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He straightens, brushing off his pants like he’s finished a sermon.

My father won’t look at me. He never does, not when Kerr is in the room, not when I need him most.

The silence between them is louder than the slap of the strap or the crack in my voice. They speak of me like I’m a lesson. A burden. A vessel to be carved and filled.

When Kerr turns to leave, I’m left with the echo of his touch and the sharp, sour taste of lipstick still staining my lips. My father steps forward. His hands are rough, trembling, pretending to be decisive.

I don’t cry, not when he binds me tighter, not when he lowers his trousers, not when he grabs the nape of my neck.

I stopped crying a long time ago.

But something else is forming behind my eyes.

It’s not a tear.

It’s a fire.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-ONE

The shed is colder than it was yesterday, the damp air clinging to my skin like a second layer. Each breath mists in front of me, dissipating slowly in the stillness. The space heater does little to warm the room, its feeble efforts swallowed by the chill. The pigs grunt restlessly, their snouts pressed against the wooden fencing, the scent of yesterday’s blood still lingering in the air.

Kerr dangles from the gambrel, his weight pulling mercilessly on the metal hooks. His head hangs forward, sweat-damp hair clinging to his brow, and his wrists are stretched taut above him, the skin raw where the restraints bite into flesh. The shackles around his ankles sway faintly with each labored, shallow breath, their metallic clink barely audible beneath the rising growls of the pigs outside.

A dark stain spreads down the front of his pants, the sharp, acrid smell of urine filling the shed. The humiliation is etched across his slack face, even in unconsciousness.

A quiet surrender that seeps into the room.

I step closer, the worn floorboards groaning under my boots. “You’re still alive,” I mutter, tilting my head as I examine him. His body twitches faintly, a sluggish attempt at acknowledgment.

Reaching for the chains, I begin lowering him, the gambrel creaking under the shift of weight. His feet scrape against the floor as he lands ungracefully, his legs folding beneath him. I grab him by the shoulders, his body as limp as a doll. He groans, his head swaying loosely, but I ignore the sound.

“Get up,” I snap, hoisting him further until he staggers to his feet, his arms hanging uselessly at his sides. His shackles clink faintly with every shuffle as I drag him toward the wooden chair in the corner of the shed. The pigs’ restless snorting grows louder behind us, their hunger palpable, pressing against the edges of the room.

Kerr’s head rolls back, his eyelids fluttering, but I grab his chin, forcing him to look at me. “Stay with me, Nathan,” I say sharply. “You don’t get to fade out on me yet. That would be too easy.”

I loop the chains under the seat and pull them taut, securing him completely. The clinking metal echoes in the shed, sharp and final, like a prison door slamming shut. “Let’s see how long you hold up today,” I say, my tone almost conversational as I take a step back, letting his sagging frame fill my vision. The pigs let out another low grunt, and I let the sound hang between us like a promise. I pull the sodden rag from his mouth and toss it to the floor.

“This place stinks,” Kerr mutters, his voice thick with the remnants of the drug. “What the hell is this, Lydia?”

My fingers tighten on his shoulder. The question grates on me, its familiarity coiling in my chest like barbed wire. It’s the same tone he used back then, when he would sneer and order me to my knees, asking what kind of girl I wanted to be for “the Lord’s flock.”

“Oh, my apologies, I’m not that much of a housecleaner,” I say quietly, pushing him forward. “But if you really want to know what that smell is, it’s blood. Soil. Wood. Your piss, but mostly blood. I bet if you take a deep breath, you’ll be able to still smell Dennis’s stench.”

“Fuck,” he groans. “Lydia, I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but you don’t have to do this. You’re confused. Hurt. The devil’s got his claws in you, but I can…”

I laugh, cutting him off. “The devil?” I echo, circling him slowly. “No, Kerr. The devil didn’t do this. You did.” I grab the metal cart and pull it over to him.

His lips part when he sees the metal tools in front of him, but no words come out. I reach for the first blade, a small, precise scalpel, and hold it up, letting the light catch the edge.

“You used to tell me it was God’s will,” I say, my tone conversational. I grab the front of his flannel and pull it apart, the buttons giving way and hitting the dirty floor. “All those nights, all those lessons. You’d hold me down and whisper about sacrifice and obedience. About purity. You made me believe it was supposed to hurt.”

His face pales, his eyes darting to the door again. “I was teaching you—”

“No,” I snap, the word cutting through the air like the blade in my hand. “You were breaking me. And I let you. I let all of you because I didn’t know any better. I was a child. I thought that was my purpose. To serve. To endure.” I crouch in front of him, the scalpel gleaming between us. “Do you know what it’s like, Kerr? To believe your body doesn’t belong to you. To think that every touch, every thrust, every bruise is part of some divine plan?” My voice trembles, the fury rising with each word. He’s affecting me, still, after all these years and all it does is fuel the fire deep within.

He shifts, his mouth opening to speak, but I press the scalpel to his thigh, just enough for a crimson puddle to bloom against the fabric of his faded jeans. “You taught me that. You and my father and all those men.” The next slice is shallow, a whisper of pain across his bicep. He flinches, his breath hitching, but I barely notice. My mind is too loud, memories crashing over me like a tidal wave.