It’s my only power.

“Listen,” Dean continues, his voice low and splintered. “I know we’ve had our issues, but we need to work together. Once we get the hell out of here, you can go back to hating me, but this is life and death, Corabelle. Get over this fucking resentment you have with me and let’s put our heads together.”

“Don’t call me that.” I pull my eyes away, dipping my chin.

A scathing laugh fills my ears. “Of course that’s the thing you focus on.” I can see him shaking his head out of the corner of my eye, then he slams his cuffs against the pole, and I jump in place. “You woke me up in the middle of the night to come pick your ass up, after we already offered you a ride home. But I came anyway, because believe it or not, Cora, I do fucking care about you. We’re going to be family.”

Tears rim my eyes at his words. Funny—I didn’t think I had any left.

“I picked you up at almost two in the fucking morning, and I end up here. Chained to a goddamn post, waiting for whatever that asshole has in store for us. And now you’re giving me attitude?”

“I was just raped!” I seethe through gritted teeth, my voice cracking as it rises in pitch. “Raped by that disgusting pig. Do you have any idea what that’s like?” My own derisive laugh slips through as I swing my head to the side. “I can’t deal with you right now.”

He’s quiet for a moment, absorbing my words, and then, “I told you—you can talk to me.”

“I don’t want to talk to you! I don’t like you!”

“Fine!” Dean smacks his chains with a grunt of frustration. “Fucking hell. I’m only trying to help.”

I sniff back my tears before they break free. “Maybe if you started helping fifteen years ago—started caring about me like you claim you do—I’d be more inclined to open up. But all you’ve ever done is tease me, hurt me, and tear me down. I have no reason to trust you right now.” My chest is heaving up and down, burning and stinging, as my anguish mingles with so many years of bottled up bitterness.

Dean considers my reply for a long time. The only sounds permeating the space between us are our intermingled breaths and the dripping pipe. Then he scuffs the sole of his shoe against the dusty floor and regards me from the other side of the room. “It’s always been our thing,” he murmurs. “I give you shit and you give me shit.”

“I never had a choice,” I counter. “I’m programmed to defend myself around you. My sword is always drawn, ready to fight.”

“Because it’s fun.”

“It’s not fun. You were terrible to me.”

I spare him a poignant glance, taking in the way his eyes dance away from me. Dean scuffs his shoe again, forward and back, and the faint noise of sole against grit sounds so loud in this empty room. It’s jarring.