Proof. The word tastes like bile in my throat.
I press my hand against the wall, fingers trembling.
They’re talking about Owen, and Wraith is the one who pulled the fucking trigger.
My head spins, my stomach recoiling at the thought. How am I supposed to move forward with that knowledge?
I have got to get thefuckout of here.
The thought hits me like a thunderbolt. They already know I’m lying. They’re close to finding out just exactlywhoI am.
I back away slowly, careful not to make a sound, every muscle coiled tight. My pulse beats fast enough that I swear they’ll hear it. I don’t stop until I’m back in my room, the door shut, the darkness closing around me.
For a long time, I just stand there. Listening. Waiting. The quiet is worse than their voices.
Because now I know — they’re already doubting me.
And doubt kills faster than bullets in a house like this.
I pace, fingers in my hair, breath shaking. My mind runs through contingencies — what I have, what I’ve hidden, what I can trade. Information isn’t enough anymore. I’m running outof leverage. Fear makes people irrational. Fear makes people do things they swore they’d never do.
Like this.
This place is locked down so tightly that I'll never make it out the front gate. But maybe… maybe there’s another way. The thought creeps in slow, unwelcome but seductive…
If I can get one of them towantme enough, I’ll be safe.
They protect what they claim. I’ve seen it. Mateo would be the easiest — all flirt and fire. Wraith, maybe, if I pushed the right buttons. Even Rook, under the right light, when control starts to slip.
Ihatethat I know this. Ihatethat I’m even considering it.
But logic and desperation aren’t enemies. They just speak different languages.
I move to the window, pressing my palm to the cool glass. The rain blurs the world outside into smears of gray. Somewhere out there, London keeps turning — fast, loud, oblivious.
Here, everything’s still. So fucking quiet, and I hate that, too.
If I play this right, I might live. If I don’t…
I exhale, sharp and unsteady.
No. Not yet. Not like that.
Once I start using my body as a weapon, I’ll never stop. I’ve got to find another way.
And I’ve already lost enough of myself to survive.
I crawl into bed, dragging the covers up, the chill biting through cotton. The walls feel closer now. I can still hear echoes — voices, footsteps, the faint hum of the house breathing.
Sleep doesn’t come easily.
But as I drift toward it, one truth anchors itself in the dark:
They’re right to be afraid of me.
Because if I’m going down, I’ll make damn sure I take them with me.
Rain still ghosts the windows when I wake, dragging the world into gray smears. For a long stupid second I lie there, eyes open, counting ceiling cracks because counting is a thing you do when your head is a hive of bad thoughts. The bed smells faintly of him—Caelum—like soap and smoke, and that smell still crawls under my skin.
