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The monster realizes he is surrounded by apex predators.

“Sloane,” Raymond gasps. The shock scrambles his brain. He defaults to the arrogance that kept him safe for decades. “Sloane, what are you doing? Tell them to untie me. Right now. You don’t understand the mistake you’re making. I have money. I have lawyers. I can⁠—”

Sloane uncrosses her arms. Then she brings her hand back and swings it forward with blistering speed.

Crack.

The slap lands directly against his cheek like a gunshot. The blow snaps Raymond’s head violently to the side, and a bright red handprint instantly blooms across his pale skin.

It’s utterly demeaning.

I love it.

Raymond slowly turns his head back. He glares at her, his flat eyes sparking with absolute, indignant outrage. He actually attempts to assert dominance from a zip-tied chair.

“You insolent little bitch,” he snarls, the mask slipping.

Sloane laughs, not afraid of him at all.

“You don’t give orders anymore, Raymond,” she tells her stepfather. She leans forward, her face hovering inches from his. “These men have some questions for you regarding an organization called the Sanctum of Ash. Answer them. Because when they finish…” She tilts her head, a vicious smile curving her lips. “You and I are going to spend some quality time together.”

Raymond blinks. The outrage fractures, replaced by stark confusion.

“How do you know that name?” he breathes, his eyes darting frantically between the men in the room.

Silas steps out of the shadows. The illusionist’s blue eyes are terrifyingly blank.

“Purity through pain,” Silas recites, his voice dropping into a chilling, rhythmic cadence.

“Confession is mercy,” Jonah rumbles from the corner, his deep bass vibrating in the bare room.

“Resistance is punishment,” Logan adds, snapping his lighter shut with a sharp clack.

Raymond’s jaw drops. His chest heaves. The whites of his eyes show. He looks at the scarred hands, the violent postures, the coordinated assault. He realizes exactly who dragged him out of his car.

The children who survived.

“No,” Raymond whimpers. He thrashes against the zip ties, genuine panic hijacking his nervous system. “No, you all died in the old compounds.”

“Missed a few of us,” I declare.

I pick up a slender, carbon-steel skinning knife from the table. I spin the blade expertly over my knuckles and walk toward the center of the room.

Sloane takes a step back, surrendering the prime spot. She watches me, her chest rising and falling in a rapid rhythm.

I stop directly in front of the chair, lean down, and grab Raymond’s left hand where it’s tied to the wooden armrest. I press my thumb firmly against his index finger, isolating the digit.

“Listen to me very carefully, Ray,” I murmur, keeping my tone light, almost conversational. I wedge the razor-sharp tip of the skinning knife directly under the bed of his fingernail. “I have a list of names. I have a map. I need you to fill in the blanks. Current compounds. Surviving Prophets. Financial backers.”

I dig the tip of the blade a millimeter deeper.

Raymond gasps, his eyes watering instantly from the sharp, highly concentrated pain.

“Please be uncooperative,” I ask him sincerely. I look directly into his terrified gray eyes. “I will enjoy this so much more if you lie to me.”

I apply pressure. The steel slides deeper under the keratin, severing the sensitive nerve endings.

Raymond screams.