Page 48 of Avidian
“Orin took me to a place not much different than those cages under the stables,” I say. “He stripped me of my clothes, my food, my water—my dignity. He shoved me into a cage in the dark. I lost track of time. He didn’t touch me, not then. He taunted me, broke me down piece by piece. He reminded me how I ‘killed’ my family and my best friend, made me believe it was all my fault. He convinced me I was nothing, that I should be honored to serve someone like his father. He actually made me feel guilty for embarrassing Marco by escaping.”
I let out a hollow laugh. “I don’t know how long he kept me down there. Without daylight or meals to keep track, everything blurred together.” I turn slightly, gazing out the passenger window, not wanting to meet Malachi’s eyes for this next part. “On the last day, Orin finally pulled me out of that cell. He forced me to shower in front of him then took me to his bedroom where Marco was waiting. I thought maybe it was over, that Marco would forgive me. But he didn’t say a word. He watched, emotionless, as Orin shoved me onto my knees before him.”
I take a slow, steadying breath, tracing a foggy trail on the window with my finger. “I can still hear Orin’s voice. ‘Hold still now. Don’t want this to get messy.’ He pulled a rod from the fireplace—only it wasn’t a rod; it was a brand. A shield with a wolf on it.”
“The Volkov family crest,” Malachi whispers.
“‘Now everyone will know you belong to us. Try running again, and I’ll make sure the next mark is somewhere a lot more visible,’ Orin said. He left me there, crying on the floor. But Marco held me while I cried, told me it hurt him as much as ithurt me. He said I brought it upon myself but that no one would ever touch me again as long as I obeyed him. He kept me in his bed, healed my wound, fed me until I started to look like myself again. And I buried that day deep inside.”
A single tear escapes down my cheek, but I quickly wipe it away before Malachi can see. I grab my sweater and pull it off over my head.
“What are you doing? You don’t have to—” Malachi hesitates mid sentence as I grip the hem of my shirt and lift it, exposing my back to him.
“I buried that night, but he gave me this so I could never forget,” I say quietly.
His fingers brush over the scar at the top of my back right in the center, tracing its jagged outline with a gentleness that contradicts the rage I see building in him. My skin prickles under his touch, the memory of how I got that mark still so vivid now when I let myself remember.
“He fucking branded me,” I say, struggling to hold my composure. “How could you not trust me?” I glance over my shoulder at him, and his face is an open book. Anger, guilt, regret—and something else, deeper, darker, that he’s holding back.
A tear slips down my cheek before I can stop it, hot and unwelcome. I lift my hand to swipe it away, but Malachi beats me to it. He pulls me into him, his arms strong and unyielding as they wrap around me, holding me against his chest like he’s trying to shield me from the weight of my own pain.
And I break.
The tears come, unchecked and relentless. I sob quietly into his chest, his warmth and steady presence holding me in a way I hadn’t known I needed. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t try to offer platitudes or empty words. Instead, his hand moves slowly through my hair, smoothing it in soft strokes, while his otherhand tugs my sweater back down, covering the scar like he wants to hide the evidence of what’s been done to me.
Minutes pass—maybe more. The truck is quiet except for my uneven breaths and the occasional sniffle. His embrace doesn’t falter, his strength a silent reassurance that he’s here, that I’m safe. And for a fleeting moment, I let myself believe it. I let myself exist in this fragile, fleeting bubble of comfort.
But then the weight of reality creeps back in. I can’t stay like this. I can’t let myself fall apart in front of him. I push gently against his chest, forcing some distance between us, and he lets me go without protest.
I swipe at my damp cheeks, trying to erase the evidence of my breakdown, and straighten my sweater. “I’m fine,” I murmur, my throat tight and voice raspy.
Malachi watches me carefully, his eyes still stormy.
“At least he put it somewhere I can’t see it every day, and my hair usually covers it when my clothes can’t,” I whisper. “So you see, I have plenty of reason to hate Marco. I, more than anyone, have reason to want him dead.” I press my lips into a thin line, holding his gaze.
Malachi remains silent, his eyes searching mine. “Kat... I didn’t know,” he finally says, strained.
“Now you do,” I reply softly, the weight of my confession settling between us.
Malachi sits frozen, his hands gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turn white. He doesn’t say anything for what feels like an eternity, his eyes locked on some distant point outside the windshield.
“You didn’t have to show me, Kat. I believed you.”
I cross my arms over my chest, leaning back into the seat, and stare out the windshield. “Maybe I needed you to see it,” I say. “Now I don’t want to talk about this anymore. The point is,you can trust me. I’m not hiding some twisted affection for your father. I did what I had to do to survive. That’s it.”
I glance at him briefly. My fingers dig into my arms as the weight of everything I’ve said presses down on me. “Now take me to your home or to a hotel—whatever you want—but don’t bring this up again.”
The only sound is the low hum of the engine idling. I keep my eyes fixed on the hanger shelves, wishing I could get out and pace. I feel too exposed, too vulnerable. I need to move, to be anywhere but stuck in this moment.
“I’m taking you home,” Malachi finally says, shifting the truck into gear.
Chapter Fifteen
RULE 15 OF THE NEW ORDER: TO REVEAL YOUR PAIN IS TO SHOW YOUR POWER—BUT ONLY DO SO TO THOSE WHO HAVE EARNED THE RIGHT TO SEE IT.
The landscapehere is starkly different, as it is in every district, I assume. The terrain stretches out in endless, desolate plains—a sea of white broken only by the occasional jagged tree. Snow blankets everything in a thick, unbroken layer, concealing what I imagine were once sprawling farmlands. The horizon blurs where the Earth meets the sky, both the same cold, unyielding shade of gray. Low-hanging clouds hover ominously, so dense and dark it feels like I could reach up and brush my fingers against them.
“This is home,” Malachi says as we turn through an open wooden gate.
