What could I possibly say that would convince him that none of this would’ve happened if Marcus McEntire hadn’t been afraid to come to his leader for help when his newborn son was kidnapped by the Commander? That using Ian against his own father has poisoned him from the inside out? That no one man—not James Rowan, not the Commander—should have unlimited power over others, because too much power softens the goodness inside him until it turns to rot?

If I could go back to the moment when I first held the controller in my hands, I would change most of my choices. I would find a way to handle Melkin’s desperation without killing him. I wouldn’t insist that Logan and I try to use the device against the Commander, thereby giving Ian an opportunity to send the Cursed One into Baalboden. I would ask for advice. Listen carefully. And trust that I’m not the only one who knows what has to be done.

But I wouldn’t bring the controller back to Rowansmark. I wouldn’t give the man standing before me the exclusive use of tech that can turn the beasts into weapons. And I’m not going to lie and say that I would.

My voice is low and clear as I say, “I have nothing more to say to you.”

He manages to appear both crestfallen and self-satisfied. Looking beyond me, he says, “Begin her sentence.”

I stare at the pecan trees that rim the garden, focusing on the way the dying sun paints their twisted branches with splashes of orange and gold. Drawing in a deep breath of humid air, I brace myself, but I can’t control the terrible sound I make when the whip slashes across my back, trailing a stream of blistering pain in its wake.

One.

The whip cracks again, a sharp snap of sound that almost drowns out my scream.

Two.

I barely get another breath in before the leather tip eats into my skin again.

Three.

Pain spreads across my back in hot, wet spikes.

Four.

My face grinds against the wooden post as I writhe against the restraints that hold me there.

Five.

I scream, and my throat feels like it’s bleeding. The pain is unrelenting. The whip falls, and another bright stream of agony sears me.

Six.

The whip leaves, and still the pain throbs, burrowing in, sinking toward my bones until I can’t tell where my wounds end and the rest of me begins.

Seven.

I choke on my scream and it becomes a sob. I can’t take this. I can’t. I dig my toes into the dirt and strain against the ropes, but there’s nowhere to go where the whip can’t find me.

Eight.

My body shudders. My teeth chatter, and a low moaning cry keeps trying to strangle me as I struggle for air. I want to beg for mercy. But there’s no mercy here. Not for me. Not for anyone.

Nine.

The pain shoots down my legs and my knees give out. I sag against the post, the rope cutting into my wrists, and stare at the pecan trees through a film of tears. Blood runs warm and wet down my back, over my legs, and drips onto the ground beneath me.

Ten.

I close my eyes and try desperately to ignore the way my back burns like it’s on fire. I can do this. I can. A sob tears through me as I dig my fingernails into the post above me and slowly get back to my feet.

I’m not going to break. Not like this.

Eleven.

I suck in another breath and hold it, pressing my lungs against my chest in a futile effort to stop the bite of the whip from wrenching a scream from my lips. My legs give out again, and I lean against the post, using it for leverage as I slowly push myself upright once more.

Twelve.

This time, I can’t push myself back up. I can’t seem to make my legs obey me. My fingernails dig in, but it’s no use. I dangle from the rope and lay my forehead against the post. Three more. That’s all I have to endure. Three more, and this will be over.

Thirteen.

“Ask for mercy.” Rowan squats in the dirt beside me and brushes my hair out of my eyes. “Show me you’ve learned your lesson, ask me for mercy, and it will be granted.”

My breath sobs in and out of my lungs, and I can’t seem to bring him into focus. I blink hard and try again. He kneels, his head outlined in a fiery nimbus from the setting sun, his dark eyes full of a concern that’s almost fatherly.

I laugh, but it comes out a choked cough instead, and pain shivers down my body as if every inch of me has been flayed.

Who is this man to offer mercy to me when he wouldn’t offer it to Marcus McEntire, who only wanted to rescue his son? When he wouldn’t give it to Ian, the boy with dreams, and instead turned Ian into a cold, cruel shell of himself?

“Rachel, you’ve had enough. Ask for mercy,” Rowan says.

I meet his eyes, lick my lips with a tongue as dry as sandpaper, and say, “You first.”

Scorn mingles with the false disappointment on his face, and he stares into my eyes as he says, “Finish it.”

Fourteen.

I bite back the scream and watch his face. Looking for weakness. For flaws. For the foothold I’ll need to figure out how to destroy him. Just the way Dad taught me. And I promise myself that I’ll survive this. I’ll get out of James Rowan’s dungeon, I’ll turn his city upside down hunting for the tech that threatens Logan, and then I’ll come back for the man who thought he could break others in his pursuit of power without any of them ever striking back.

Fifteen.

My body sags limply against the post, rope biting through my skin, and I moan as tears pour down my face. Samuel cuts me loose and carefully lifts me over his shoulder, my bleeding back open to the air, and then he carries me toward the dungeon, leaving Ian and Rowan behind in the garden.