Page 93 of Pucked Around and Found Out

Into power.

Into determination so fierce it burns away the panic.

They didn't break me.

A year in this place, and I'm still standing.

Still fighting.

Still here.

I straighten my spine and lift my chin, feeling the shift happen inside me, from victim to survivor. From prey to predator.

“Let's go,” I say, my voice steady and cold. “I have a brother to confront.”

We move through the halls, and with each step, I reclaim pieces of myself.

Halo walks ahead of us, his movements confident and sure through the halls.

But for him, they're just corridors.

For me, they're scars.

Every turn brings another memory.

The common room where I first fought back against the girls who tried to make me their target.

The bathroom where Em and I learned to patch my own wounds.

The cell—because that's what it was, a fucking cell—where I slept, plotted and survived.

Carnage's hand never leaves my back, steady and grounding, reminding me I'm not alone this time.

Not trapped.

Not helpless.

When we finally reach the room where they're holding Masen—a room I recognize with sick clarity as one of the isolation chambers—Halo pauses with his hand on the door.

He looks back at me, giving me one last chance to change my mind.

I nod once, sharp and decisive.

He opens the door.

And there he is.

Masen Kellar.

My brother.

The murderer.

Restrained in a chair, blood already trickling from his nose where someone clearly hit him. Scott and two others stand guard, their expressions carefully neutral when they see me.

Masen's eyes widen when he sees me, shock and something that might be shame flickering across his face.

“Toren—”