Chapter One: Jinx
Iwakeuptothe smell of coffee and the immediate urge to kill someone.
Not the satisfying kind of murder where you plan it out and savor the build. The irritating kind. The kind where some asshole has invaded your territory and you want to rip out his throat with your teeth.
Asher fucking Madden is in my kitchen.
His kitchen, technically. The farmhouse belongs to his aunt, which means it belongs to him, which means I've been squatting in enemy territory for three weeks without knowing it. Jagger failed to mention that detail when he set up our safehouse. Probably on purpose. My brother loves watching me suffer.
I drag myself out of bed and catch my reflection in the cracked mirror. Six foot five of pissed-off Harrison, black hair tangled past my shoulders, tattoos snaking up my arms and across my chest. The ink tells stories I don't talk about. The scars tell worse ones. My eyes are bloodshot from a shit sleep full of dreams I won't remember, and there's a bruise blooming on my jaw from yesterday's incident with a tree.
The tree started it.
I pull on pants and nothing else. If Asher doesn't like looking at my scarred-up torso, he can go fuck himself. The stairs groan under my weight, announcing my arrival like I'm some kind of goddamn royalty descending to greet the peasants.
He doesn't turn around when I enter.
He's standing at the counter, broad shoulders straining against a black t-shirt that's been washed too many times. His head is shaved clean, and there’s ink crawling up the back of his neck. Prison tattoos. Same as the faded designs covering his hands and forearms. He's not as tall as me, few people are, but he's built like someone carved him out of concrete and bad intentions. Even with his back turned, I can see the way he holds himself. Balanced. Ready. Like he's waiting for someone to throw the first punch.
The coffee maker gurgles. He pours two cups.
"You look like death warmed over." His voice is rough, a mix between a rasp and a growl.
"You look like an unwanted houseguest."
"It's my house."
"Semantics."
He turns, and I get the full force of those flat dark eyes. His nose is crooked from being broken too many times. I know because I broke it twice myself, back in the pits, back when I was supposed to beat him to death and didn't. There's a scar through his left eyebrow that I didn't put there. Someone else marked him. The thought makes my jaw tight.
He holds out a cup. "Coffee?"
"I don't want anything from you."
"Then don't take it." He sets the cup on the counter and sips his own. "But it's good coffee. Be a shame to waste it."
I want to throw the mug at his skull. I want to flip the table and drive him through the window and finish what I started six years ago in a blood-soaked pit while rich men watched and bet on our deaths.
I take the coffee.
It is good. I hate that.
"Where is everyone?"
"Town. Supplies." He leans against the counter, arms crossed, like we're two normal people having a normal conversation. Like he didn't show up yesterday and detonate a bomb in the middle of my carefully constructed denial. "They'll be back in a few hours."
"And they left us alone."
"Jagger's idea."
"Jagger's a manipulative prick."
"Runs in the family."
I set down the mug before I shatter it in my fist. "What do you want, Asher? You show up out of nowhere, act like you belong with us, offer to help with the mission. What's your angle?"
"No angle."
