“Lift your hair,” Knox adds.
My hand shakes as I gather my hair and pull it over one shoulder. The exposed skin across my back tightens under the air, every nerve alert and waiting.
“Lift the dress,” he says.
I reach for the fabric of my dress and raise it slowly, fingers clumsy with tension. The material drags up over my hips and ribs. My broken wrist throbs sharply in protest, pain pulsing up my arm, but I don’t stop. Cold air hits my bare skin and prickles along my spine and sides, leaving me fully exposed from shoulder blades to waist.
“Restraints,” he says casually.
Asher grabs a leather strap from a hook near the fireplace, dark, worn, stained in a way that is not heat or decor. He wraps it around my upper arms and hauls them above my head. The pressure rips through my broken wrist and makes my vision jump. Then he kneels and clips my ankles together with a short metal cuff so I can’t brace, can’t twist away, can’t run.
I'm upright, but barely. A single shove would drop me. A single dart would drive into unprotected flesh with nowhere else for the pain to go.
Knox stands behind me, humming quietly, testing the weight of a dart between his fingers like he is appreciating the balance.
Elliot leans against the mantel, arms folded. “Three darts. Consequence of choice.”
Fire heat licks at my front while cold dread crawls down my spine. My heart hammers against my ribs like it wants out.
I close my eyes and try to keep my breathing under control. I do it for the baby. I do it for Seth. I do it for us.
Knox shouts. “Round one.”
The silence before the throw is unbearable, and every sound stretches wide. Firewood pops. Sarah breathes in shallow little pulls. Miles whispers something that sounds like a prayer. My own pulse is pounding so loudly that I nearly miss the motion itself.
A faint whoosh cuts the air. Then the impact lands.
The first dart punches into my lower back with the force of a metal wasp. Skin splits instantly. Tissue tears. Pain flares hot.
A raw and shaking scream rips out of me without permission. The dart sinks deep. The metal trembles with my heartbeat, and blood starts to roll down my side in thick, hot trails.
Knox chuckles under his breath. “That landed nicely.”
I clench my jaw. Breath shakes in and out of me. The restraints dig into my arms every time I try to inhale.
Elliot’s tone is almost bored. “Breathe, Brooke.”
I try. I force air into my lungs and hold it until spots swim behind my eyelids.
In the mirror I see Knox reaching for the next dart. He flicks it once, letting the metal catch the light like he is admiring his own aim.
“Round two.”
He throws harder.
The dart strikes high, just under my shoulder blade. It goes deep enough that I feel the point scrape against bone. The agony hits like a burst of electricity. My knees buckle, but the restraints hold me upright, leaving my muscles to convulse with nowhere to go. A broken sound tears out of my chest, part gasp, part sob. Pain radiates outward, searing, numbing, then searing again. My vision goes dark.
Knox leans close enough that I can feel his breath. “That one is deep,” he murmurs. “Do you feel it when you try to inhale?”
My breath hitches in jagged bursts. Each inhale sends shocks up my spine, and each exhale feels like my body is giving up something it needs.
Sophie clicks her tongue. “She’s probably going to pass out before the last one.”
“No,” Elliot says calmly. “She won’t. She knows better than that.”
Knox steps back and rolls the dart between his fingers. “Final round.”
I clench my hands until my nails bite into my palms. Tears slide down my face without warning, not from fear, but from my body trying to survive the overload.
