Page 24 of Barinov

Focus.

I try to move my left arm.

Big, fat, fucking mistake. White-hot agony rips through me again and I choke back a shriek. My body curls in on instinct, sending my forearm screaming in protest—muscles locking, skin stretched tight and angry.

I freeze.

“You’re alive. Just breathe,” I whisper.

I take a deep inhale and hold it. Trying my best to let the pain crest and recede like a dark wave against the beach. It works, just not enough.

Zeke is alive. After all this time, my brother is alive. Zeke is out there breathing, walking, talking, and fucking branding me.

How could he do this to me?

I squeeze my eyes shut. It’s been over two years. Two years trapped with a psycho like Luca is bound to break anyone.

Or is it a psycho like Uncle Jack?

My thoughts send my mind barreling sideways in all directions. The poems. The watching. The way he always knew too much. The things he said to me. About me.

What he did to Daddy.

What he did to Roman—Dad.

Shit. Is he even alive? How long can someone live with a gaping bullet hole in their chest anyway? The image of Dad’s bleeding body stumbling back into his desk flashes behind my eyes. I can still hear him breathing my name right before everything went black, his steel-gray eyes blown wide and terrified.

My hands shake as they wander down my body. Over the silky, black fabric that’s barely covering my skin.

When the fuck did I put this gown on?

“Ugh, one thing at a time.” My voice cracks against the silence.

I try the chain again, same result. Though I shouldn’t be surprised. I’ve probably kicked at this stupid thing a hundred times already, but it never budges.

A silver cuff around my ankle bites into raw skin as I stand. The metal scrapes against the floor like nails on a chalkboard. I take a couple of slow and careful steps, tracking how far I can get. I only manage to make it a few feet before the chain yanks me backward. I stumble onto the hardwood, catching myself on my forearms. Another round of burning rips through me.

“Ahh!” I hiss, curling in on myself. My vision blurs as I try to breathe through it once more.

After a minute, I push myself upright and shuffle back to the bed, chain clinking with every step. I don’t bother peeling back the covers. I just collapse on top of them.

I close my eyes and focus on the sound of my own breath.

In.

Out.

In.

I exhale and drag my left hand through my hair, forgetting about the brand for all of a second before the pain detonates again.

“Fuck,” I cry, snapping my head back into the pillow.

I force my eyes to open fully, drifting my gaze around the room. The ceiling is familiar. It’s my room. The same carved headboard and same bedding. The same mural of Razorback Stadium. Every brutal detail painted perfectly. The lights, the crowd, and the field are exactly like the one Zeke had painted for me back in New York.

“Get it together,” I mutter to myself. “It’s not your fucking room.”

I stare at the wall, my pulse pounding in my forearm. “For one, you’re room had a damn wind—”