Her eyelids grow heavy again as the medication pulls her back toward sleep. “I’m sorry.”
The words twist in my heart like a knife. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”
“I should have told you about the suppressants.” Tears thicken her words. “Should have found another way.”
I brush the hair from her forehead. “We both should have done things differently. But what happened wasn’t your fault.”
Her breathing deepens as sleep reclaims her, but her fingers remain tangled with mine. I wait until her grip slackens before extracting my hand.
The room grows darker as night sets in. Streetlights flicker on, casting orange bars across the ceiling through the gaps in the blinds. The tensioneases from Lena’s features in sleep, leaving her appearing young and untroubled.
I stand, keeping my movements slow to avoid disturbing her sleep. The mattress rises as I stand, and she turns onto her side, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders. A small sound escapes her lips, and I freeze until her breathing evens out again.
The knife I keep in my work bag will need sharpening. The black clothes I wear for my diner job will serve a different purpose.
At the threshold, I pause for one last look at my sister. In sleep, the worry lines disappear from her forehead, and she could be twelve again, when I first became her guardian.
The sight strengthens my resolve. She deserves to sleep without fear, to walk without fear of someone following her, to exist without her body being treated as property.
I leave the door open far enough to hear if she calls out. In the hallway, darkness pools thick and complete, matching the cold certainty that settles within me.
By the end of the week, an Alpha will learn what happens when he hurts my family.
5
The service stairwell reeks of bleach and urine, and the combination burns my nostrils after three days of surveillance. From my position on the landing between floors, I have a clear view of Danny’s apartment door. Apartment 4C. Fourth floor, third unit from the elevator.
Monday, I tailed Danny from where he worked to his apartment, where he arrived home at nine-thirteen, carrying a paper bag of vodka.
Tuesday, eight-fifty-seven, the same routine.
Wednesday held a slight deviation when he brought a young woman with him, her head down and shoulders hunched. They entered together at ten-twenty. She left alone at midnight, her makeup smeared and her collar pulled high around her neck.
While he was at work, I broke into his apartment to map out the layout, memorizing the fastest routes on and off his floor, the distance between the stairwell and his door, and the twenty-second delay on the security lights.
I would have preferred more time to confirm his patterns, but with Friday fast approaching, I’m out of time.
The night shift manager at the liquor store works Thursdays, which means Danny gets off at eight-thirty. Factoring in his usual stop at the corner store for cigarettes, he should return home around nine.
I have sixty-two minutes.
My backpack drags at my shoulders as I emerge from the stairwell, baseball cap down to hide my identity, and my movements casual but purposeful.
The hallway stretches empty in both directions, and I approach Danny’s door without hesitation, as if I belong. The lock is a basic deadbolt, good enough to keep out amateurs, but poses no challenge to my trained fingers.
I pull on latex gloves and unroll my tools on the carpet beside the door, selecting a tension wrench and hook pick.
In thirty seconds, I’m in.
I close the door behind me, taking in the apartment with a quick scan. The air hangs thick with stale beer and unwashed clothes, undercut by the unmistakable musk of Alpha pheromones. Empty bottles crowd the coffee table, while takeout containers fill the kitchen sink, crusted with what might have been last week’s dinner.
A television dominates one wall, surrounded by gaming consoles with controllers left on the floor. Dirty laundry lies in small mountains across the carpet. The coffee table hosts a collection of cigarette butts, crushed into an ashtray shaped like a woman’s body.
My fingers curl into fists at my sides. This is the type of man who dared to claim my sister.
I force the rage down, channeling it as I unpack my supplies from my backpack.
The painter’s tarp unfolds with a crackle as I lay it across the living room floor. The zip ties I arrange by size beside my bag, ready for use.
