“What are you doing?” Brock asked, genuine confusion breaking through his controlled expression. I set the weapon on the floor and kicked it away. Brock’s eyes widened in disbelief as I approached Ronan.
“Surrendering,” he said, half to himself. “Fascinating.”
I knelt before Ronan, making myself completely vulnerable. His eyes met mine—pain-filled, confused, but present. Behind me, I heard Brock’s footsteps approaching, but I focused only on Ronan.
“Brock doesn’t own you,” I whispered, taking Ronan’s face. His skin burned hot beneath my palms, slick with sweat and tears of pain. “I know you’re still in there. And I love you, Ronan Graves.”
Behind me, Brock’s sharp intake of breath shattered the silence. I kept my eyes on Ronan, watching recognition flicker across his face like lightning breaking through storm clouds.
“Don’t you fucking say his name.” Brock hissed, composure cracking. “He’s mine!”
I pressed my forehead against Ronan’s, our breaths mingling. “Stay with me, Ronan,” I murmured. “Fight it.”
“Get away from him.” The command cracked like a whip.
When I turned, Brock’s transformation shocked me. His perfect composure had fractured—tie askew, face flushed, eyes wild with something that looked alarmingly like jealousy.
“He’smine,” I said, rising slowly but keeping one hand on Ronan’s shoulder. “You couldn’t stand being second best. That’s why you betrayed him, why you killed Sofia.” I stepped forward, placing myself between Brock and Ronan. “And why I’m more powerful than you will ever be.”
Brock’s nostrils flared. He circled us like a predator, movements jerky and unpredictable.
“You’re nothing,” he spat, glass crunching beneath his expensive shoes. “A journalist playing detective. You have no idea what you’re dealing with.”
“I know exactly what I’m dealing with,” I countered, my hand still anchoring Ronan. “A man so insecure he had to erase his partner’s mind to feel superior.”
Something dangerous flashed across Brock’s face—a glimpse of the monster beneath the tailored suit. The overhead lights caught the scattered glass on the floor, sending rainbow fragments dancing across the walls like fractured reflections of his sanity.
“Anchor,” Brock said, eyes locked on mine rather than Ronan’s. “Vessel. Marionette.”
Behind me, Ronan screamed—a raw, animal sound of agony that tore through the room. I turned to see him clutching his head, body convulsing violently against the floor, blood trickling from his nose.
Brock laughed, the sound unhinged. “You see? He’s mine to control. Mine to break. Mine to own.”
I droppedto my knees beside Ronan again, taking his face in my hands. Blood smeared between our skin. “Remember who you are,” I said urgently. “Not Reaper. Not what they made you. You’re Ronan Graves.”
His eyes cleared for a moment, recognition fighting through the pain.
“You’re wasting your breath,” Brock sneered, stepping closer. “Anchor. Vessel...”
I launched myself at him before he could finish, driving my fist into his jaw with every ounce of strength I possessed. The impact jarred my entire arm up to the shoulder, but Brock’s head snapped back, words cutting off. For a split second, shock froze his features.
That shock transformed into rage as he backhanded me across the face. The blow was vicious, explosive, sending me flying backward. My skull cracked against the edge of a bookcase, vision exploding into fragments of light and dark. Pain thundered through my head as I crumpled to the floor. Warm wetness trickled down my temple. I touched it dazedly, fingers coming away crimson.
Through blurred vision, I saw Brock advancing toward me, adjusting his cufflinks. The mask of control had returned, somehow more terrifying than his rage.
“You should’ve run when you had the chance,” he said quietly. I tried to stand, but my legs betrayed me. Books from the toppled shelf showered around me like broken wings. The taste of copper flooded my mouth.
Behind Brock, something shifted. Ronan, previously immobilized by pain, rose to his feet. His movements wereunsteady, but his eyes, fixed first on my crumpled form, then shifted to Brock, burning with something primal and deadly.
The back of my head throbbed where it hit the bookcase. I blinked hard against the blood trickling into my eyes, trying to make sense of the scene unfolding before me through a haze of pain.
For a moment there, I thought Brock had gotten through to him—that he was lost. And I had never been so happy to be wrong.
Ronan launched himself at Brock with unleashed fury. His movements lacked his usual lethal precision—jerky and uncoordinated—but powered by something stronger than conditioning. Each step seemed to cost him enormously, his body fighting both Brock and the agony of resisting his programming.
“You. Will not. Touch her. Again,” Ronan almost growled through clenched teeth.
His fist connected with Brock’s jaw—a sickening crack that sent the handler stumbling backward. Blood sprayed across the pristine desk in a crimson arc.
