My heel slips.
Gravity takes over.
There’s no catching myself—no saving this.
Just the sickening lurch of weightless terror.
And then I fall.
Down.
Hard.
Into the cold, cold dark.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
MARLOWE
My sneakers sink into the soft rotting floorboards, and the stink of blood and piss hits the back of my throat. It’s darker in here than I expected. The air damp and clinging, like it hasn’t been breathed in years. But the sounds are alive. Groaning. Clinking. Breathing.
My eyes snap to the stage, and the world spins around me. My father is hanging like butchered meat—arms pulled taut above him by thick chains bolted to some sort of tall scaffolding above him. His face is a swollen mess of purple and red, barely recognizable, one eye sealed shut, lips split. Blood pools beneath him, soaking the stage floor where his feet barely touch. He twitches. A weak sound comes out of him, like he’s trying to speak through broken teeth.
Clay stands next to him. Towering. Broad. Covered in blood. His eyes are flat, dead, like the light in him rotted out years ago. There’s a stain of red blooming across his ribs, more slashed across his temple. His mouth curls, but it isn’t a smile—it’s something colder. Purer. Like violence made flesh.
He lunges right at Damian. And Damian’s not looking at him. He’s looking at me. His eyes lock with mine. His chest is heaving,shoulder soaked in red, his face a mix of fury and something that makes my knees give—pure fear. Not for himself. For me.
He tries to move. To come toward me. But Clay slams into him first. The impact rattles the whole stage. And Damian stumbles back. His heel catches on the edge of the broken floor. Rotten wood ending in a deep dark opening. And then—he’s gone. Swallowed by the hole in the floor like the earth just opened up and took him.
I scream. The sound tears out of me raw and guttural. My throat burns, my lungs claw for air. “Damian!”
I’m already running. I don’t remember deciding to move. I don’t care who’s in my way. My hands slam against the side of the stage as I try to climb up, desperate to see anything.
The hole is deep. Jagged. Pitch-black. There’s no sound from below. No movement. Nothing. And I’m dying. I can’t breathe. My hands shake. My knees threaten to buckle. There’s blood on the floor. Chains clinking. My father choking on his own spit.
Clay’s boot swings fast.
It clips my ankle, hard and sharp. Pain zips up my leg as I stumble sideways, my shoulder slamming against the stage. I catch myself just before the edge. My fingers find purchase in a rotted beam, the wood soft and spongey with years of damp and decay. Chunks crumble under my grip, and the dark mouth of the pit yawns inches from where I nearly fell.
A few more inches and I would’ve followed him down.
Clay laughs. A low, sick sound. “Lemme guess, you’re the baker?” he sneers. His voice is slick with venom, all mockery and rot. He gestures toward me with a bloodied hand, fingers twitching like he can’t wait to wrap them around my throat. “Thought you’d be at least pretty. But you’re nothing but an ugly dog.”
I stumble back. My chest is heaving. Pain shoots up my ankle with each step, but I don’t give him the satisfaction of wincing. Fury climbs up my throat like it’s choking me.
He circles slow, like a predator that’s already decided I’m a meal.
“How was the fire?” he asks, and his grin goes wide and feral. “Did I make it hot enough for you, sweetheart?” His laughter is a rasped bark, sharp and gleeful, like he’s proud of it.
Fuck this. Damian might be dead. If he is, then I have nothing left. That thought punches through me like a bullet. It sticks, jagged and cold, right beneath my ribs. My knees wobble, but I plant my feet wider. I will not fall. Not for Clay. He destroyed everything I had left. My home. My bakery. The life I scraped together from nothing. He turned it all to ash, like they meant nothing. And if Damian’s gone, then I have nothing left. Which means I have nothing left to lose.
I’m done with people like him—men who take and take and take until there’s nothing left of you but charred remains. I’ve been used my entire life by Vick. Terrorized by Joel. Pawned by Taylor and strangled by Zero. My body, my luck, my hard work—all just currency of someone else’s game.
Not anymore.
Something inside me explodes wide open with fire. And I don’t care how much bigger he is. I don’t care how strong. I will drag this bastard into the grave if I have to. I lift my chin, blood roaring in my ears, and spit the words like venom. “You picked the wrong girl to leave breathing.”
Clay tilts his head, blood staining his teeth, and chuckles low in his throat—like this is just getting fun.
