The belt cut into her mouth as her jaw clenched. She endured, because there was no choice. She didn’t have to. No armor. It was done. Still sealed.”
He said nothing. Her will flickered — but never failed. She dropped to her knees, wincing at the shift in weight inside her. “Roxy,” he rasped. But when Verena pressed her gloved hand to Roxy’s thigh and began the process — careful, slow, unforgiving — all pretense shattered. And then the bolter fire began. She could not. But worse than pain was the silence she had to hold. Caelen stood over her, full height restored. Each movement brought fresh waves of agony. His chest was a ruin of ceramite and scar tissue. They took her without resistance. Spat on her. Her vision swam. In the halls of the Reclusiam, a mural was painted in her honor. But it is holy. She didn’t have to. “This has never been done. “Where?”
Her voice cracked.
