Chapter 6

Ingrid

Pain is the only thing I recognize.

Not a thought. Not a face. Just pain.

My shoulder is shredded raw from the gunshot he planted in me. Jace Grey—he pulled the trigger without flinching. I didn’t think he’d do it. Not really. But he did. And here I am, stitched together by someone else’s hand, left to bleed in his empire of silence.

My body trembles. My thoughts come in static. But one thing is sharp, razor-clear:

I’m going to survive this. Just long enough to bury him.

Jace Grey will die.

And I will be the one to end him.

But survival isn’t passive. It requires calculation, endurance, patience. I’m not strong enough yet. There’s no revenge for the weak. And right now? I’m still crawling.

I push myself up. My vision sways, a sick wave of dizziness crashing into my skull.

There’s food beside me—lukewarm, untouched. I eat like I’ve been starved for years. No shame. No manners. Just instinct. I’ll need the energy.

I scan the room. The walls are made of expensive timber—polished, dark, heavy with silence. There’s a sterile scent underneath the wood, like a clinic dressed in luxury. This isn’t just a cabin. This is one of his strongholds. A gilded prison.

He clothed me in an oversized white T-shirt and faint khaki shorts—too light, too soft. Probably meant to disarm me. Probably meant to mock me.

“Fuck,” I breathe, staggering to my feet. Pain shoots through my shoulder. My vision goes fuzzy, but I brace against the bedpost.

And then he flickers in my mind—Father.

Cold. Distant. Stern in the way only a man who expected you to fail can be. He always looked at me like I was a ticking clock. Like something bound to collapse, eventually. And maybe he was right. Maybe this is the collapse. Maybe this is where the old Ingrid dies and something new starts breathing.

I walk toward the open window, limping. Trees. Miles of them. Endless. Towering.

I’m in the middle of nowhere.

Outside, his men move like soldiers. Training. Jogging. Laughing. Like this is summer camp, not a fortress holding a woman hostage.

My eyes scan the yard. I look for 

Rick—the only one who’s ever shown me a shred of humanity. But instead, I find something colder. Jace.

Standing. Watching. Like he already knew I’d look.

Our eyes meet.

I recoil.

Fear surges under my skin like ice water. I back away from the window.

I’m not ready. Not for him. Not for his twisted logic, or the performance he calls morality. That man could sell you murder dressed as salvation.

Then—

A knock.

“Talk to me,” his voice calls through the door. Low. Even. Dangerous.

I don’t answer.

Keys rattle.

The lock clicks.

Of course it was locked. Of course he has a key. Control is his language.

The door opens slowly. I turn my back, trying to steady my breath, my pulse. He steps inside.

Then—he grabs me by the arm.

My emotions surges as something in me snaps.

SLAP.

My palm cracks across his face. Hard.

He staggers half a step, more shocked than hurt.

“Let me go!” I scream, shaking with fury.

I don’t wait for his response. I sprint for the door. I’m almost there—almost—when two of his men rush in, one gripping each of my arms. I thrash like a wild thing. My body is all teeth and fight.

I bite the one on my left. He screams.

“Bitch!”

His grip slips. I rip free and bolt—barefoot, bleeding, running like hell through the trees.

Branches whip my face. Stones slice my soles. I don’t care. I just run.

Away from that cabin. Away from him.

I hear voices shouting. Engines roaring.

Motorcycles.

The chase is on.

Then—it hits.

Not a bullet. Not a fist.

My lungs.

The whisper starts in my chest. Faint. Familiar. A ghost I never wanted to meet again.

My breath catches. Not from exhaustion—no. This is different.

This is asthma.

I try to keep going. One step. Another. But every inhale burns. Every exhale stutters. Air won’t go in. Won’t go deep.

My chest locks up. My knees shake.

I slow. Then stumble. Then collapse.

My mouth gapes open, begging for air that won’t come.

My vision grays at the edges. My fingers tremble.

The world doesn’t slow down.

It never does.

Not for me.

And then—his voice.

“Ingrid!”

I blink through the blur. A motorcycle skids to a stop. Rick. He jumps off, running toward me.

Behind him, another man—darker-skinned, sharp-eyed—pulls a medkit from his back.

“Matt, go ahead!” Rick barks.

I try to crawl back, but my limbs betray me.

Matt kneels beside me. Grabs the back of my neck. Tilts my head. Cold fingers force something into my mouth.

An inhaler.

He presses down. I gasp the bitter chemical into my throat like it’s a curse and a lifeline.

He stares at me. Blank. Unfeeling.

“Jace said you were born asthmatic.”