I stare at the fucking mountain of paperwork overcrowding my desk, and curse the recent influx of hits. The Kill Catalogue has been overflowing these last few weeks, leaving me to work with my team on clean-up duty. There are currently several assassins waiting for their payouts to hit, and I’m in the process of organizing who gets what and wiring it to their accounts. There are some government officials waiting for their portion, and a precinct that still needs its database wiped.
I rub the heel of my hand over my eye, feeling the beginning of a headache piercing my temples. My computer and the window behind me are the only sources of light in my office, illuminating the hardwood floors and bookshelf stacked high with encyclopedias.
It’s all remained untouched since my father was in charge of the Midwestern branch.
Thinking of him evokes bitter resentment in me. I never thought I could hate a person as much as I hated Jack Kinglsey.
Growing up, I fought to keep the light. I tried so damn hard to be a beacon of hope for my siblings. When Atlas or Thalia started to slip, I wasalwaysthere to catch them. I made it my duty to ensure they didn't turn out too fucked up to function.
But my old man had other plans.
The training and punishments were always brutal: being left in solitary confinement for days with no food or water, sparring with my siblings until one of us was knocked unconscious or beaten so badly we had no choice but to stop,and Jack’s personal favorite, leaving us out in the wilderness with nothing but the clothes on our backs for days on end.
During survival weeks, we were separated. Thalia was only ten, but excelled at finding drinkable water and scoping out high ground. Atlas couldn’t fucking care less and always found a way to hunt or fish for food, but my task was always to reunite us. I would search for days, following footprints and tracks, until I stumbled across one of them. After that, the other usually wasn't far behind.
We all shared a common hatred for our father, and that kept us bonded. I would laugh and make jokes to distract them as I plotted a route back to civilization. I like to think I did a pretty good job making up for where my father lacked. My siblings seemed happy despite our home life.
Until my senior year of high school.
Dad found out about my girlfriend, Harley, and nothing was the same. Not after the horrors he put me through. He gave me two options: either she dies, or I take her place. I chose the latter and experienced my first near brush with death. He had beaten and tortured me so badly that Ibeggedfor my own demise. It would have been better than the mind-numbing pain I felt fordays.
“You still breathing, son?” Jack asks, the smoke of his cigarette billowing from his lip.
The hidden room of my parents’ torture chamber in the shed reeks of chemicals and the lingering remnants of decay. Even with my nose broken and battered, I can still smell it.
My lips are dried and crusted with old blood as a fresh gush of the essence coats my mouth. I try to speak, but can only manage a mumble so low it’s barely audible. “Yes.”
Everything hurts. It’s so bad it makes my body feel as if pins and needles are prodding me from every angle. Not an inch of my skin feels comfortable. My arms are chained behind me, and the concrete below me cuts into my bare knees.
He hums roughly, squatting down in front of me. If I still had the strength, I would recoil.
What day is this?
Day five, I think.
It’s hard to tell when the only sunlight I get is when Dad opens the hatch. He takes the occasional break to eat or sleep. I can't tell if it’s worse when he’s here or the long hours he leaves me alone to suffer.
He takes the cigarette out from between his lips, pressing the burning end to my chin. It sizzles out, my blood killing the flame before it can scar me. “A fucking shame.”
He stands and stalks over to the workbench that holds tools stained with my blood and the blood of past victims. He hovers his hand over a serrated knife, his fingers ghosting the engraved handle before he picks it up and tests the weight of it.
“This is for your own good, Rowan. You’ll thank me one day.”
I close my eyes, letting the pain roll off my shoulders. I can still feel it all as if it happened yesterday. Every slice into the skin of my back, every snapping bone, and every wrecked sob that left me.
It still hurts.
I shake my head, refusing to get trapped in a day terror that’s haunted me on repeat for years. I don't have the time to get lost in the past. I have a pile of deadlines and an organization to run.
I get lost in breaking down hit costs for a while. My brain is on autopilot when something slips out from under a stack of papers. My eyes snag on the photo instantly, and I pick it up.
Everything falls away as I absently settle in my chair. My back hits the rest as my eyes soak in dark, brown hair with a tinge of red in it. Those big hazel eyes, framed by thick lashes, almost connected with my phone when I snapped the photo.
I rub a finger across Addison’s face, something stirring to life in me thatshouldn'tbe there.
It’s just infatuation—curiosity.
I promised myself that after the last run-in, I would drop it, but after meeting her for the first time at Sweet Haven, itbecame a persistent, unrelenting itch.
