I knew what happened next.
The door opened and in stepped father.
Gideon.
He was a tall and imposing man. He always had been. His shoulders were broad and strong. His golden hair perfectly styled and his eyes were cold as ice.
In his hand he held a needle.
“Persephone.” He ordered.
I opened my eyes and sat up.
He advanced on me quietly.
“Do we have to do this again?” I asked, trying to hide the shake in my voice.
“Are you arguing with me, Persephone?” he inquired calmly.
I swallowed. “No sir.”
“Then present your arm.”
Up my arm, hundreds of small pricks over the years had left a series of bumpy scars.
My hands trembled as I pushed back the sleeve.
The scars looked worse under the lamplight—tiny, pale knotsof skin tracing up the inside of my arm like a map of everything I’d survived.
He pressed the needle against the newest spot. Cold liquid slid under my skin.
The burn hit a second later.
I bit my lip until I tasted blood.
“Good girl,” he murmured. “You know this is for your own protection.”
Protection.
That’s what they always called it.
The injections. The locks. The rules.
Behind him, Mother smiled faintly, her hands folded like she was witnessing something holy.
Sable lingered in the doorway, her face pale, her perfect mouth tight.
I wanted to scream. To ask why they couldn’t see what they were doing to me.
But I just sat there, obedient and silent, like I always did.
When they finally left, the door locked with a quiet click.
I pulled my knees to my chest and looked at the window bars.
Kieran’s light was still on. He was sitting by the glass again, waiting.
He lifted his hand.
