Page 23 of Glutton for Punishment

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Rough, cold cement bites into my cheek.

“Arwen… Arwen, wake up.”

The familiar voice reaches me from far away, warped and echoing.

“Arwen, can you hear me?” Panic sharpens the sound. “Open your eyes. Please.”

I try to move and regret it. Pain flares everywhere at once—my head throbbing, my limbs heavy, my body pinned to the floor. Burns ache all over my body.

“Arwen… please.” The voice cracks.

Something in my chest tightens at that desperation, a thread pulling me back. I force my eyes open again, blinking hard, fighting through the haze. Shapes sharpen until I see Atticus.

He’s pressed against the bars so hard it looks like he’s trying to force his way through solid metal. His face tight with strain and a look of fear I’ve never seen on him before.

Why am I on the floor?

I dig my palms into the concrete and push. My arms shake as I roll onto my side, then onto my back. Every muscle protests.

“Atticus?” I try to say but it comes out wrong. Thick and slurred.

His entire body sags as he leans back against the bars, dragging in a breath.

“Thank the universe,” he exhales. His chest is still rising and falling like he ran a marathon.

“You scared the shit out of me. They didn’t tell me anything when they threw you into the cell.”

I manage to prop myself up on my elbows as the world tilts.

“You’ve been out of it for a full day,” he says, words tumbling over each other. “They took you and then you didn’t come back. I didn’t know where you were, what they were doing. Then—” His voice breaks, raw.

He clears his throat and pauses before continuing.

“Then I felt it. Your pain. Your fear. It slammed into me like a blade, and it didn’t stop. I thought they were killing you.”

The memory flickers, becoming clear.

“They dragged you back here,” he continues, jaw tight. “Injected you with something. I didn’t know if you were—” He swallows hard. “I thought I was watching you die.”

His eyes search my face desperately, like he needs proof that I’m going to live.

“I saw you breathing,” he finishes. “That’s the only reason I didn’t lose my mind.”

“Atticus,” I murmur, the word heavy on my tongue. “It’s okay. I’m here.”

It’s a lie. Nothing is okay. But I need him to breathe. Both of us falling apart will solve nothing.

“I’m here,” I repeat, softer this time, forcing the words through the fog. “You know what I can handle. You know they didn’t break me.”

“Can you move?” he asks softly, like he’s afraid the question alone might hurt me.

I test my arms first. They tremble, pins and needles sparking as feeling seeps back in. My legs follow—slow, clumsy, but obedient.

“I think so,” I murmur.

He hesitates. I see it in the way his jaw tightens, the way his eyes flick away and back again.