He turned to Tavia and pushed a flick of black hair from her eyes in a way he had never dared to before. It was damp with sweat and clinging to her cheeks like seaweed, making her look young and restless.

“Get the hell out of my mind, kid,” he said.

And then he pushed Tavia’s head back so hard that it cracked against the surface of the cell wall. There wasn’t blood this time, but Wesley winced like there had been.

He heard a sigh and then Tavia’s newly limp body disappeared into smoke, and from across the room Zekia stepped out of the shadows.

“You’re getting quicker,” she said. “The first time it took you ages to figure it out.”

“Maybe you’re just getting sloppy.”

Though truth was, most of Zekia’s illusions had been perfect from the start, and if there was one thing she excelled at, it was making Wesley doubt every second of his life was real.

Still, she could never get Tavia right.

The first time she’d tried, Wesley was too out of it to see the small discrepancies, but it was the easiest thing to spot now. A conjured Tavia made Wesley feel cold and uncertain. She was always missing the bite to her words and the tilted smile that could never quite be replicated. She was missing the glint in her eye that told Wesley he was awful and she would forgive him for it anyway.

Zekia could try all she wanted, but she’d be hard-pressed to create an illusion as damn irritating and wonderful as the real thing.

“Want to give it another whirl?” Wesley asked. “I think I’ve still got some sanity left in me today.”

Zekia let out a great huff of breath, like she was frustrated that Wesley had stolen her favorite toy. Beside her, a shadow demon growled, its eyes like pure darkness. It looked at Wesley in a way that said, Yes. Again. Let me taste the blood this time.

“No,” Zekia said. “Enough for today.”

Thank the Many Gods, Wesley thought, and then hoped she hadn’t heard.

Though it was impossible to be sure, and being unsure was something Wesley hated. Even more than the fact that he knew he looked like utter trash and had to turn away from any reflection he caught sight of. His suit was always stellar—one thing Zekia was good at in between the torture was keeping Wesley dressed very much like himself—but the sharp edges in his eyes that he’d carefully cultivated over the years looked more rounded and dull.

Maybe it was the lack of food.

Maybe it was the lack of sun.

Or maybe he just didn’t adjust well to being tortured.

Either way, Wesley didn’t plan on sticking around to get used to it.