Page 409 of Coal Hearts

I raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“Shoot one. Let’s see how the paintballs work, and then I’ll explain the rest. Hurry now. Snap, snap.”

God’s sake.

Who?

I wasn’t personally acquainted with the pain of being shot with a paintball, but I’d watched enough movies where people were shot to know it didn’t look pleasant. Especially without any shields or thick clothing.

Swinging my gun, I angled the muzzle at Peter.

He flung his arms out, puffing up his chest. “Shoot me, oh Master C!” He snickered. “Oh, sorry. Not C. Not cunt—”

“Hush.” Both Rachel and Ily dove for him, dragging his arms down and tripping with him as he swayed.

Bile filled my mouth as I noticed his hands.

His bleeding, burned hands.

My eyes shot to Victor’s. “You burned him?”

He shrugged. “The lightning storm gave me inspiration. Just a teeny reminder to behave, that’s all.” Throwing a bemused smile at Peter, he laughed. “I think someone is a little high, Peter sweetling. I’ll give you that one slip-up as it was rather amusing, but test me again, and your tongue will be next.”

Peter didn’t blanch or bow or back down.

He merely saluted Victor like a drunken sailor. “Aye, aye, captain.”

Victor just snickered. “That boy. Honestly. I will miss him when he’s reached his use-by date.”

My stomach churned as Ily gave Peter a heartbroken look.

She pushed his thick brown hair aside, brushing it away from his sweaty forehead.

I froze.

I waited for rage. For possessiveness. For jealousy.

But...I finally saw what she’d been telling me all along.

He definitely had feelings for her.

I sensed it in every molecule of my body. But her...? The way she touched him and sniffed back tears at his abuse? The way she watched him, desperately wishing she could protect him, looked exactly like one would protect a...brother.

Shit.

My mind suddenly filled with a very different scene.

Children all tucked up in bed, some crying in the dark, others huddling together under blankets. Outside the barred window, the haunting hoots of owls terrified us along with the screams of our mothers.

The door slammed open.

A man marched in.

Drunk and slurring, French and rotten.

He tossed a woman into the middle of our bedroom and spat on the floor. “You have an hour with your spawn.”

The kid closest to me—a little girl who I did my best to keep smiling—flung herself into the woman’s arms and—