Eighteen
Asher
In the weak yellow light of a single dim bulb swinging on a chain, the witches on C-block looked like ghosts in a haunted asylum.
They were all crammed into the cell together—a cold, damp chamber with no bedding or chairs. All their heads had been shaved, the hair growing back in tufts and patches. Dressed in dirty white hospital gowns, the women were deathly pale, their bones sharp.
A few of them had bandages on their wrists and ankles. Others had… f*****g hell.
I bit back my rage, shoving it down deep, saving it for the men who’d done this.
They were carved. Runes, letters, symbols, slashes—angry red lines crisscrossed arms and legs, chests, faces.
He carved their f*****g faces. Faces!
“Asher?”
The call was soft and watery, but I recognized her voice, and my throa
