Page 126 of Bonds of Pain
But what’s the alternative? Every time I fight back, they find new ways to hurt me. New ways to remind me that I’m powerless.
The blood has almost stopped flowing now. The cuts are superficial, they’ll heal without scarring if treated properly. But the memory of Cillian’s face as he held that knife, the way Logan watched with cold satisfaction, Poe’s angry abandonment and Ares’s silent complicity. Those wounds go deeper than any blade.
I press the cloth harder against the cuts, welcoming the sharp sting that momentarily brings me back to my body. Pain is clarity. Pain is real. Everything else—the bonds, the obligations, the twisted web of desire and hatred—feels increasingly like a nightmare I can’t wake from.
I’m so tired of fighting. So tired of losing.
What would happen if I just walked out that door? Ran as far as I could? The bond would pull me back eventually, the physical pain of separation becoming unbearable. Or they would find me. They always would.
There is no escape from this golden cage. Not while they live.
Not while I live.
The thought settles in my mind with terrifying clarity. If there’s no way out, perhaps there’s a way to end it all. A way to ensure they can never hurt me again.
But even as the thought forms, I know I won’t act on it. Not because I fear death, but because some stubborn part of me refuses to give them that final victory. They’ve taken everything else—my freedom, my dignity, my body. I won’t let them take my life too.
So I’ll endure. I’ll survive. Not because I have hope, but because continuing to exist despite everything they’ve done is its own form of defiance.
I lower the cloth from my chest, watching as tiny beads of blood form again along the cuts. Each droplet represents another piece of me they’ve taken. Another freedom lost.
I’m just so tired.
I jolt at the sound of knocking on the bathroom door, the sharp rap-rap-rap echoing through the small space. My first instinct is to remain silent, hoping whoever it is will give up and leave me alone.
“Maya.” Logan’s voice carries through the door, surprisingly calm. “Open up.”
I press the damp cloth harder against my chest, wincing at the sting. “Go away.”
The knocking comes again, more insistent this time. “Either you open this door, or I break it down. Your choice.”
For a moment, I consider calling his bluff. But the memory of what just happened in the basement is still too fresh, the cuts on my chest still weeping blood. I don’t have the energy for another confrontation.
With a resigned sigh, I wrap a towel around my upper body and unlock the door.
Logan stands on the other side, his golden eyes immediately dropping to the towel clutched at my chest. Without a word, he pushes past me and picks up the untouched med kit sitting on the counter.
“Sit,” he orders, gesturing to the edge of the bathtub.
I remain standing, defiance flaring through the exhaustion. “I can take care of it myself.”
“Sit,” he repeats, his tone brooking no argument.
Too tired to fight, I perch on the edge of the tub, keeping the towel firmly in place. Logan kneels in front of me, his movements precise as he opens the med kit and pulls out antiseptic wipes and bandages.
“Let me see,” he says, his voice oddly gentle as he tugs at the towel.
I reluctantly lower it, exposing the carved sigil on my chest. The shallow cuts have stopped bleeding, but the flesh aroundthem is angry and red. Logan’s face reveals nothing as he examines Cillian’s handiwork.
His fingers are surprisingly gentle as he cleans the wounds, the antiseptic stinging with each touch. I grit my teeth, determined not to show any reaction. The silence between us stretches, taut and uncomfortable, until Logan finally speaks.
“It shouldn’t scar,” he says, his eyes still fixed on the cuts. “The cuts are shallow enough that with proper care, they’ll heal cleanly.”
“Does that bother you?” I ask, sarcasm dripping from my voice. “I thought the whole point was to leave a permanent lesson.”
Logan’s hands pause briefly before continuing to apply the wound cream. “A few weeks of pain and the visual reminder should be enough.”
I laugh bitterly. “Pain doesn’t seem to be much of a teacher. It certainly hasn’t taught you anything.”
