But Vane’s head snaps my way instantly. “Stop.”
I fold my hands in my lap. “Look, you’re not really going to shoot somebody, are you? You’re acting like a guy in a movie.”
The minute I say it, I want to laugh—hysterically, wildly—because yeah, this is a movie. It’s Vane’s movie, in which he is the main character, saving himself and everyone else from the villain—Dorian. He’s an actor, with big emotions, a flair for drama, and a deeply wounded heart. Add some hard-core drugs to that mix, and what he’s doing actually makes a kind of sense. Right now, he’s playing the role of his life. And what better setting than an old mansion on an island in the middle of a storm?
“This isn’t a movie, Vane,” I say quietly. “It’s real life, and there are going to be real consequences. You can still leave, right now, and no one will ever know what happened. Not about the gun, the threats, or any of it. No one will know except me, and maybe Dorian if he was watching the security feed. I won’t tell, and I can make sure Dorian doesn’t retaliate against you, okay? You’re just hurting and stressed. I get it. I don’t blame you.”
He chews his lip, staring at the gun in his hand.
“How do you know Dorian was keeping an eye on me anyway?” I ask. “He might be sound asleep. We could be waiting here for hours. You must be hungry. And what if one of us has to pee? What are we gonna do then?”
“Fuck,” Vane mutters, lowering the gun.
I’ve got him. I’ve talked my way out of a hostage situation with the logic of biological needs—
And then I hear the faint burr of a boat motor.
My eyes snap to the three big windows, darkly glazed and peppered with rain. Judging from what I can hear, the storm seems to be over, but drops are still running down the windowpanes.
Vane leaps for me, grabbing me by the arm and shoving the gun into my ribs. “He’s here. Come on.”
Shit.
He hustles me to the front door, throws it open, and shoves me in front of him, wrapping an arm around me and jabbing the gun under my chin. Basically using me as both a human shield and a threat.
The scent of the rain-washed night floods over us, carried on a stormy whirl of air that skitters leaves across the porch. I’m barefoot on the threshold, eyes fixed on the slope of pebbled ground leading from the house down to the dock.
Not a glimmer of starlight leaks through the heavy underbelly of the clouded sky. Beyond the dim swath of light cast from the doorway of the house, all I can make out are distant black shapes.
I can’t speak to Vane anymore. With the mouth of the gun jammed into the tender flesh under my jaw, I hardly dare to breathe.
If I were Dorian, if I had a portrait like him, I’d have nothing to fear. I might be brave enough to grab Vane’s wrist, pull it down, and twist out of his grip. I might not be so terrified that if I try something like that, I’ll end up with half my face blown off.
Damn it, I hate guns. And I hate people. And most of all, I hate Dorian Gray for making me care about him. It’s like instead of running from his red flags, I fucking collected them. Carelessly. Eagerly. Clutched them to my chest like a big bouquet of roses.
And now the owner of all those red flags is emerging from the darkness, clad in a billowing black coat that makes my heart sink, becausedamndoes it make him look exactly like the storybook villain Vane thinks he is.
Vane could shoot him, and Dorian might survive. The painting might have enough lifesaving juice left in it.
But Vane knows shooting Dorian directly isn’t going to kill him. He wants to get to the portrait itself. Which means he’ll needleverage. A way to force Dorian to unlock the painting’s impenetrable shield.
I’m guessing that’s where I come in. I’m the hostage, the leverage.
“He won’t do it,” I hiss through my teeth.
Vane shoves the gun harder against my throat, and I almost gag. “Shut up.” Then he yells into the night, toward the approaching figure. “If you have a gun, you better drop it now. Throw it into the grass.”
Dorian keeps stalking closer, not answering, not yielding.
“Now!” screeches Vane. “Do it now, fuck you, or I’ll start blowing holes in her!”
Dorian halts, not far from the watery border on the grass where the light from the house fades into gloom. He lifts his hand. Tosses a gun onto the lawn.
“Anything else?” yells Vane. “You come in here with a weapon, I’m gonna shoot off some of her fingers.”
I think I’ve been pretty fucking brave so far, but that does me in. Vane might not be planning to kill me, but he could do permanent nonlethal damage. Tears well up in my eyes, burning hot, spilling onto my cheeks. I clench my teeth so hard my jaw aches. A tightness expands in my chest, aching to burst out—but I won’t cry and sob and beg. I won’t.
Blood on the sofa…blood sprayed across a hardwood floor…maybe this is how every one of my kind ends. Maybe this is how weshouldend, my family line and our unnatural power.
