Page 91 of Dark Night of the Soul

He never held back anymore. Couldn’t afford to. I was too fast, too precise when I let it loose. And I needed him to come at me like he meant it.

Because Vormund and Sebastian would.

They’d made me into a weapon.

I’d learned how to aim myself.

Chapter 29 | Kincade

A week of watching her become something I never wanted her to be.

Every morning, she insisted on stepping into the clearing behind the cabin. Every morning, I’d come at her like I meant it. Because she knew when I held back.

Her determination to destroy Vormund went beyond simple revenge. She had a personal vendetta against him. For herself. For her mother. And she was sharpening herself into the weapon he’d never see coming.

I should have felt conflicted about it. Should have tried harder to talk her out of this path. She’d mastered something that should have been impossible.

When I looked at her, when I saw the way she’d learned to control it, when I knew she was thinking of how she would get her vengeance, I understood.

Two words came to mind.

Divine wrath.

The first few days, the pain had nearly broken her. I’d watched her fight through it with nothing more than sheer determination. Refusing to quit. Refusing to give in to the pain pounding through her head. Each time she resisted the programming, it hurt. Each time, I pushed her harder because that’s what she demanded.

It was necessary. I knew that.

I hated it anyway.

She was faster than me now. Deadly. Dangerous. And she knew it.

They made her into a weapon. She made it hers. And I’d helped her do it.

This morning, she decided to walk with me around the perimeter. She was quiet. Pensive. No doubt deciding how and when she would hand the doctor his death blow. Her hands jammed in the pockets of her cargo pants. The breeze ruffled her hair, the strands fluttering around her face. Her cheek had healed enough to remove the bandages. Now it was nothing more than a faint scar that would never fade.

And they’d done that to her, too.

She’d only ever said the guard who smacked me. That he hit her three times.

Three times. The number had burned itself into my memory. I’d cataloged it alongside every other wound they’d inflicted. She was plotting her vengeance against him, too.

She’d have to get in line.

We walked in companionable silence. That was new. A week ago, every moment together had been carefully measured, conscious of distance and triggers. Now she moved beside me easily, close enough our sleeves brushed.

“What do you expect to find out here?” she asked. “Other than squirrels and birds.”

“The squirrels look suspect. I have to keep an eye on them.”

She laughed. “Since when do you have a sense of humor?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I could’ve taken offense. I didn’t.

“I mean you’re Mr. Stoic,” she said.

“And you wield sarcasm like a shield.”

“Hmm. I do. It’s kind of my thing.”