After taping up his hands, he went straight for the bag and started in, hitting it with satisfying thuds that reverberated up his arms and through his shoulders. Punch, punch, roundhouse kick. Soon his whole world became the impact of his body against the bag, drowning out the clamor in his mind and bleaching the memories that haunted him to a shadow of their former selves. Working out was his meditation, bringing him to a place outside his head, clearing his mind and giving him peace just for a little while.

When he’d been seventeen, he’d been kidnapped by the Duskoff. He was a run-of-the-mill earth witch, a dime a dozen, but he was strong—stronger than average. The Duskoff had viewed him as vulnerable because of his youth and because his family situation had been bad. His status as an at-risk earth witch had earned him a one-way ticket into the bowels of Duskoff International. When seduction hadn’t worked, they’d gone for physical torture.

Perhaps if Theo had been weaker of mind, emotion, or spirit, it might have worked. He’d been young enough to be broken down and remolded into an image of their choosing. After all, he’d been looking for a home, a family, somewhere to belong. But Theo had known he didn’t belong to the Duskoff, known it down to his very fiber.

He’d fought them every inch of the way, a thing that had only made them more intent on breaking him. Eventually, once his torturers had figured out they weren’t going to win, they’d used him as a toy. Then their treatment of him had come from pure sadistic ire—hatred of him and his resilience, his rejection of what the Duskoff stood for.

By the time the Coven had come in on a raid just like the one they were about to conduct, Theo had had broken limbs and organ damage. He’d almost died.

But he hadn’t, and when he’d recovered the Coven had garnered his undying loyalty. They’d also become the family he’d never had.

Scars marked his torso as a result of the ordeal, trailed down his arms and legs. They’d been made by a whip and a very sharp knife. Theo could still clearly remember the man who’d made the cuts, his greasy face shining in the wan light of the building’s basement. Years later Theo had looked into that face again, right before he’d dragged his ass to Gribben. Being in Gribben, a place that magickally neutered all witches, was worse than death.

Otherwise he’d have killed him.

Ink covered a lot of Theo’s body now, playing counterpoint to the scars. The tats weren’t there to cover them, but to celebrate them. The black tribal marks twisted alongside his scars, swirled around and dovetailed them. Theo wore his scars like badges of honor.

He always would.