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“Wyatt.”

My gaze snaps to her cold one. Her eyes aren’t wide. They’re controlled. She’s not scared.

I pull in a breath, not sure what’s happening to me. Why the hell am I losing control? It’s never been this bad. I need to get back under control. I need pain.

Then Oakley zip-ties my arms to the chair. When the plastic tightens on my skin, I lean into the feeling, the pain grounding me with its sting. I pull as hard as I can, the sensation causing a tiny thread of control to cling to. I need to get control again so I can feel more like myself. So I can get rid of this weakness that covers my brain like a fog.

Disgust rolls over me. Weakness is why Weston comes after me. He could always sense it. Wanted to eliminate it from our bloodline. Weakness is why he’s winning. Why he’ll always win.

Then, Holland pulls a chair up in front of me. “Let’s talk about your brother.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

Day 9

Wyatt’s chest is rising and falling rapidly, and his eyes are shifting all over the place. He’s more panicked than I’ve seen him, fear almost overtaking the Wyatt I’ve come to recognize. The Wyatt who bares his teeth like a wolf defending its territory. But this version of Wyatt is turning into something a lot less predatory and more…terrified.

It was almost muscle memory that shifted me into therapist mode, where I turned off my own emotions so he could regulate by mirroring me.

But when I saw him hurting Oakley, I wanted to murder him. Pull the trigger and get him the fuck off the person who has stuck by my side despite everything. Pull the trigger and get revenge for the hell this island has put me through. Pull the trigger in Seven’s name.

But then Wyatt listened to me. He sat in the damn chair and let us tie him up. And I’m at a loss for words as to why.

I can’t kill him. If I kill his body, I kill Kyan with him, and we’ll have no chance of getting off the island.

The gun sits heavy in my hands, and I struggle to keep my own emotions regulated. I got so used to it in session, sitting across from a client, but now? I feel like trying to find those skills is like swimming through syrup—it’s slow, and all I want to do is get sucked down by the hatred that’s swirling inside me.

Like a robot, I stand across from Wyatt and ask him about his brother. It’s risky, but what isn’t risky right now?

Wyatt stares at me, a hint of something in his gaze.

“Twenty-Seven killed my only friend here. Elijah.” I take a deep breath, feeling all those dangerous emotions creep back in. For a second, I acknowledge them. The pain. The horror. My past. I let out a breath. “And he tried to kill me. Would have if Oakley wasn’t there.”

Oakley is still standing by the couch, still freaked out. I shoot up a silent prayer for him to hold it together.

Wyatt glances at Oakley, and I see him twist his wrist in his ties. He just twists up and holds, but not hard enough to actually break them.

Still, I wish Oakley had double-tied him.

“Why is he here on the island?” Wyatt asks, his voice gritty.

“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “I don’t know anything about him, except that he’s a murdering asshole.”

Wyatt doesn’t look at me. He’s still watching Oakley. As he watches, Wyatt’s breathing picks up. The pulse in his neck starts jackhammering, and sweat glistens along his forehead.

“Oakley,” I murmur. “Keep it together.”

“He…tried to kill me,” Oakley hisses back. “I can’t breathe.”

I hear he’s breathing without strain, but his breaths are fast and panicked. I bite back a response and focus on regulating my own breathing. Oakley isn’t fucking helping.

Wyatt jerks his wrists up, now digging his skin into the ties. The panic is like a virus, spreading through the air from person to person. I feel it edging in around the edges of my lungs, making me feel tight.

No. I straighten. I didn’t live this long to get taken out by a mental game that I spent a career learning to play. A calm sort of focus falls over me, a mix of experience from my past and an all-new determination.

I will win this game.

“Oakley, sit.” The command comes out soft, but full of power. He glances at me, and I motion at the couch. For a moment, he narrows his eyes.