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A sudden pang of envy twists inside me as I try to imagine growing up in the Sons of Gods instead of under Control’s tyrannical rule. Would I be a different person? Would I have been encouraged to explore my artistic talents rather than simply have them barely tolerated? Would I have been allowed to go to art school?
“Rebellion?” Amira’s voice breaks through my thoughts, her expression concerned. “Are you okay?”
“Y-yeah,” I stammer, forcing a smile. “Just daydreaming. Thanks for sharing that with me.”
“Of course,” she replies, squeezing my arm reassuringly. “And hey, you’re a part of our family now, too, whether you like it or not!”
Tears spring to my eyes, and I blink them away.
Amira’s kind enough to pretend not to notice. “Now, come on, let’s find you some amazing brushes to go with those pastels.”
As we continue shopping, I continue to wonder how different life might have been if Control hadn’t been my father. But I push the thought aside, focusing instead on the present moment—the laughter and camaraderie I share with Amira as we fill our cart with art supplies, creating a new sense of belonging like nothing I have ever known before.
“All right, I think we have everything you might need, at least for now,” Amira announces as we push the cart to the checkout counter. “Oh! Wait! We forgot canvas.”
“Oops!” I laugh, feeling lighter than I have in a long time. “I’ll go grab some. Meet you back here?”
“Sounds good!” she agrees, unloading our haul onto the conveyor belt.
As I turn down an aisle filled with blank canvases of all sizes, my head buzzes with potential ideas for new paintings. The prospect of creating something just for me, without Control’s looming presence, is both thrilling and terrifying.
I pull my phone out of my purse to see if Dion’s texted recently. He hasn’t, but re-reading his last text still makes me smile.
“Rebellion?” a voice hisses behind me, making me jump. I spin around to find Rager glaring at me from beneath his greasy black hair.
“Rager . . . what are you doing here?” I stammer, taking an involuntary step back.
“Control sends his regards,” he sneers, lunging forward and grabbing my arm. With his other hand, he snatches my phone out of my hand and tucks it into his own pocket.
“Let go of me!” I hiss, attempting to wrench myself out of his grasp. But Rager is too strong, and he easily overpowers me, dragging me out of the store while I struggle fruitlessly.
“Someone help!” I try to scream, but my voice has gone hoarse with fear. Despair and fear grip me as I realize that no one is coming to save me.
When we reach a nondescript van parked outside, Rager shoves me into the back and slams the door shut. The interior is dark and cramped, reeking of stale sweat and gasoline. Instantly, I scramble at the door, but the inside handles have been removed.
Panic threatens to overwhelm me as I realize I am completely cut off from the world.
Before I can reach the front of the van, Rager is sliding into the driver’s side, and I cringe away from him.
“Where are you taking me?” I demand, fighting to keep my voice steady.
“Somewhere you’ll never escape,” Rager taunts as he glances at me in the rearview mirror, his eyes gleaming with malice. “Get comfortable because we have a little drive ahead of us.”
I slump down, curling my knees up against my chest and dropping my head down, fighting the tears that will betray my misery to the man who has become my greatest enemy.
After what feels like hours of jarring turns and harrowing speeds, but in reality, it is probably less than thirty minutes, the van finally comes to a stop. Rager hauls me out, and I find myself standing in front of an abandoned warehouse that looks like it hasn’t been used in years. The stench of mold and decay assaults my nostrils, and I fight back bile as I realize this is likely the Burning Heretics’ Birmingham hideout.
“Welcome to your new home,” Rager sneers, pushing me roughly through the door. I stumble inside, trying to take in my surroundings. It is clear that the warehouse is being used as a staging area for the Burning Heretics’ upcoming attack on the Sons of Gods. Maps are scattered across makeshift tables, and weapons are piled haphazardly in one corner.
“Please,” I whisper, tears streaming down my face. “Don’t do this.”
“Save your breath,” Rager says, his voice cold. “You’re all alone now.”
My heartbeat pounds in my ears as he slams the warehouse door shut, plunging us into dim, musty darkness. He walks over to a folding table just inside the door, the sound of my phone clattering onto its surface making me wince. I know that with each passing second, my chances of being found grow slimmer.
“Please,” I whisper again, trying desperately to reason with him. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Shut up!” he snarls, grabbing my good arm and yanking me closer to him. The cold metal of a handcuff snaps around my wrist, and before I can react, he chains me to a metal loop cemented into the floor. My heart sinks as he locks the chain in place with a padlock, the key disappearing into his pocket.
