ZAYNE POV

“There’s a special kind of hell reserved for sons who keep surviving their fathers.”

The first thing I felt was cold steel.

My wrists were cuffed to the chair, the chain biting into skin that had already bruised.

My head ached from the sedative, and the metallic taste of blood clung to the back of my tongue. The room smelled like salt, oil, and gunpowder the scent of another one of my father’s sanctuaries.

Somewhere to hide his sins.

A groan beside me broke the silence. I ...