Prologue
Scarlett
The safehouse my brother set up for me—near my old university—is located in the crumbling historic district of the city, behind the doors of what looks like a decrepit Victorian house. On the outside, it appears a breath away from falling over.
In reality, it’s structurally sound, and the crappy front is just that; a front. Behind the creaking wooden door hanging with awarning, do not entersign resides a steel door with a biometric lock that’s coded to precisely two people in the world. If one opens, the other gets a message.
I’ve never been here before, but Eric drilled me with the instructions on how to get to it and how to unlock it so many times, it’s almost second nature.
The house looks like it’s ready to collapse in on itself. A once-grand home, now chipped and faded, with shutters hanging loose and paint peeling away in strips. Ivy wraps around the porch posts, pulling them down, as if the whole place is sinking back into the ground where it sprung from.
The home blends in with the rest of the historic district—just another forgotten relic. But I know better. It’s much more than it appears.
I climb the porch steps, open the sagging wooden front door to reveal a pristine, polished door that I expect hides reinforced steel, and press my shaking thumb to the biometric scanner. It’s cold outside, although winter has begun to devolve into spring, and I don’t have a sweater, so I’m shivering. I’m also covered in scratches and bruises from my journey into the forest.
After getting out of the compound, I ditched the car I stole approximately ten miles away from the Nighthawks’ fortress as soon as I could glimpse a highway in the distance. A quick jog through the forest, following the highway, scraped me up badly but kept me hidden from prying eyes. Then, it was a matter of hitchhiking my way to a bus stop, getting to campus, and then taking a different bus that brought me downtown.
The door in front of me unlocks with a loud beep and multiple heavyclicks. It swings open and in, allowing me entrance. I step inside an old entryway, wince as lights automatically fill the home, toe off my muddied shoes, and survey the safehouse. The front of the house still carries the bones of the Victorian it once was—high ceilings, a narrow staircase climbing upward, crown molding etched with faded patterns, but the details don’t match the decay outside.
The floorboards are polished to a shine that feels too deliberate, too sterile. The chandelier overhead doesn’t drip with crystals and is instead rebuilt with steel rods, casting a cold, white glow that leaves no corner unlit.
I don’t have the presence of mind to explore. I know that this place is the safest I can be right now, so I merely start wandering through rooms until I find a bathroom.
Thankfully, it’s equipped with a shower and a first-aid kit. I know my brother will be here soon—he’ll have gotten an alert that I opened the safehouse, so I have maybe a few hours to myself before hearrives, probably less depending on where he is. I take my time in the piping-hot shower, scrubbing the grime and dirt off myself, trying to scrub the memory of Monster’s touch away as well.
It's a fruitless endeavor. He’s thoroughly imprinted himself in my memory, on my body. No matter how long I scrape down my skin under the piping-hot water, I can’t get him out of my mind. I can’t gouge out the misplaced guilt weighing on my chest.
I fed him a deadly poison and watched him writhe under its effects. Granted, I gave him the antidote before leaving, but I might’ve done it too late. He’d already passed out; he was already struggling to breathe. His brain could’ve lost oxygen for too long. He could’ve had a deadly seizure after I left.He could be dead.
No matter how much I try to tell myself that’s a good thing, that I shouldwanthim dead… I can’t quite get on board with the notion. Not after the three words he uttered to me.
Not after I realized killing him would turn me into my father.
I patch myself up with Band-Aids, wander into the kitchen, grab one of the sharp knives I find in a drawer, and force myself to choke down two of the nutritional drinks I find in the fridge. Then, I pass out on the nearest sofa.
A loud beep awakes me an indeterminate amount of time later. I blink blearily in the direction of the entryway, slowly sitting up. Somehow, I have the presence of mind to palm the knife I hid beneath my pillow.
My entire body aches. My thigh throbs like crazy, protesting my earlier run through the forest and the stress of the last day. The place between my legs also aches with pain from the vicious, repeated poundings I took whenever Grey was in his apartment. The pulse isn’t only pain, though; there’s another feeling. Something I don’t want to acknowledge, but almost feels likeneed.
He said he’d condition my body, and he succeeded. Now, I’ll have to spend the rest of my life undoing the damage he did, while keeping myself hidden and away from him in case he’s alive.
“SCARLETT!”My brother’s familiar, painfully comforting voice booms through the house. I release my grip on the knife. “Scar, where the fuck are you?”
I’m shivering from the cool temperature of the house, exhausted and depleted. Nevertheless, a deep desire to see and hold my brother overcomes me. I swing my legs over the side of the couch, letting my feet touch the floor, and quietly call out, “In here.”
My throat is raw, voice raspy. I’m possibly getting sick again, definitely fucked up in more ways to count, and in desperate need to see my only living family member again.
I hear boots thudding against the ground, and then my brother appears in the doorway. His red hair is disheveled, as if he’s been raking his fingers through it. His eyes are wild, with dark bags beneath them, as if he’s slept as little as I have over the last several weeks. He stops in the doorway of the living room, staring at me as if he’s seen a ghost—as if I’m a phantom of his imagination. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, and he touches a hand to his forehead.
“Hey,” I say quietly. So many words sit on the tip of my tongue, but they’re trapped, leaving behind only a pathetic greeting that feels almost as small and broken as I do.
“Hey?” my brother echoes vaguely, shaking his head. Tears gather in his eyes as he stares at me. “Hey?Scarlett… Jesus fuckingChrist,Scarlett. Where thehellhave you been?”
He strides across the room, lifts me from the couch by my arms, and pulls me into a fierce, warm hug. One of his hands cradles my head in a paternal gesture, and he’s so filled with emotions, his hands shake.
Only then do my tears start to fall. Slowly, at first, with just one escaping my eye… which opens up the waterworks. A sob escapes my chest as I hug my brother back, clinging to him as if he’s the only lifeline of safety in this endlessly cruel and dangerous world. I hold to him as if hanging onto life itself—a life that I was convinced I’d lose mere weeks ago. Cries escape my lips, sobs wrack my chest, and I start shaking in Eric’s arms with such vigor, my knees give out and I sink back to the couch, taking Eric with me.
All the emotions I suppressed during my escape, during the horror of my brief yet terrifying interaction with Cain, come crashing into me. The fear, the terror, the aches that stem far beyond the pains of flesh. Everything comes tumbling out as a tentative sense of safety takes root in my chest.
