Talon straightens, sets his hands on his hips, and nods. “Well then, gentlemen… I suppose the private route it is. We just have to figure out a way not to get caught.”
And just like that, the killers who once bound me and made my afterlife a living hell began to fight for my revenge.
My heart pounds.
It sings.
For them, all over again.
The four of us are coming for Mark.
And we won’t stop until we catch him.
For the longest time, I’ve carried this brilliant fucking theory:
If I don’t touch her, Rhea stays safe.
Keep my distance. Hands in pockets. Zero contamination.
She’s just a good person who met the wrong guy and started blushing too hard.
And I know myself better than anyone: I’m always the asshole striking the match and then standing there like,wow, arson, who could’ve possibly foreseen? So for once in my life, I’m trying not to burn the golden thing on impact.
If she’s meant to go hollow like me, the town will do the work for me.
So I stay the hell back, even when every instinct I have is clawing toward her.
See, I can imitate light like a fucking Olympian. I know my act. Give me five minutes with someone and before they’ve even realized what hit them, they’re riding a dopamine rush. That’s my whole trick: cheap thrills on tap. People walk away convinced they had a good time, or that I’m good for them, or that I’m somehow less rotten than the rumors say.
But underneath?
I’m Pavlov’s fucking carnival.
I don’t know whether Rhea sees it, likes it, pretends not to, or is just so blindingly earnest she refuses to believe I’m a walking fake. But she stays. She hangs out with me. And she never asks about the Fisher–Rey bullshit. It’s like she came from another world, and except for her hours behind the bar, she doesn’t belong to this one at all.
We talk about everything and nothing.
And honestly?
I live for those moments.
Sometimes it feels like they’re the only reason the clock bothers to roll over into another morning.
So today, I slip into her bar, drop into my usual seat, and breathe it in. Today is one of those moments again—one of the rare ones where I can exist without armor for two whole fucking lungfuls of mercy.
And then—
My curse walks in behind me.
Three men wearing Rey’s colors swagger in like they bought the deed to the place. They’re loud before they’re even through the door. One of them drops a cigarette right on the floor and grinds it out with his boot while looking Rhea dead in the eyes.
The regulars go still. Rhea goes stiller. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t speak. Barely breathes. Just flicks her gaze once, toward me.
That flick is all I need to know this is going to go sideways fast.
First mistake: I got protective of her.
What can I say? She’s new. She’s sweet. She’s pretty. She’s prey-shaped.
