Page 127 of Bonds of Pain
My eyes flick to the bruising visible on his ribs and the half-healed cut above his eye—reminders of his fight at the royal games. His body bears the evidence of violence given and received, yet he continues to inflict more.
“If we’re bleeding, our hearts are still beating,” Logan replies, his voice oddly philosophical as he secures a bandage over the cuts. “That’s all that matters.”
“Easy for you to say,” I mutter, watching his careful movements. “If only I were an Alpha like you, survival would be so simple.”
He looks up at me, something unreadable flickering in his golden eyes. “You think my life has been simple?”
“Compared to mine? Yes.”
Logan sits back on his heels, studying me with a strange intensity. “When I was eight years old, my father took me and five of my brothers to the royal reserve on the edge of thenorthern Outlands. He gave each of us a wooden spear and instructions to return to him with a boar, or not to return at all.”
I continue to watch him, waiting for him to make a point.
“What the king neglected to tell us was that the groundskeeper had placed only two boars in the reserve. After an hours-long hunt, Ander and I emerged from the forest. Our other brothers did not.”
“What happened to your other brothers?”
He raises a sardonic eyebrow. “Do you really need me to answer that?”
Killed or banished, one outcome not so different from the other.
“I threw up afterward,” Logan continues, his gaze distant now. “My father dragged me to his study and beat me with his belt until I couldn’t stand. He said a future king can’t show weakness, that I needed to develop a stomach for violence if I was ever to rule.”
Something cold settles in my chest as I understand what he’s telling me. “That’s horrible, but it doesn’t excuse?—“
“I’m not making excuses,” he interrupts, his eyes refocusing on me. “I’m telling you that pain has been my teacher since before I could properly tie my own shoes. The king makes sure all his sons understand that weakness is punished, strength is rewarded, and mercy is for fools.”
He finishes securing the bandage, his fingertips lingering on my skin for a moment too long. “By the time I was twelve, I’d witnessed seventeen executions. By fifteen, I’d participated in three.”
The casual way he says this makes my stomach turn. Not because it’s shocking—though it is—but because I can see the damaged boy beneath the monster he’s become. The child who was taught that violence is the only language worth speaking.
“And you think that justifies what you did to me? What you just made Cillian do?”
Logan’s expression hardens. “No. But it might help you understand why I am what I am.” He stands, gathering the bloodied cloths and empty wrappers. “This world is too dangerous for anyone who refused to learn the rules. The next time you make a move against me, I might not be able to save you from the consequences.”
The strangeness of this conversation settles over me. Both of us seem to be accepting that I might try to hurt or humiliate again. If that bothers him, Logan doesn’t voice that. If anything, he seems to expect it from me.
All his closest relationships have been characterized by betrayal and challenge. Why should this one be any different?
I pull the towel back around myself, suddenly feeling vulnerable. “And you’ve never questioned it? Never thought there might be another way?”
“Questioning gets you killed in this palace,” Logan says simply. “I’ve survived by learning to play the game better than anyone else. Including my father. Everyone who hopes to survive in the palace must become a predator. Theonlyother thing to be is prey.”
For a moment, I almost feel sorry for him—this damaged man shaped by cruelty into something equally cruel. But then I remember the cuts on my chest, the violation of my body, the theft of my freedom.
“Understanding you won’t make me hate you any less,” I tell him, my voice steady despite the storm of emotions inside me.
The corner of his mouth quirks up in what might almost be a smile. “I wouldn’t expect it to.” He moves toward the door, then pauses. “Rest. Let those cuts heal. I have another midnight watch to lead, so you’ll have the bed to yourself.”
As the door closes behind him, I’m left with the unsettling realization that Logan isn’t the simple monster I’d imagined. He’s something far more complicated—a product of systematic brutality who’s perpetuating the very cycle that damaged him.
And that, somehow, makes all this even harder to bear.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror, gaze lingering on the bandages covering up the bloody mess of my chest.
Predators and prey.
Just like a game of chess, there are far more pawns on the board than any other piece.
