“You’re assembling the picture first,” Knox said, tapping the side of his temple. “Then marking what has to be true," he continued pointing to the map.
Another nod.
“Five years,” Silas muttered, straightening. “That’s a long time to collect intel, especially with a mind like yours.”
Knox’s gaze stayed fixed on the map, considering everything in front of him. “And she didn’t just collect it. She organized it. Stored it until there was enough structure to work with.”
“Marco didn’t know about this,” Silas asked. “He didn’t know how your mind works, did he?”
I shook my head.
Knox stilled. “If he had,” he said evenly, “you would havebeen far more valuable to him.” Then he added, “And that wouldnothave been a good thing.”
Silas exhaled through his nose. “Bastard thought you were weak. Thought he could break you. Turns out he was just feeding you information while you bided your time.”
I tightened my grip on the pen and tapped the edge of the map once to redirect their attention.
There wasn't enough intel to find every location, but these seven locations were solid. A starting point. Proof that the image was real, even if the final shape still waited on pieces I hadn’t found yet.
The hair on the back of my neck prickled as the weight of their attention settled on me. When I looked up, Silas and Knox were staring directly at me. But for the first time, there was no pity in their expressions. No careful sympathy reserved for something broken.
They were looking at me as if I were an asset.
Chapter 12: Silas
Lena’s mind was like a filing cabinet. Every detail catalogued, stored clean and vivid, ready to be accessed the second she needed it. The little mute didn’t forget information. She filtered, sorted, and then assembled every detail into more.
On our side, that made her dangerous in a way Marco never could have imagined.
The doc rattled off a list of diagnoses for Lena, most of them so long and clinical they sounded like someone had smashed random syllables together for fun. I couldn’t pronounce half of them, let alone spell them. Apparently, Lena’s mind was special enough to earn an entire collection of labels.
One diagnosis, though, actually stuck with me. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. EvenIknew what that one meant.
Dr. Hampton broke down her other diagnoses for me in simpler terms. The little mute didn’t think in steps. She didn’t guess or test or work her way forward. She saw the whole picture first, even when half the pieces were missing. Once her brain decided the image existed, the outcome became inevitable. Her hands just caught up afterward.
Now that she had decided to help us, I was beginning to understand exactly what that meant. Once we gave Lena access to the Arca database, arrest records, criminal files, financial reports, surveillance footage, and decades of archived case files, something in her mind seemed to unfold.
She referenced the database against intel she had collected during years of captivity, connecting fragments the rest of us would have dismissed as meaningless noise. Patterns locked into place almost immediately, complete pictures forming in her head before we even realized the pieces fit together.
The PTSD part of her diagnosis was easier to wrap my head around.
Years of confinement and isolation had taught her body what to expect. Her silence wasn't a weakness. It was preservation. Every time she stayed quiet, every time she didn’t draw attention to herself, she survived another day. Touch became a warning. Attention became something to fear. Her instincts taught her to keep quiet, because that was the only way she’d made it out alive.
And every time I thought about what that meant,really thought about it,my temper flared hot.
Her scars were proof enough. Especially the ones on her back.The long, jagged lines looked like someone had wanted to ruin her for sport. I could still see it when I closed my eyes, the way they cut through soft skin that should never have been touched that way. Carved with the type of cruelty taken out on something smaller and helpless.
Knox told me about the other one on her left breast. He only caught a glimpse of it when her shirt slid before she pulled it back up, too quickly for me to see. But he said even from the small part he saw, it was bad.Really bad.
It had to be for Knox to lose control like that. Normally, Iwas the one who needed to be reeled in, not him.
The knowledge that Lena had adapted to Marco’s torture filled me with a cold, simmering rage. She had reshaped herself to survive, minimizing her presence and disconnecting from her omega instincts.
But captivity did something else, too.
Five years of listening through doors. Watching shadows pass beneath thresholds and overhearing conversations, with nothing else to focus on, turned her brain inward and allowed her to collect everything. Patterns, routines, routes, names, and places were all stored.
Lena identified seven locations where she believed Marco was holding omegas, all based on the intel she had pieced together. When we brought the information to the general, he immediately authorized surveillance on every site and assigned additional personnel to support the operation.
