“Wish we could,” he shoots back, winking. “But yourkeeperwould slit our throats before we got close. Now go pack your bag before he gets back and decides to chain you to the fucking bed.”
I turn, walking numbly toward the hall, and then stop against my better judgment.
“What’s Valcross?”
The grin slides off his face before he looks away. “Hell,” he says finally. Then picks up his knife, dismissing me with a flick of his wrist. “Now get the fuck out.”
The road windsendlessly through the dark and trees blur past the window. The man Arsen sent hasn’t spoken since we left, his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror every so often—just enough to remind me I’m still being watched. Still not free.
But even if I was, what would I do with it?
This is supposed to be a new beginning. And yet all I feel is grief. Not the kind that crashes loud. The kind that seeps in quietly. Because he’s really gone. And this time, there’s no pretending he might be out there somewhere. No fantasy of reunion, no hope to chase down.
My father is dead.
Again.
And only Priest heard the last thing he ever said. Whatever truths he carried to his grave, whatever regrets or warnings or absolution he tried to speak with his dying breath—Priest took that from me, too.
Maybe some things are better left buried.
But I can’t stop wondering.
The car slows as we turn onto a narrow road.
No matter where I go, I’ll never stop being his daughter. I bear his name, even if I’ve lost it. I bear his legacy, even if I run from it. I bear his scars. And no amount of distance will ever be enough to outrun that.
And somehow that hurts more than anything.
Because what they don’t tell you about survival is that it doesn’t come clean. No matter what name I wear—no matter what life I’m forced to build from the ashes—none of it feels like winning. Not when survival means losing everything you love, and still having to carry what’s left.
The car stops as we veer onto a side road.
“Fuck,” the driver mutters, reaching into the center console. He pulls out a gun and checks the mag. “Stay in the car.”
I don’t get a chance to respond. Two masked large figures step out from the brush, dressed in black. The driver’s door is ripped open and he’s yanked out, his head slammed hard against the frame. The wet crack of bone shatters the silence.
I lunge for my bag—gun already halfway out—but the back door swings open before I can aim.
“Going somewhere,kitten?”
My heart punches against my ribs. For a second, everything stills—the air ripped from my lungs.
Priest leans against the open door, peeling off the mask slowly, his dark, damp hair hanging across his forehead in jagged waves.
Raze grunts in the background, hauling the driver’s limp body into the back of the SUV. He slams the door shut.
The car shifts as Priest climbs in beside me. His size swallows the space. He grabs my bag, tosses it into the front seat, then reaches across me and unbuckles my seatbelt with a soft click.
“Look at me, Arlo.”
I don’t. I can’t.
His hand shoots out, clamps around my throat, and shoves my head back against the seat.
“Did youreallythink I was going to let you go? That you could just disappear?” His eyes are black. Not dark…black. Devoid of blue. Devoid of anything human.
Raze’s voice echoes in my skull.
