“Momair… please. We almost lost him. I think he’s suffered enough, okay?”

“Trust me, he doesn’t know what suffering is. He should have to live my life for five minutes. Then he’d learn a thing or two about pain. Now go. I just want a few seconds of peace. Thank you both so much for interrupting what little time I take for myself. Gah! Just when I’d found my tranquility. I swear, that boy can’t live unless he’s causing problems for other people.”

He heard Lise shut the door before she returned to speaking into the link. “Syn? Sorry that took so long. Momair can’t talk right now. She’s having a facial. She said to tell Darling that she hopes he gets better soon and to not worry about us. Just focus on getting back on his feet.”

How nice of her to lie…

“All right, Lise. Thanks.” Syn cut the channel.

Darling felt that stab from his mother all the way to his soul. But why was he surprised? Of course his mother couldn’t be interrupted to talk to him. A facial was a lot more important than her oldest son. What kind of fool was he to think otherwise?

Nothing had changed while he’d been out of commission. How nice of the gods to put his insignificance on display and highlight it so.

Except he now knew the truth of Zarya and her cold apathy. She was just like his mother, thinking only of herself.

Thank the gods I didn’t marry her. That was the only blessing to come out of this hell. Had the Resistance not taken him prisoner, he’d have tied his life to that whore.

Still, it hurt. Her betrayal. Their torture. His mother’s condemnation. Lise’s disfigurement.

All of it.

He wished Syn had left him in a coma. Anything would have been better than this agony that ripped him apart when there was nothing he could do except remember what he’d been through and hate himself for it. He’d lost everything that was important to him. His dignity. His body. His heart.

His soul.

All he had left inside was hatred and rage. Deeper and nastier than it’d ever been. The only thing to live for now was the day that Syn healed him enough that he could exact the revenge he’d sworn himself to.

Tired, defeated, and soul sick, Zarya sat in the same tiny spartan cell she’d occupied for countless months now. It had four tan walls, a small sink, a toilet, and one pallet on the floor with no blanket or pillow. She had no idea what had happened to her Resistance members or to her sister—something that panicked her every time she thought about it.

Please let Sorche be okay…

She didn’t know what was going to happen to her, either. Not that it really mattered. She only wanted Sorche to be safe. Whatever happened to her, she’d deal with. She always had.

Over and over, she’d begged for someone to tell her something, anything, but no one would take mercy on her.