Page 8 of Ashes to New

“Will they come or just go through the motions?”

Elsbeth’s heart hammered beneath her breastbone. Fear surged in her veins. She was horrified by what this man intended.Worse, shame filled her because she would do everything without question and without a fight.

“The girl has been trained. She comes like a fucking angel. The boy has not.”

A sick revulsion crept deep into her bones. That he controlled her with such little effort twisted her from the inside out, but then he’d had five years to condition her responses.

“I might have some ideas on that.” For the third time, John Snowden’s attention shifted from Forest to her. His eyes narrowed, calculating and cold. “You mentioned a dungeon. I would very much like to see it.”

“Of course.”

John Snowden lifted his finger. “But a demonstration first.” He snapped his fingers. “Girl, come here.”

She couldn’t move without Clark Preston’s consent. And, even though it was foolish to hope, Elsbeth prayed her foster father would command her to stay in place.

But his mouth opened. His lips moved. His words condemned. “Little one, you will do as Mr. Snowden says.”

Tears pooled in the corners of her eyes, but she wouldn’t dare blink. He would know what that meant. He knew her every mood, and tears would hand over power because they betrayed weakness. She’d locked the core of her being in the darkest part of her mind, but John Snowden’s demand had snapped all the locks, leaving her raw and breathless.

“Turn!” He slapped Forest’s hip, twisting him until Forest faced her direction.

Her stomach sank—please no—but the steel in John Snowden’s expression burned white hot.

He crooked a finger. “Come, girl.” Pointing down, he indicated precisely where she was to kneel.

Forest’s breathing hitched. His face paled, and the swell of his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. Even his fingers fluttered against the sides of his thighs.

She wanted to escape, to turn around and rush right out the patio door, run until her feet bled and her lungs burned. But Forest would be left behind, a boy trapped with predators, and Clark Preston knew the one thing she did not. He knew the names of the people who’d adopted her baby brother. For these reasons, she crawled to the exact spot indicated by Snowden’s finger.

The smile spreading on John Snowden’s face had her insides a twisting mess. She nearly got sick but managed to control her body’s revulsion for what would come.

Fear simmered in Forest’s eyes. They’d been forced to do so much but never this.

A smile spread across John Snowden’s face. “Now, this will be entertaining. We’re going to find out how much stamina you have, little boy.” His pupils dilated, the blackness swallowing the uninspired brown of his eyes. “Open wide, girl. I want to see him fill that pretty mouth of yours.”

Chapter Five

THE NIGHT BECAMEa river of time, meandering toward morning but never seeming to quite get there. Hardly calm, the moments slipped by in a tumultuous raging torrent, buffeting Elsbeth, until dawn’s cautious light finally cracked through the single small basement window. That sliver of light brought yawns to their tormentors and ushered the men upstairs to their beds. She and Forest remained locked downstairs, but she didn’t care because the arrival of the sun meant one less day of summer stretching out before them.

She wasn’t entirely certain about Forest’s state of mind. He wasn’t talking to her.Had they broken him?She feared that was the case. He was both too young and too fragile for John Snowden’s merciless coercion. The things done to Forest had turned her stomach and soured her mouth. Even more heartbreaking, she had been one of the tools used to tear apart her precious Beanpole.

“Forest?” she asked. “Are you awake?”

His stillness worried her, and while she wanted nothing more than to wrap her arms around him, two things held her back. First, the steel bars of the cage limited her movement, but worse than not being able to hold and console him was the knowledge of exactly what touching him would do.

Forest slumped against the restraints holding him in place. The Saint Andrew’s Cross creaked with his weight. The leather shackles groaned in protest. Sweat streaked his skin, and his golden locks hung limp where they dragged against his shoulders.His head dipped low, his chin brushing his chest, and his knees sagged, forcing his shoulders to bear the majority of his weight.

Whether from dejection or exhaustion, he didn’t answer. He’d stopped speaking hours ago.

His entire body bore the evidence of the evening’s abuse. Cane and whip marks marred his flesh, the visual display both wretched and terrifying.

Surges of testosterone hadn’t done him any favors. He had bucked authority when he should’ve remained silent. It hadn’t lessened Clark Preston’s plans. Forest’s resistance had done the opposite and spurred the men to tear into him until he gave in and begged for whatever they desired.

Confined inside the small cage, Elsbeth’s body ached—not from the aftereffects of implements aimed at her flesh, but from her cramped conditions.

“Forest,” she called out, “please answer me.”

A moan escaped him, and his head rolled to the side, but he didn’t answer. He was either unable or unwilling, and she prayed for the first. If he were ever unwilling to speak to her, she wouldn’t want to live. Forest was her lifeline. He would keep her spirits up during the darkest of times. Perhaps now, it was her turn to do the same for him.