Silence hung heavy in the room as the memory faded and I began to resurface from the hypnotic trance. My eyes fluttered open, struggling to adjust to the present reality. The first sensation was the plush chair beneath me, then the concerned faces surrounding me—faces belonging to men who had just witnessed a thirteen-year-old version of me kill two would-be traffickers.
Harrison Thorne sat rigidly in his wheelchair, his weathered hands gripping the armrests so tightly his knuckles had gone white. Beside him, King Gareth's normally composed expression had crumbled into one of horror. Theronius looked stricken but clinically focused, while Finnian had gone pale as milk. Ronan stood with his arms crossed, his jaw clenched so tightly I could see the muscle twitching at his temple.
The ether from the hypnosis still cushioned me from the full emotional impact of what I'd just remembered. It was like watching someone else's life—terrible, but distant.
