When Liam takes over my rehabilitation, my progress increases exponentially. Much to both his and Maria’s surprise, I was the one to suggest the change. Maria was too gentle, too sympathetic. I need to be hard. To be strong. If I can’t put myself back together from the inside out, maybe I can do it from the outside in.

I knew Liam would be merciless and aloof, and I was right. He gives me no quarter. There’s no aftercare, no encouraging words. No massages for overworked, underdeveloped muscles. No days off.

This isn’t romance—it’s war. One army fighting itself. Me against me.

Weeks pass. Our grueling dawn walks evolve into grueling dawn runs. First to the coast, then north along a dusty road with the sea lapping to our left and the sun riding the eastern horizon. One mile. Two. Six.

When I stop passing out from fatigue after our runs, he procures an ancient, sagging punching bag from a storage shed outside. We return to the house, drink water, and keep training. Hard. Harder.

Maria watches us sometimes, when she’s not doing house calls for the cartel. She watches with a critical eye as Liam wraps my hands in gauze and tape. She watches in silence as he yells at me, calls me names, curses and spits until I’m angry, so angry, that I punch and kick until my hands feel like they’re going to fall off and my legs quiver.

We eat an early dinner together, the three of us. Protein and fat only for me. There’s little talk but no awkwardness. We are all soldiers in our own wars. And when I’m strong enough, Liam and I start running in the evenings, too, as the sun sets and light fades from the world.

I run in the dark, Liam behind me. A near-silent shadow. He taunts me, whispers all the things he’s going to do to me. Crimes against my body. Ones I would have asked for, once upon a time. The agony of the whip. The pressure of confinement.

I know what he’s doing. I don’t fight it. I embrace it. He’s hacking at my foundation, forcing me to either rebuild or fade away. Forcing me to confront every horror, every degradation, and pushing me deeper. Past the pain. Past the terror. To when I had a choice.

Sometimes I can ignore his words. Sometimes they trigger flashbacks of the basement so vivid that I stumble and fall to my knees, retching against the shadowed earth. And every once in a while, his erotic nightmares make my blood sing with the old, familiar urge. It doesn’t last, and more often than not our nightly runs end with me launching myself at him in fury.

Tonight, when he tells me he’ll tie me by my wrists to the ceiling and make me climax as he pours hot wax on my breasts, I use his own momentum to trip him fluidly, use my weight to drive him down, land a swinging knee in his stomach, and punch him so hard his head cracks against the ground.

He touches his lip, stares at the shadow of blood. Then he looks up and grins. Proud and unrepentant.

“My little siren.”

As my anger fades and my hand starts hurting, Liam laughs. Softly at first, but before long he’s howling at the night sky.

“We’re seriously deranged,” I say, still atop him, glued to his body. His arms stay limp by his sides—we both know if he touches me I’ll bolt.

Still smiling, his chest heaving, he murmurs, “Ní féidir leat a shocrú cad nach bhfuil briste. You cannot fix what isn’t broken. And you are far from broken.”

“It doesn’t feel that way.”

“I know it doesn’t. You’ll just have to believe me. I’ve seen you, Eden. I see you. I know what you’re made of. You will persevere.”

I rise to my feet. Easy, smooth, strong. I’m barely winded. My lungs fill with the cool air, release warm air. For the first time, I can imagine a life beyond tomorrow. I want it. Fiercely.

Freedom from the past.

Liam rises, tall and virile, and brushes dirt from the back of his shorts. Hands on his hips, he stares at the dark water. A titan. A citadel of calm.

“What happened to you?” I ask, surprising both of us.

His head turns slowly, eyes finding mine. “I became my father, and then I killed him.”

I stare at his back as he walks away. Before I’m fully aware of my intent, I race after him, then slow to match his brisk pace.

“Liam,” I bark.

“Yes, siren?”

I don’t comment on the new name. I like it—perhaps more than I should. “Tell me about your throat.”

“When my father realized I was stronger than him, that more of his men were loyal to me and his power was draining away, he tried to have me killed. Thing is, you should never bring a garrote to a knife fight.”

“And your eyebrow?”

“Courtesy of my dear ol’ da.” He glares at me. “Do you want me to tell you about all the men I killed? The children I left without fathers? The women I left without husbands?”

I suck in a shallow breath. “Do you regret it?”

“Does it matter?” he retorts.

Does it?

“No.” At his incredulous snort, I roll my eyes. “Oh, am I supposed to be shocked and horrified by the news that bad men died? I can’t go back, Liam. I’m not the innocent girl you once knew.”

“I know.”

I grab his arm, halting him. “Do you?” I ask sharply. “Do you really get it? That she’s dead?”

Instead of backing down like I expect, he steps closer, crowding my personal space. His face is shadowed, his shoulders filling my vision. But I’m not afraid.

“I mourned that girl six years ago,” he says rigidly, “just as I mourned the man I used to be. But as you said, there’s no going back. We are here. We are now. And there is no fate but that we make for ourselves.”

My breath comes harshly, his words vibrating in the marrow of my bones. “How did you kill your father?”

He smiles without humor. “What did you call me once? The Puppet Master. I turned his empire against itself and danced in the ruins, all without lifting a finger.”

My heart races like a bird in a cage, but I straighten my spine and nod. “Good.”

His brows jump. “Good?”

I shrug. “I’m glad he’s dead, that you got your revenge. You’re free now.”

“And will you be glad when Maddoc’s dead?” he asks stonily. “Will you be free?”

I look up at the stars. “Honestly, I’m starting to wonder if Maddoc even exists. He’s like the tooth fairy or the boogeyman.”

The mood broken, Liam chuckles. “Even boogeymen have weaknesses.”

“What’s his?” I ask curiously.

“His daughter.”

I take a breath and let it out slowly, savoring the unexpected gift. The simple acknowledgement that I am not them—not her. They are not my family. Blood has a price, but I don’t.

“Come on,” he says brusquely. “Let’s get back.”

We walk side by side on the dusty road, little more than shadows in the night. And in the silence, I feel something I’d thought forever gone.

Safety.