“Fuck, now that’s the sort of girl you want warming your bed.”
The rage boiling my blood has a rampant thump filling my ears as my hand circles Rodney’s throat, holding him down against the bed as he fights for air, my grip tightening the more he struggles. The freshly tattooed skin feels warm beneath my palm. His eyes bulge, spittle splashing against his face as he struggles, his fingersclawing at my hand frantically as he kicks his legs against the bench. Realising he has no hope of pulling himself free, he reaches out for my face. Caleb moves quickly, holding Rodney’s hands against his body, a shit-eating grin on his face. I don’t pay him much mind, my darkened gaze trained on Rodney’s mottled skin as his chest expands, his lungs searching for oxygen, the pain likely making him light-headed as the sweet release of the darkness creeps in.
“My brother doesn’t take kindly to men ogling what’s his.” Caleb chuckles, garnering a fear-filled expression to wash over Rodney’s face in a sickly grey haze as their eyes meet. His body is shaking as his eyes roll back. His white lips smacking together as he tries to speak.
Caleb clears his throat, and the madness that took over momentarily lifts from my senses, tugging me back to the room as I loosen my hold. Killing Rodney wouldn’t be much of a loss for the world, but I try to keep my kills to a minimum. Especially now while we are trying to keep a low profile.
“I believe you had something you wanted to say?” Caleb adds as he releases Rodney’s hands, sitting back in his chair and slipping off his black latex gloves.
“Sor…sorry,” Rodney croaks out. His body working overtime as he pants for air, slipping off the bench and onto the floor to get out of my reach.
“So, same time next week, Rod?”
“Urm, I think maybe I’ll leave it a little while…to properly heal,” he splutters, his frantic expression fraught with unease as he glances between me and my brother. I personally think the finger indents I’ve left in his skin add to the piece.
“Get Rodney wrapped up,” Caleb orders as he cleans down his station, the task second nature now. The desire to tell him to go fuck himself and demand he do it instead is ready to burst from my lips, but this exchange needs tact, and my brother has far more of that at his disposal than I do, so I wordlessly do as he’s instructed.
I pull a length of the cellophane wrap from its holder, grabbing the bottle of green soap and some white roll to sanitise his skin and wipe away the excess ink. The man pissed me off, but letting a customer’s tattoo get infected is hardly good for business.
“I’ve got it sorted.” He grins awkwardly, taking a few steps towards the exit until his back is pressed up against the door, almost falling over his own feet as he scrambles to get the wad of notes from his jeans pocket.
“Suit yourself. Wash and cream it in about two hours,” Caleb instructs as he packs away his machine.
“See you next time, Rodney,” I add chipperly as he places the money on the side and grabs for the door handle with a shaking hand, all signs of my beast locked back in his cage—for now. Watching a grown man shudder shouldn’t warm my twisted soul as much as it does, but what can I say—there’s a reason I’ve spent the past six years in an insane asylum.
Locking the door, I stuff the money into the coffee can above the sink and settle onto the old ratty pull-out sofa next to Caleb, watching as he dials Ezra’s number, hits the speaker button, and places it on the table between us. He leans back and rests his feet on the table, one crossed over the other, one boot still keeping the TV company. It rings twice before the call connects.
“Seems Ebony is heading back to Hells Haven. I hope you boys are ready for the reunion of the century.”
I’ve never been more ready for anything in my life. Our Dove is about to find out what happens when you cross the Knox brothers.
CHAPTER THREE
EBONY
Pulling in through the twenty-foot wrought iron gates at a snail’s pace, that nagging realisation that I don’t belong strikes again with a little more force, my gut churning uncomfortably with nerves as the enormity of what I’m doing here descends. I could cower away and run back to the safety of going absolutely fucking nowhere in life, but I know I won’t. Even brimming with unease, there is something about this place that beckons me closer, that voice telling me I can be myself here. The tyres crunch over the mile-long pebbled driveway that leads to the impressive eighteenth century building that looks more like a castle from one of those turn-of-the-century gothic novels than a place to learn social studies and the art of flower arranging—the wide spectrum of courses meant students flew in from around the globe to study here. It’s a world away from the box room above the Italian eatery that I’m used to. I tug the collar of my tee up to my nose, and I swear I can still smellthe lingering scents of their meatball stew ingrained into the fabric; no matter how vigorously I seem to wash them, herby bolognaise played second to whatever drugstore rose vinegar perfume I could find.
Vines tangle up and around the south side of the building that covers at least three acres of land. Hoya kerrii plants with their pink blush heart-shaped petals blackened at the edges by the sun decorate the grey stone brickwork, the steepled turrets that seem to disappear into the clouds above, and the arched stained-glass windows lending it a sense of fairytale whimsy. For a brief second, I allow the beat of excitement to bloom in my chest.
Not just anyone gets invited to study here.
Incowboy country, as it was best known last time I was here, it’s easy enough to separate the local townies and the out-of-state students, just by the way they dress. It’s like someone threw a barnyard hoedown in with an elitist cocktail mixer and called it a party. A sea of blue wranglers and wide brimmed hats sharing space with petticoat dresses and pressed Oxford sweaters. And then there’s me—head to toe in black and standing out like a sore thumb for all the wrong reasons. No one would be confusing me for a trust fund kid anytime soon.
The scholarship to attend this term came with its stipulations—get good grades, keep the good grades, no funny business—I’m paraphrasing. The hoity jargon included in my welcome letter is the main reason I’m steering clear of the English literature and language department; I needed a dictionary just to make sense of it. I’ve chosen art, folklore studies, and drama as my primary courses this term—hoping the‘inspired by my interpretation’line will cover for anything I’m not entirely sure about. Even I don’t think I’m skilled enough to sell this performance, and I’ve only been here for three minutes. I consider asking the cab driver to take another lap while I get my nerves in check, but I quickly realise we’re in a queue of sleek black chauffeured town cars, each statelier than the last as returning students climb out onto the gravel driveway. When I say I grew up in Hells Haven, this was not the part of town I was referring to. The backdrop of rolling hills that fences us in hides the ramshackle country lane town I’m used to, the town I fought so hard to escape. It’s easy to be captivated by the picturesque beauty here within its wrought iron confines, but knowing what is hiding in the shadows, the spell of its beauty never quite manages to completely dispel that ache that lingers in my chest. Grimmville breeds the worst humanity has to offer—even here in paradise, and I’d do well to remember that.
“I haven’t got all day,” the driver grumbles as he pulls open my door. I’d been so lost in my own head, I hadn’t even realised we had stopped moving. Students pass me by, curious looks on their faces as they survey my outfit. Holey band tee, ripped jeans, and my battered boots held together with duct tape while comfortable, was probably not the best idea when I was arguing with myself with how best to assimilate this morning. But needs must, and of the three outfits I own, this one covers the most skin. Sweeping my long wavy hair forward over one shoulder, I secure the strap of my rucksack, holding on with a clenched fist as though it’s a parachute and someone’s priming to kick me out of a plane at any second. Rightnow, I’m questioning what scenario would be less fear-inducing: being here or free falling from ten thousand feet.
With my suitcase on the ground beside me, I slip an earbud in and crank up Yael Naim’s ‘New Soul’ not my usual choice in music, but it’s upbeat enough that I can’t hear the thump of my heart going ten to the dozen in my ears anymore. I hand the driver a twenty, watching him peel out with a screech of tires from the kerb. A plume of dust making me cough as I wave my hand in the air to disperse it.
Keep the tip, I guess.
“You can fall, or you can fly. Just jump. You didn’t come this far to back down now,” I say softly to myself, glancing up at the place I’ll be calling home for the next year, willing myself to believe the words falling from my lips. Climbing the steps with a bargain-store level of gumption that could be construed as a need to pee for those watching me, I plaster an uneven smile on my face and square my shoulders, every exhale shallow, my palms slick with sweat.
‘Fake it till you make it, Ebs.’
The scream catches in my throat as gravity yanks me down. I hit the concrete hard, wincing as my knees take the brunt, the denim barely softening the blow.
“So eager to learn you risk bodily harm—if I had a sticker, you’d be wearing it proudly on your t-shirt right now.” His voice is deep, a hoarse gruffness paired with the faint waft of cigar smoke that has my stomach gurgling. Shielding my eyes from the sun creeping through the clouds overhead, my gaze zeros in on the wrinkly hand he’sholding out to me, the frayed edges of a corduroy jumper with suede patches on the elbows falling over his knuckles.
