hope? Strength?

A sign that I’m not a monster too?

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