My vision starts to blur at the edges, darkness creeping in. But I’m still fighting, still trying to break free even as my muscles start to go slack. They drag me across the floor—I can feel the blood and grime soaking through my jeans—and there’s the scrape of metal on concrete.
A chair.
They’re lifting me, shoving me into it. I try to swing at them, but my arms are heavy, uncoordinated. The drug is working fast, too fast. My head lolls forward and someone yanks it back by my hair.
Rope bites into my wrists, then my ankles. They’re tying me down, securing me to the chair, and I can’t stop them. Can’t do anything but sit here as the world goes soft and sideways.
“There we go,” one of them mutters.
I force my eyes open, try to focus. Gilbert is watching from a few feet away, smoking a cigarette like this is all just mildly interesting to him.
“You know what your problem is, Koa?” he asks, exhaling smoke. “You think being dangerous makes you free. But violence is just another kind of cage.”
I try to respond, but my tongue is thick in my mouth. The words won’t form.
“Sleep it off,” Gilbert says. “When you wake up, maybe you’ll be more reasonable.”
He turns to leave, his men following like shadows. The warehouse door groans open, letting in a blast of cold air and rain.
I watch them go through half-closed eyes, and then I’m alone. Just me and Marco’s corpse and the dying light.
I try to move, to test the ropes, but even that small motion is too much. The chair tilts—I realize too late that I’m leaning too far forward—and then I’m falling.
The impact is brutal. My face hits the concrete floor hard enough that I taste blood immediately, feel my cheekbone crack against the ground. The chair lands on top of me, my weight driving it down, and I’m trapped. Face crushed against the blood-slick floor, arms twisted behind me at an impossible angle, legs still tied to the chair.
I can’t breathe right. Can’t move. Can barely think through the fog settling over my brain.
From somewhere far away, I hear Gilbert’s laughter echoing through the warehouse, rich and amused.
“Goodnight, Koa.”
The door slams shut.
And I’m left there in the dark, face pressed into concrete and blood, Vincent’s corpse somewhere in the shadows, and the realization settling over me like a shroud that I’ve finally met someone more dangerous than the monster who made me.
The light flickers one more time, then dies completely.
Darkness swallows everything.
44
Atticus
The rain’s stopped pouring down, but the windows are still streaked with water, catching moonlight in silver trails. Lexi’s sitting on the edge of the couch, wearing my shirt, her hair damp and tangled from earlier. She’s staring at nothing, lost in whatever dark thoughts have been chasing her since we got here.
I lean against the doorframe, watching her. She’s got this energy about her—coiled, restless, like she’s planning something or fighting against something. Either way, it’s magnetic.
“You’re thinking too loud,” I say.
She turns, those eyes finding me in the shadows. “And you’re staring too much.”
“Can’t help it.” I push off the doorframe, crossing the room slowly. “You’re the most interesting thing in this shithole.”
“That’s a low bar.”
I stop in front of her, close enough to feel the heat coming off her skin. “Is it though?”
She looks up at me, and there’s challenge in her expression. Defiance. The same look she had before she kissed me earlier like she’s daring me to make a move, to push, to see how far this thing between us can go.
