He leaned away, crossing his arms. Ignoring my question, he demanded, “Tell me. Tell me what else you have pieced together.”

It’s a trap. Don’t answer.

And I wouldn’t if Sully had always been this nasty and arctic toward me. If he’d been a beast since the moment I’d arrived, I’d ignore him. Endure his torture and flatly refuse to interact with a monster. But he’d been generous. He’d been kind. And in a few fleeting moments, he’d been more than that. We’d been more than that.

Sliding down the bars, I sat cross-legged by the tray. I kept my hands between my legs for decency.

His gaze flashed with things I couldn’t decipher. His jaw worked and misery blackened his face for a single second. Wordlessly, he snatched my robe from the ground and stuffed it through the bars.

I waited as the soft material puddled on the cage floor before reaching across the small space and dragging it over me like a blanket. “Thank you.”

He snorted as if my thanks was misplaced and unwanted. His teeth flashed as he muttered, “Tell me. Tell me what you think you know about me.”

Slightly happier with my body covered, I fisted two handfuls of robe for strength. “I think something happened. Something to make you hate humans.”

He stiffened but didn’t interrupt.

“You rescued animals from laboratories and brought them to your islands. You brought their cages too…to um, destroy?” I looked around, understanding seeping into me like a steady drip through snow. “No, you brought them to remind yourself. To remember…that…” I struggled to link why he’d keep these terrible traps, hidden in the heart of paradise. The filth hidden beneath beauty, the pain beneath pleasure.

And it clicked.

My eyes locked on his; my heart leaped into my mouth. “You keep them to remind yourself that humans made these cages. Humans hurt defenceless creatures. Humans…can never be trusted.”

Sully swooped to his feet so fast the stool smashed against the floor.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Twenty-Six Years Ago

I LIVED IN A big house.

My parents had money—according to their boastful toasts at dinner parties with other equally wealthy people—and I’d been lucky to have been born into such an accomplished, loving family—according to my teachers.

But most days, I didn’t feel very lucky.

Most days, I was lonely…and those were the good days. The days I was invisible to my older brother, Drake. I’d choose being ignored over being taunted. I willingly hid in the treehouse all day if it meant my parents didn’t force Drake to hang out with his poor baby brother.

For seven years, I put up with his bruises, punches, and nasty shouts in my ears. One day, he shouted at me so bad, right into my ear canal, my eardrum popped. Blood dribbled and dried on my cheeks until my parents realised I wasn’t answering their questions at the dinner table and rushed me to a doctor.

They’d asked me how it happened. And like always, I kept my mouth tightly shut.

I’d learned very early on—in fact, it was probably my first memory—not to tattletale on my brother.

He was the chosen one.

I was the runner-up.

As long as I stayed in his shadow and did what he said, he permitted me to live another day.

My loneliness faded a little when I found my first stray.

A skinny mange-riddled poodle in the park where I sometimes snuck to before Drake could find me. It’d curled up under a bush, just waiting to die. It didn’t even open its eyes when I touched it. Didn’t growl when I scooped it up. Didn’t whimper when I carried it all the way to a vet downtown.

The receptionist tried to call my parents, to alert them that their seven-year-old was unattended, carrying a mangy stray, and begging for medical attention that he couldn’t pay for.

But the vet—a young woman who hadn’t been jaded by the hopelessness of the world yet—had ushered me into her surgery.

She’d treated the dog and kept him for a few days to make him better.

I went everyday to hang out by his cage. I held his paw. I told him stories. I found a friend in that bag of bones, willing the sick mutt to live.

When he was released, I dumped my entire contents of my piggybank on the counter that I could barely reach. I’d been a good boy. I’d done my chores and earned my ten dollars a week since I was five.

My mother told me to put the money in a bank, but I’d kept it. Secretly saving every penny…to run away if my brother ever did what he threatened and tried to kill me.

I didn’t know why he hated me so much. I’d done nothing wrong. I’d only ever tried to be nice. I’d worshipped him. I’d wanted to be him. And that made him hate me.

Now, I wanted nothing to do with him.

Which was perfect because I found my escape in the bony poodle. I willingly gave up my runaway fund to save him, and I didn’t regret a penny. Even when I went home that night and Drake was waiting for me. Even when I noticed our parents were out at some scientific seminar and the babysitter had her boyfriend round, sucking face on the couch.

He’d marched me out back to the large backyard and tied a rope around my ankles. He’d told me to run while shooting me with his BB gun. I’d done my best to hobble with my legs lashed together, but in the end, I’d laid there and taken it, wincing with every shot but not crying out.

My tears were what he wanted.

But knowing I had a life depending on me—a grateful dog that’d wagged his tail and whimpered when I’d left him under his bush—kept me going.

Every morning, I snuck out to feed and brush him. Every night, I went to make sure he was okay. I missed him so much when we weren’t together. His whines hurt my tiny heart when I had to go, and his joy at my arrival made me wish I never had to leave.

But I knew better than to bring the dog home.

Pongo the poodle I’d called him—from 101 Dalmatians. I took him scraps from our kitchen and smuggled him into the treehouse when it grew too risky to let him live alone in the park.

I shared my blankets with him. I told him my secrets. And he’d lick my hands and face and snuggle close.

He became my best friend. My world.

So when Drake found out, it shattered everything.

He didn’t just kill Pongo slowly…he tortured him—just like he tortured me.

He placed him in a cage so he couldn’t run. He poked him with sharp sticks until he bled. He threw rocks. He yelled abuse. He placed a hose into the top of the cage and left the water running for hours.

I tried to stop him.

I wriggled until the rope he’d bound me with gnashed through my wrists and ankles. According to the doctors, I’d rubbed myself down to bone.

I was almost glad when he finally killed Pongo. When he used his BB gun and shot him in the eye at point-blank, over and over until his whimpers went silent.

At least my poor friend was free.

When Pongo went silent, I screamed.

I didn’t stop screaming until my parents found us at the bottom of the huge garden, hidden far from the house, tucked away in the woods.

That time, Drake couldn’t pretend he hadn’t hurt me. He was sent for counselling. Men in white coats talked to him in sympathetic voices. And my parents actually cared about me.