I'm not fine.
The gate opens automatically when I pull up. Margot must have added my license plate to the system. The driveway curves through perfectly manicured grounds, lit by solar lights that line the path like runway markers.
I park in the garage. Three empty spaces beside me—one for each brother. Atlas's Mercedes. Zero's Audi. Bane's Range Rover.
All gone.
Good.
Maybe I can make it to my room without running into anyone. Maybe I can lock myself in and ride out whatever this is until the headache goes away and my skin stops feeling like it's on fire and I can think straight again.
Maybe.
I let myself in through the side door. The house is dark. Quiet.
And then I hear it.
Music.
Bass-heavy. Loud. Pounding up through the floor from somewhere below.
The basement.
Fuck.
I should go upstairs. Should ignore it. Should lock myself in my room and pretend I didn't hear anything.
I don't.
My feet carry me toward the basement stairs. Down the hall. Past the kitchen. The music gets louder with every step. Heavy bass that I can feel in my chest, in my bones, rattling through me like a second heartbeat.
The basement door is open.
I take the stairs slowly. One at a time. My hand on the railing. The music is deafening now. Some aggressive rap song I don't recognize. All bass and anger and raw energy.
The gym takes up half the basement. State-of-the-art equipment. Weights. Machines. A boxing setup in the corner. Mats covering the floor.
And Zero.
He's in the center of the room, shirtless, attacking a heavy bag like it insulted his dead mother. Each punch lands with a meaty thwack that cuts through the music. His shoulders flex. His back ripples. Sweat gleams on his skin, catching the overhead lights.
He's beautiful.
And terrifying.
I should leave.
I don't move.
He must sense me. Must feel me watching. Because he stops mid-punch and turns.
His eyes lock on mine.
Dark. Wild. Pupils blown so wide they're almost black.
He doesn't say anything. Just stares. His chest heaves. His hands are wrapped in tape, knuckles split and bleeding through the fabric.
The music pounds between us. Deafening.
