She’s alive.
Barely.
Just how I left her.
The boys halt as one body. Nightshade inhales like he’s smelling a crime scene written in my handwriting. Bones goes “holyfuck.” But his voice is laced with pride. Hatchet’s lips part in a delighted, silent laugh. Ghost narrows his eyes, committing the details to memory. Snow laughs outright.
Valentine crosses himself and slaps a hand over his mouth. “She’s— She’s— Kayla, she’s?—”
“Alive,” I say brightly. “You’re welcome. And if you didn’t figure it out yet, it was her who got me off the island.”
Fuck. I said,got me off.Not took me. Not abducted or kidnapped. Got. Like it was planned all along. My first slip-up. But no one seems to notice it.
Bones turns to me slowly. “What did shedoto deserve this?”
I cock my head. “Let’s see. Manipulated. Lied. Drugged me. Tried to sell my uterus to the Director’s hobby group? Honestly, she’s lucky I’m feeling whimsical. They were going to take my baby.”
Nightshade steps closer to the doctor, crouching with a predator’s poise. “You touched her,” he murmurs. The violence in his tone makes me shiver with delight. My nipples instantly harden and I’m suddenly reminded of just how long its been since I got fucked. I glance over at Hatchet who’s smirking knowingly at me. Too many minutes that’s for sure.
The doctor’s eyes crack open. She sees him. She sees them.
And then she sees me.
“P—please—” she whispers. “Don’t…leave…”
“Oh darling,” I say sweetly, “that’s what notes are for.”
Valentine rounds on the others. “Wehaveto call emergency services?—”
“No,” Nightshade says without rising. “We don’t.”
Bones lifts a shoulder. “Natural consequences.”
“I mean…she does look like she was asking for it,” Honeymonster points out diplomatically.
Ghost studies her with clinical detachment. “Donnelly says she’ll live long enough to be found by the people who need to find her. That’s all that matters.”
Hatchet reaches out and grabs a pan, scrawling on a loose sheet of paper on the desk. He gets me, so I know what he’s telling the others:Kayla left message. Not our business.
I’m delighted.
“See? My men are so supportive. I missed you.”
Nightshade rises then, stands in front of me, and cups the back of my neck like I’ll evaporate if he uses less than two hands.
“We’re leaving,” he says, voice made of gravel and worship.
“Yes,” I say. “Before the fire suppression decides to have an identity crisis.”
The alarms cough again overhead.
Perfect timing.
A van waitsoutside like an obedient animal, engine still warm, doors left ajar because someone ran from it in a hurry.
We pile in with the smooth choreography of people who’ve escaped worse disasters than this.
Honeymonster drives and Snow takes shotgun. Hatchet and Ghost jump in the back row like bodyguards assigned by an unhinged god.
