“See, the darkness is leaking from the cracks.
I cannot contain it.
I cannot contain my life.”
—Sylvia Plath, Three Women
Ipace into the basement and find Griff already in room three, where my tray lies prepped and waiting. He’s got our latest hit unconscious and halfway chained to the column as he works on the guy’s ankles.
I inhale the moment, letting it seep into my bloodstream as I wait for the calm to kick in.
This is it.
What I fucking needed.
My jaw ticks as uninvited images continue to devour me—Emmy’s naked body wrapped around me, her nails piercing my skin, my blood on her neck. I’m standing in front of my next kill, yet she’s still all I fucking see. A growl catches in my throat as I stare straight ahead—trying to will her taste, her body, her subtle hints of madness from my mind.
Andrew isn’t supposed to be here right now. I’m already pissed at having to move him up an entire damn month. After over a decade, I’m finally down to the last four people on my list. With the exception of Murphy, who we’ve been after for years, I need to preserve and savor them as long as I can. Because fuck if I know what I’m going to do once my list runs dry.
Raife and Griff have other plans—other lists. Enough to keep them at this for at least another decade, thanks to being dealt some shitty hands before winding up with Misha. It’s a fucking wonder the two of them never met before the studio. They’re both from the shadiest streets of New York, both survived things I never had to go through. They won’t call it rape, won’t talk about it, but that’s what it was. Griff’s abuse was from his own father before he got fed up and took to the streets; Raife never had a father, but their pasts before Misha are similar in ways only they can understand. So they have their own lists. It’s something we’ve discussed at length over the past year, along with some tempting offers they’ve made for me to join them.
But it doesn’t work that way. If the hit doesn’t have a stake in sucking my soul dry, then I gain nothing by taking their life. A random kill is useless to me.
With my hands in my pockets, I glance at the pathetic excuse before me—his balding head drooping, his scrawny frame limp. A coward who could hardly look at us when he slipped our food trays through the bars, day after day after day. Watching kids come and go, sustaining our caged lives until Katerina or Murphy decided our fates. This one, was perhaps the weakest of them all.
When Griff finishes, I tilt my chin toward him. “You staying?”
“Nah.” His lips curl. “Piece of shit’s not worth my time.”
I nod, and he paces from the room.
He’s right. It’s a shame I had to move this one up at all. My mind thinks I’m permanently blue-balled; my bones are screaming for any fucking fix I can get, and it’s a shit combination. I narrow my eyes on him, irritation coiling around my shoulders.
When Emmy walked into our meeting this morning—her long hair swaying like it remembered me, her blue eyes wide and begging me to bring out the rest of her dirty secrets—it took everything I had not to drag her back to my bed.
Fuck.
Stepping forward, I smack Andrew’s cheek a few times to wake him. He stirs, struggling to open his eyes. That won’t be an issue in a moment.
I dig my knife from my pocket and toss it beside the tray. Squinting, I step toward the table.
The hell?
The scalpel is lying halfway on the tray, half off. I’m meticulous with my equipment, and my brothers know it. They wouldn’t have touched my shit. It’s rare that I use the instruments as it is; they’re mostly here for nostalgic purposes, and the scalpel was one of Katerina’s favorite tools.
Running the backs of my fingers down my jaw, I can’t help but recall a certain mouse trying to sneak in here.
“Wha—what ...” I glance at Andrew as he comes to. “What’s going on?”
Finally.
I move toward him, stopping inches from his face and tilting my head as I watch the fear take over. His eyes go wide, his body shaking before I even introduce myself. Funny how quickly they realize something’s wrong with this picture when they’re the ones strapped down.
“Hello, Andrew.” I slip my hands into my pockets, closing my eyes for a second as I will the calm to wash over me. Usually, the adrenaline comes first when I enter the room and see them waiting. Lately, however, adrenaline is all I fucking feel, boiling inside me and threatening to split me open. I need to jump straight to the goddamn calm. “My name is Adam, but you might remember me better as Lucas Costa.”
Confusion wrinkles his forehead. I’d usually give them a minute for the recognition to sink in, but at the moment I couldn’t give a fuck. With my veins on fire and the pressure in my head steadily increasing, I’m a bomb seconds away from imploding. He’ll put the pieces together soon enough. Whether it’s before or after the cutting begins is up to him.
I’m about to go for my knife when I stop. Glance back at the tray. Pick up the scalpel.
