I’m not ready to speak with Eve yet. I need to take some time for myself, allow my mind to settle, before I grovel at my best friend’s feet for forgiveness.
In the early morning darkness, I quickly make the bed, then decide to get cleaned up. When I step through the door, I groan with happiness when I see the huge, elegant shower and deep Jacuzzi tub.
All my toiletries are in the bathroom, neatly laid out and ready to use. I take a few happy minutes to arrange my things, then prepare myself for a long, hot bath.
When I look up, my smile falters. In the mirror, the bruises bloom darker than yesterday. They’re deep violet, nearly black.
Ugly reminders of Jameson’s hands.
Of the pressure and the fear.
My skin should be mine. I shouldn’t have to see him when I look at myself.
The bugs under my skin stir, rustling and skittering along muscle and marrow.
Then Jameson’s hands—his breath—crash into my mind like a fist to the ribs.
I want themout.
The pain. The memories. The fucking fear.
All of it.
But I can’t afford to break.
There’s Ezra. The underborne. The Disciples.
The power I was born into but never asked for.
The crown the previous Daughters abandoned, too heavy to carry.
But it’s mine now. And I’ll fucking claim it—for them.
Leaning against the bathroom counter, I take a deep breath to steady myself and calm the bugs. Since the attack on Friday night, I haven’t had a single free moment to myself. I haven’t really processed what happened.
I can sleep a little easier knowing Ezra devoured Jameson. He can’t hurt me anymore, at least not physically. But the Disciples are still out there, and as far as I know, they still want me dead.
The danger isn’t over. I know that.
But it’s not the next attack that terrifies me. It’s the quiet in between.
The silence isn’t peace. It’s a fucking invitation. Room for Jameson to crawl into my head and scream his lies through the void.
Ezra is gone. Louie is unconscious. Eve doesn’t know—and she can’t. Not about the supernatural bullshit, anyway. She can handle the human mess, the trauma, but not this.
I’m alone.
My breath stutters, chest cinching until it feels like the air won’t fit.
It starts as a tremor in my fingertips, then spreads.
Cold. Clawing up my arms. Down my spine.
Is this who I am now? … No, because fuck that.
I refuse to let that sentient, man-shaped pile of micro-penises haunt me every time the world goes still. Jameson’s attack will always haunt me, but I’m stronger than that … stronger than him.
When I look in the mirror again, the woman who stares back looks fierce and determined.
