NATURAL BORN KILLERS

SICK BOYS BOOK 3

LUCY SMOKE

Copyright © 2021 by Lucy Smoke

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Editing by Heather Long and Your Editing Lounge

Cover Design: Dee Garcia at Black Widows Designs

Created with Vellum

CONTENTS

Author’s Note

Prologue

1.  Avalon

2.  Dean

3.  Avalon

4.  Dean

5.  Avalon

6.  Avalon

7.  Dean

8.  Avalon

9.  Avalon

10.  Avalon

11.  Avalon

12.  Avalon

13.  Avalon

14.  Dean

15.  Avalon

16.  Avalon

17.  Dean

18.  Avalon

19.  Avalon

20.  Dean

21.  Avalon

22.  Avalon

23.  Dean

24.  Avalon

25.  Avalon

26.  Dean

27.  Avalon

28.  Dean

29.  Avalon

30.  Avalon

31.  Avalon

32.  Dean

33.  Avalon

34.  Dean

35.  Avalon

36.  Avalon

37.  Avalon

38.  Dean

39.  Avalon

40.  Avalon

41.  Dean

42.  Avalon

43.  Dean

44.  Dean

45.  Avalon

46.  Avalon

47.  Avalon

48.  Avalon

49.  Dean

50.  Avalon

Epilogue

THANK YOU FOR READING

About the Author

Also By Lucy Smoke / Lucinda Dark

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Hey friend! Welcome back to the world of the Sick Boys. If you’ve made it this far then you know what to expect in this little note—a warning.

As in the previous books in this series, Natural Born Killers is a Dark Romance. That means that if events, actions, and themes common in dark romance are triggering for you then this may not be the book for you. NBK is just as dark, if not more so, than the previous books in the Sick Boys series.

This book may be a little more psychologically fucked up, so if that’s something that upsets or triggers you, again, this may not be the book for you.

This is the last book in Avalon and Dean’s story and I want to thank everyone for coming along with me on this ride. These two assholes have been a major turning point in my life and in my career. They’re violent and fucked up and I love them very much because of that. I hope you enjoy Avalon’s journey of revenge and romance.

LAST WARNING: If you are sensitive to or offended by any such themes that are common in dark romances or you are easily triggered, this book may not be the best fit for you. Please keep that in mind and read responsibly.

“I threw myself to the wolves, only to learn the tenderness of their howl, and loyalty in their blood.”

Isra Al-Thibeh

PROLOGUE

AVALON

The soft whirring of tires turning over pavement lifts me out of the darkness. It feels like several tons of concrete are sitting over my eyes as I fight to open them. Once I do, I find that my forehead is pressed against the cool glass of a car window. Blinking rapidly, I sit up. The world is foggy; I can't seem to bring anything directly into focus even with my eyes wide open. Trees fly past outside and I look to see who the driver is.

"Dean?"

His head turns. "Hey," he says, his voice deep and familiar and yet, at the same time—strange. "You're awake."

"Where are we?" A hard pounding ricochets through my skull. I put a palm to the side of my head and groan. "What happened?"

"Don't worry," he replies, looking back through the windshield. "It's going to be okay. We're almost there."

"There?" I repeat, confused. "Where are we going?"

He doesn't answer, and that doesn’t sit right with me.

"Dean?" Something hits me. We’re in the Mustang, but Abel isn’t here. I feel around, my hands cold and shaking. The aching in my skull isn't going away. Instead, it’s getting worse. It feels like red hot spikes are being shoved through my ear holes and into my brain. "Ugh." I lower my face to my knees, breathing rapidly through my mouth and nose as I try to bear through the pain. What’s wrong with me? Why can't I remember getting in the car? Why does everything still feel so fuzzy?

"Dean," I say through clenched teeth, "where are we going? Why are we in Abel's Mustang? Where is Abel? Where's everyone else?"

Dean turns his head towards me, though his hands remain gripping the wheel. "It's going to be okay," he repeats.

A chill rushes down my spine and irritation flares to life. I slam my fist against the dashboard. "Stop fucking saying that,” I snap. "Just answer me!"

"You're hurt, Avalon," he says, cool faced. Not Ava. Not baby. Avalon. I turn my head and stare at him for a long moment, but he doesn’t look at me. I’m in pain—it’s obvious—and he’s not asking me if I’m okay. No, he’s not asking—he’s telling me that I will be. Maybe I’d believe it if his voice shook, if he showed some sort of emotion, but he seems as cool as ever. And that's when I know. This isn't real. He isn't real. Whoever this man is, he most certainly is not Dean Carter.

My hand shoots for the glove compartment and I rip it open, reaching in for the gun I know is always stashed there. My hand meets empty air. I jerk my head down. There’s nothing in there, not even papers or old receipts like there normally is. It’s just … empty. Slowly, I lift my head and stare at the man driving the car. "Who the hell are you?"

He glances my way finally and sighs. "I thought you would feel more comfortable with this face," the man says.

Chills chase down my spine. "That's not an answer," I reply.

"You should get comfortable," he says, ignoring me. "We'll be there soon."

"You still haven't told me where we're going," I grit out.

"I'm surprised you haven't figured it out yet, Avalon."

I hate it when he says my name with that face. Whoever this man is, he isn't right. There is not a single ounce of emotion in him. No fear. No anger. No concern. Just a stillness, a coldness I’ve only ever experienced from one other human being before.

His body is like a puppet. His movements are jerky as if he’s being played and pulled around by strings. I want to cut them. I want to shoot him in the head and see what comes out. Will it be blood? Or will he be as hollow and empty as his words?

My breath comes faster. The pain grows fiercer. My eyes dart to the door handle. I reach for it.

"Don't," he warns.

"Don't what?" I ask sharply. "I want out. Get me the hell out of here."

As I fight through the agony in my head, a new one spreads through my chest. Breathing becomes harder. My heart squeezes, pumping so slowly it’s as if it’s moving tar through my veins and arteries instead of blood. What’s happening to me? Where the hell am I? Is this a dream?

"It's not a dream," the man says. Had he read my mind or had I asked that question aloud? I don't know. I can't even hear myself think anymore.

"Fuck," I whimper. It hurts. I want it to stop. Stop hurting. Stop tearing me apart inside. I want it to stop. Stop. STOP!

"It will," the man assures me.

"Stop doing that!" I yell. My lungs squeeze with my panic. "Let me out!" I grab onto the door handle and yank. It doesn't move. I release it and punch the window. My bones feel like they've broken, but the glass remains unfractured. I’m not going to stop, though—not until I get out of this fucking car.

"Avalon, you’ll hurt yourself before we even arrive. I recommend that you don't."

"Shut the fuck up!" I scream. "I don't know who you are. I don't trust you and I hate that fucking face you're wearing!" I rear back and punch him. "Fuck!" I double over, cradling my fist in my hand. His face is like granite beneath the facade of human skin. Certainly harder than the glass.

"Calm down," he says.

I work through the pain. Unbuckling my seatbelt and sliding down in the passenger seat. I turn and put my feet against the window and start kicking. "Dean!" I scream his name. "Dean, get me out!"

Suddenly, the dark trees outside begin to grow lighter. Sunlight peeks in through the branches. I shudder inside. The warmth in the car turns cold—like ice in my veins. The fake Dean turns his head towards me and stares in what appears to be shock. "Interesting," he murmurs.

"What?" I look back at him, trying not to panic, but that’s all I feel right now. Panic. Horror. Fear. True fear. Where is the real Dean? Why isn’t he here? "What's interesting? What does that mean?"

He looks down at me. "I thought you were ready," he says. "I guess not."

I gape at him. "No fucking shit, Sherlock! Now, let me out."

He hums and I feel the car decelerate. "It's time for you to wake up, Avalon."

“What?” I blurt. I sit up straighter as something hard hits my back, like a hard metal surface, but when I glance at the seat, it’s normal—just a regular car seat. Nothing metal about it. I refocus on the fake Dean.

The car rolls to a stop as more sunlight pours in through the trees on either side of us, and he turns to face me fully. "Wake. Up."

I’m propelled out of the car by a force I can't see. My eyes slam shut and when I open them again, I’m not in the Mustang anymore. Instead, I’m on a rolling table. The hard metal surface, I absently realize. A bright light shines down on my face—not sunlight but a manufactured light—straight into my eyes. What the fuck? Memories come rushing back to me. Corina. Patricia. Them. The gun. Dean’s blood. I’m not where I’m supposed to be. I’m not with Dean. Where is he?

"She's awake!" someone yells, distracting me.

"Increase the dose and put her back under,” someone else replies. “We're not done."

The black fog that I'd fought my way free of before begins to seep into my mind once more. My lips part and I can feel how dry and cracked they are. "No..." I can't go back. I won't.

"Shhh." Someone's fingers brush over my hair, smoothing it back from my face. "It's okay, Avalon," they say. "This is a good thing. You're awake, honey. You woke up. You'll wake up again."

That’s the last I hear before the darkness rips me back into oblivion. Right back into hell.

1

AVALON

15 YEARS OLD …

“High or drunk?" The sound of Micki's voice causes me to lift my head and look her way. She stands at the end of the cracked driveway of Patricia's single wide in a pair of cut off shorts, a baggy t-shirt, and dollar store flip-flops that look one wrong step from snapping even under her slight stature. Has she lost weight? I wonder. If I comment, she'll just blow me off. It’s what she does. Hell, I can’t even be mad about it; I would too.

"Neither," I tell her. "She's with Roger and a couple of his guys—fucking, probably."

"Ah, well, guess that’s the life of an adult,” she says lightly.

I snort and lower my head back to my knees, breathing deeply as I do so. I’m so fucking tired and hungry. Some ‘life’ Patricia leads. I have to believe that not every ‘adult’—if that’s even a term I’d use for my mother—is like her. Micki rolls her shoulders back and shoves her hands into the pockets on her ass before turning away. She takes two steps down the street, pauses, and glances over. "You coming or what?"

I thought she'd never ask. I jump up from my spot and follow after her, knowing whatever she's got cooked up in that crazy brain of hers will be a welcome relief to waiting out Patricia's disgusting payment method. I kind of hope whatever Roger gives her will kill her this time. Sooner or later, something or someone will.

Micki heads off down the road and I trail her, walking slower as I stare at the back of her head. It's only been a few months since I met the strange girl who lives a couple of miles up the road from the trailer park. Since then, we've formed a sort of distant friendship.

From the night we met, she knows about my mom and my life. I know that she lives alone in a ranch house that's ten times nicer than the trailer. But it's weird—she's weird. She's always alone. No mention of any parents. I've never seen her at school—though I suppose since she's eighteen, she could have already graduated. Or maybe she’s just in one of the schools I’ve already been kicked out of.

The fact is, I don't know anything about Micki except that she doesn't seem to mind my attitude. She doesn't judge me about Patricia when most would take one look at the drug-addicted stripper’s daughter and see nothing but the same. She’s pretty handy at teaching me to fight—far better than learning on my own, which has only gotten me a few cracked teeth, several bloody noses, and a few close calls with a broken limb—arm, leg, finger, didn’t matter. Street fighters went after everything they could get and they fought dirty. There is one thing that does bother me about Micki, though. She’s cool, older, and easy to hang with, but she’s got secrets. Weird ones.

When we make it to her place, she hops up the back porch steps, and heads for the rear door, twisting the knob and swinging it open to head into the older kitchen with its cracked tiles and dated design. "Want something to eat?" she asks.

I shrug and turn back to close the door. "Did you really leave your door unlocked?" I ask with a scoff. "You know someone might just break into your house and steal your shit. This isn't a great area."

Micki snickers as she pops open the fridge and reaches inside. "It's not really breaking and entering if I left the door open," she replies. "And I don't care if they do."

"You don't care if they take your stuff?" I scowl at her, wondering why the hell I spend my time with such a fucking weirdo. Who the hell just openly wants people to steal from them?

Micki pulls a casserole dish out of the fridge and lifts the tinfoil over it before sniffing the contents. She wrinkles her nose and pivots towards the trash can, dumping it inside—glass pan and all. Like I said, a motherfucking weirdo. Next, she grabs a loaf of bread, yanks out a couple of pieces, and proceeds to make a PB&J—two, one for her and one for me. My stomach rumbles, telling me to keep my mouth shut about her strange habits and complete disregard for shit—as if none of it actually belongs to her and therefore, it doesn't warrant even a modicum of interest or care—and let her feed me. It might be the only thing I eat for a while.

"Listen," Micki starts, "it's just stuff. Ain't nothing super special about it. Whatever gets broke or thrown away will be fixed or replaced … eventually."

"Yeah, but what if you need it before that ‘eventually’ comes?" I can't help but ask.

At the countertop, her movements still until she stops what she's doing completely and turns around to face me. "I don't need anything," she says. "And neither do you."

I frown. Of course, we need shit, I think. We need to sleep and eat or else we'll die.

As if she senses the direction of my thoughts, she smiles and waves the butter knife in her hand through the air before turning back to spread jelly over the bread slices. "I mean, sure we need the basic necessities," she says. "Water. Food. Sleep. But everything else is just window dressing. Everything else comes and goes. It was here before we came along for the most part and it’ll be here when we’re gone. Other than what we need for pure survival—everything else is just … dangerous.”

Dangerous? I eye the back of her head. What the hell is going on in that strange mind of hers? What the hell does she mean?

She continues working for a moment, reaching into the cabinets and pulling out a couple of plates before putting the sandwiches on them. Micki turns around and slides one across the table towards me before picking up her own and taking a huge bite out of it. She chews thoughtfully and then swallows before setting it down and pressing her hands to the surface of the table.

"Needing shit is what lets people get a hold of you," she says. “Anything you need, they’ll take as a sign of weakness and no matter who the person is, they’ll exploit that weakness.”

My hands still, the sandwich halfway to my mouth.

Her eyes meet mine and for the first time, they’re actually serious. She’s not joking or laughing or fucking around. She’s not teasing or calling me ‘kid.’ Her eyes are clear, unclouded, and a little disturbing if I’m being honest.

“People are going to try and use you, Ava,” she says. “A pretty girl like you. No money. No protection. I’m not just teaching you to fight because of your mom’s fucked up ways—but because without a good right hook and something to scare off potential pimps, you’re gonna be eaten alive out there. We may live in the backwoods—but don’t think that there aren’t monsters lurking in the shadows, ready to sweep you up and take you straight into the pits of hell.”

Her nails dig into the old wood of the table, scratching lines into the surface as she speaks. A shiver touches my spine and I drop the sandwich before leaning back in my chair. I can feel the hard beat of my pulse in my throat and the coat of sweat on my palms, almost as if my body is preparing for a fight. “The world for girls like us is simple,” Micki says as she looks down at the plate on the table; next to it is the butter knife and before I have a second to react, she’s got it in her hand.

My chair scrapes against the tiled floor as her free hand locks on my shirt and drags me closer. My breath stops as the cold knife touches my jugular. Muddy brown eyes glare into my face. I can smell the remains of strawberry jelly on the cold metal. It’s not particularly sharp, but Micki is fast. She’s usually so easy going and lighthearted, though, that this whole conversation comes as a fucking shock. It’s almost as if she’s trying to sear the experience into my mind, to ensure I never forget the lesson. “Don’t ever let anyone think they can hurt you and get away with it,” she says. “Because if you do, they’ll only keep coming back.”

2

DEAN

PRESENT DAY…

Two fractured ribs. One large laceration to the shoulder. A mild concussion. Internal and external bruising. I stare at the medical report with growing rage. Rage because even with all of this, the doctor told us that she was lucky. Lucky? Lucky to be kidnapped? To be tortured and stabbed and beaten? He hadn’t known all of that, though. He’d been fed some bullshit story about an accident that she’d been taken from and then been handed a big fat envelope full of money that no one would miss.

The money had done its job and so had he. He wouldn’t be asking questions. Still, the unleashed violence inside of me refuses to fizzle out. It sits in my veins—no. It fucking boils. The hand at my side clenches while at the same time the hand holding the report in my fist crumples it—ruining the once pristine paper.

Once the marks of my anger have been made in this paper, they won’t be removed. They can be smoothed out. They can try to make it as it was before, but it won’t ever be the same again. Neither will Avalon. And neither will I.

Unable to deny the raging inferno of my fury any longer, I turn and throw the fucking report against the wall.

“Dean.” Braxton’s voice draws me out of my head and I turn to meet his cool gaze. He stands in the doorway, two cups of coffee in cheap Styrofoam cups. "She's fine. She’s strong. She’ll recover.”

"She shouldn't have been put in this situation to begin with." I reach for the coffee he hands me. "Has he arrived yet?"

Braxton examines me as if searching for something—a weakness, a hint that I'm about to go off the rails. I will, but not right now, not until after I see Avalon again. "He's with Abel," he finally says. "In the staff’s break room."

I snort. Of course. He can't even be bothered with an average person's waiting room, but then again, neither can I. "Go check on her. See if she's awake yet," I order. "I'll meet you in a bit."

Braxton grabs my arm before I can stride off and his grip is tight enough that I know he's got something to say. “I know you’re pissed at him,” he says, his voice low in warning. “But it would be best if you stay calm right now. We still need to find out what he knows.”

He’s right, but that doesn’t make me want to punch my father’s face in any less. “Call your dad,” I said. “And have Abel call his. We’ll get what info we can from mine, but there’s no telling what he’s going to say.”

“Isn’t there?” The two of us jerk apart at the sound of a familiar deep voice.

In the doorway, Nicholas Carter stands, watching the two of us, and just beyond him, Abel glares at his back with his arms crossed. Abel glances up and meets my gaze through the crack between my father's shoulder and the door. He grimaces as if to say he's sorry, but I understand. There's no keeping Nicholas somewhere he doesn't want to be.

"If you want to ask me something, Son," my father states, recapturing my attention, "then you should just come right out and say it."

Well, since he's put it like that. I hand my now cooled coffee back to Braxton before I can break the cheap cup or throw it as well, and turn so that I can fully face the man I've learned from and loathed since I was a child. "Fine,” I state. “You want to stop playing fucking games, I do too. What the fuck happened tonight?”

Eyes the same color as my own stare back at me. Two men. Two impenetrable gazes. Because even though he still calls me his son, I've not been a child to him for a long time now. Not since I'd had my first taste of murder.

“It’s a long story,” he says after a short silence.

“You’ve got time to tell it,” I inform him, nodding to first Brax and then Abel, “because until you give me an explanation as to why my girlfriend is lying in a hospital bed after being kidnapped and tortured, you’re not leaving this fucking hospital.” As I speak, Brax tosses the coffees into the nearest trash can and, together, he and Abel move to block off my father’s exit. He’s got two choices, give me what I want or he’ll have to go through all three of us. If ever there was a time that I was grateful for my best friends, now is it.

Nicholas eyes me, his expression giving nothing away. Of course not. He’s perfected the cold calculated look. It’s practically the motherfucker’s signature. “I’ll tell you all that I know,” he says slowly. “Including why you were asked to look after Avalon when she first arrived, why she was taken, and…” His entire stance seems to swell as he drifts off. The silence in the room becomes overbearingly loud. Fuck him. I swear if he’s being dramatic for the sake of it, I don’t give a fuck that he’s my father—I’ll take him out. And if I find out he’s the reason for what happened to Avalon, I’ll make sure it fucking hurts. “I’ll tell you who I believe is responsible for everything that’s happened in the last few months.”

Abel and Braxton exchange a look before they both focus on me. Waiting. For a response. A decision. An explosion of anger. I give the first two easily enough, but the third isn’t needed here. My anger is not an explosion right now. It’s a restrained thing. A buzz along my nerves. There, powerful—like an electrical current running through my system that will shock anyone who may touch me. But not volcanic. Not destructive … yet.

My scowl deepens and I step forward, my chest mere inches from my father’s. “That,” I tell him, “is the least you’re going to tell us.”

His lips twitch and a gleam enters his eyes. I have to work to keep my face from showcasing my surprise because for a brief moment it looks like respect on his face, and I know that can’t be true. My father respects nothing and no one, especially not me.

3

AVALON

I HATE HOSPITALS. They're always so cold and busy. People go in to be treated, but oftentimes, they never come out. It won't be like that for me, I know. I'm not that far gone, but I am sick of being strapped to this damn hospital bed in this prison. It’s a comfortable one, yes. In a high-class, private room complete with a cushy looking sofa and wide windows that look into the clouds—but a fucking gurney and a prison nonetheless.

Nurses come in and out of the room, checking my chart, asking me an endless litany of questions. It's annoying, but not as much as the fact that I haven't seen hide nor hair of Dean and the guys since we got here.

Almost as if my mounting irritation has somehow summoned them, the door to my room opens and Dean is the first one through the doorway. My heart jumps, squeezing in my chest—a violent little thing. When did I get so fucking excited to see him? Was it when I realized that no matter what I did, no matter what happened, he'd always come for me?

As soon as Dean sees me, his shoulders—which had been as stiff as granite—soften and he releases a slow breath before he moves further into the room, heading straight for me. My heart, the stupid bitch, leaps at the sight of him. I can’t help but feel mildly relieved to see him here now.

"How are you feeling?" he asks as he stops at my side.

"Like shit," I say, wincing as I shuffle over to the side and lean forward to allow him room when he moves to sit on the bed next to me.

"Should've let them give you some of the good stuff," Abel comments as he glides into the room as well.

I shoot him a glare as Dean's hand settles against my back. The heat from his palm makes me sigh and move closer. I'd become so used to how cold the room is, that I didn’t realize until he touched me that I’m freezing. He's like a heater, drawing me into his warmth. I don't even try to resist it. Instead, I just relax against Dean's body and give into the relief it brings me. Maybe Abel's right. Maybe I should've just let them stick me with some drugs.

A moment later, however, I know I've made the right choice not to because the next person who walks through the door is someone I need to be as clear-headed as possible around. Nicholas Carter. I gape at him as he moves into the room, dressed in a dark suit with a slightly lighter, knee-length gray coat that hangs open only in the front. He strides to the end of my bed as Abel eyes him from his position against the windows.

Finally, Braxton enters, scanning the room. He settles his gaze on me once, analyzing before nodding and closing the door behind him. I know, in that moment, that something's up.

"Hello, Avalon," Dean's father begins. "It's good to see you again, though I wish it were under better circumstances."

I jerk my head in Dean's direction. "What the fuck is he doing here?"

"He has information," Dean replies, but his eyes don't move to mine. They're centered squarely on his father, though the pressure of his hand on my back increases and he moves his other hand over the sheets to my thigh. "And he wouldn't tell us what he knows until you were in the room."

Slowly, I turn back to face Nicholas Carter. "Well, then?" I prompt. "If you’re so intent on being here, what you have to say better be good. Do you know who kidnapped me? Or who they’re working for?"

Nicholas' face is a careful mask; his emotions firmly behind a wall that I can't see through. He's much like how Dean was when I first met him. In fact, they're a lot alike in both looks and presence. Nicholas stands like any man worth hundreds of billions of dollars would—with the confidence of someone who believes they own the world and everyone in it. Just like his son…

"It's a long story," Nicholas begins.

I gesture to the room. "Well, you’ve got our attention," I deadpan, “but not our fucking patience. So, unless you want me to do to you what I did to the guy who fucking tortured me, then I suggest you start talking."

Nicholas sighs. All eyes were on him. Mine. Dean's. Abel's. Braxton's. The four of us watch him with a mixture of curiosity, animosity, and caution. There's no telling if the words that come from his mouth will be lies or truth. Lies often hide fragments of reality, though, so we need to know regardless.

"I'm sure you understand by now that the program students at Eastpoint University are carefully chosen to be a part of Eastpoint's future," Nicholas begins. "Normally, the students who enter the scholarship programs—including the dual enrollment program—are under observation for a few months to a year before we approve them. They're informed and, within a few months, we have them enrolled and moved here. You were a bit different."

"It didn't take a few months to get me enrolled," I remind him. It'd been a little under two weeks, but more than that—I’d never been aware of anyone observing me. In a small town like Plexton, I was pretty damn sure I would’ve known if I was being watched.

"Yes." He nods his head. "The truth is, we've been observing you for far longer than any other student."

"Why?" That is the question, isn't it? I think. Why is this fucking happening to me? What does anyone gain by coming after me? Why the hell does someone seem to think that I'm so goddamn important—even if it's because of Dean?

"Avalon." Nicholas takes a step towards my bed.

Dean's body stiffens and a low growl comes from his throat."Don't take another step," he warns, causing his father to come up short.

Nicholas' eyes widen slightly, but he acquiesces. "I can see this will be a bit more difficult than I expected," he murmurs.

"How so?" Abel is the one to ask.

Nicholas turns and glances over his shoulder and finally sees what I've known all along. He's not here because he wanted it—to see me. He's here because they allowed it. Braxton's back is pressed firmly against the only exit to the room, his arms crossed over his massive chest and though Abel seems like the smallest of the three—a wiry body packed into a loose Henley t-shirt and a pair of dark wash jeans—he's got the eyes of someone just as dangerous, and they're centered firmly on the only man in the room that isn't considered one of them.

Oh, Nicholas Carter may be Dean's father, but he isn't one of the Sick Boys and they're making sure he knows it.

"This is a very serious conversation, boys," Nicholas tries. "Perhaps I should speak with Avalon alone. Once I've told her all I need to, you'll be let back in, of course."

Dean chuckles and the dark wicked sound of it goes straight down to my pussy. It rumbles in his chest, the quiet laugh of a man ready to be unhinged. I glance at him and watch as he slowly slides his hand away from my leg and then off of my back as he gets up from the bed. He takes one casual step towards the center of the room, towards Nicholas, and then stops.

"You are in no position to make demands, old man," Dean says, his tone deepening. Dean's always been a man walking along the edge of darkness, but somewhere down the path we were on, he'd stepped over that line, and I hadn't even noticed. His muscles are bunched under his t-shirt as if he's preparing for a balls to the wall, knockdown, drag out, bloody fight to the death. And from the looks Nicholas is getting from both Braxton and Abel, he's not the only one.

I suck in a breath. "Okay, that's enough." All eyes snap to me as I reach for the IV drip taped to the back of my hand. I don't even hesitate to rip the tape off and toss it to the floor.

"Avalon!" I ignore Dean and slide the needle out from beneath my skin before reaching for the covers and flinging them off.

"I want pants," I snap. "And I want out of this fucking hospital."

"The doctor hasn't cleared you for release yet," Abel says from the far wall.

I shoot him an unappreciative look. "Does it look like I have a fuck to give, Frontman?"

His worried look fights with his amusement, his lips twitching even as he tries to keep a passive face.

"Get your ass back in bed," Dean growls as he leaves his father and moves back towards me. His hands find my waist and he lifts me as if I weigh nothing—definitely not the buck fifty I know I am. My ass hits the bed and my fist crashes into his abdomen.

"Hands off," I snap as he doubles over slightly and rubs the spot I punched. "I'm leaving and unless you're going to help me, then don't fucking touch me, Dean."

"Ava—" Braxton tried.

I cut him off without a second thought. "Get out!" I turn and glare across the room, first at Nicholas, then Abel, and then Braxton. "Everyone but Dean, get out. Abel, go tell the doctor I'm leaving."

"You really shouldn't—" he starts.

"Do it," Dean says, stopping him.

Abel's face goes slack with shock. "You're really going to let her do this?"

Abel’s high if he thinks Dean lets me do anything, but I don’t get a chance to say so.

"We need to have this discussion," Nicholas huffs.

Dean straightens and turns to the rest of the room. "Abel, go get her checked out. Braxton go find her some clothes from my car. There should be a gym bag in the trunk. And you..." Dean's eyes go cold when he regards his father, "just get the fuck out."

"Dean, she's still in danger—" Nicholas argues.

"We're not doing this here," I snap, catching his attention. "You will tell me what you know." There's no fucking way he's getting out of it, but if I let him continue here, Dean's going to lose his shit—he’s close enough from the tightness of his features—and though the hospital, I'm suspecting, is in their pocket, someone will inevitably call security or worse, the cops, if Dean starts wailing on Carter Senior right here and now. "Meet us back at the house in three hours. I should be checked out and ready for you by then."

Nicholas stands there for a moment. His lips are parted and his brows are high, as if he can't quite believe that a teenage girl is ordering him around. I've had just about enough of it, though. All of it. The subterfuge. The lying. The betrayals. More than all of that, though, is the fact that I really fucking hate hospitals. I want out. I want to go home. I want to call Rylie and tell her to start using those skills of hers—the ones that got her into the Sick Boys’ realm—to track down Corina Harrison and Ace. There is a lot that needs to happen and I have very little patience.

As if it finally hits him that I'm not going to offer him another option, Nicholas slowly nods to Dean and then backs up before turning towards the door. Braxton unlocks it and holds it open, making sure Dean's father is the first one out of the room before he and Abel quietly follow, the door snicking shut behind them. I release a breath.

"Ballsy, baby," Dean says, his voice going quiet. "Very fucking ballsy."

I groan, reaching up and sliding my hands through the hair on either side of his head. "Do you know how frustrating you are?" I ask him.

His lips twitch before one corner of his mouth quirks up, and then just as quickly as it appeared, it goes away again and I'm left with a serious Dean. "Are you really okay?" he asks. "I read your report. You have to be hurting."

I wave away his concern with a scowl. "I'm fucking peachy," I reply. "But I am serious about getting out of here."

"Ava..." I pause, my eyes down on the floor as I grab his arms and leverage up and off of the damn hospital bed. I blink back the echoes of pain in my arm and shoulder.

"I need you focused, Dean." As I say the words, I hope like hell he doesn't force my face up as I talk. Though my tone is even and my voice unwavering, one look at my face and he'll realize just how fucking close I am to losing it. That itch that's always been under my skin is back in full force. It's a miracle I'm not shaking with the desire to do something reckless. I cut a look to the window and for a brief moment—against my will—my mind supplies me with an image of what it'd be like to just jump from it. The wind against my skin, the power in my veins.

I inhale the want, the need, and then I push it all out on the next exhale. Only then do I allow myself to meet his eyes. "You promised me that we would find them," I continue. "That we would make them pay. Don't back out now."

He frowns. "I'm not—"

"And don't you fucking dare try to lock me up under the guise of keeping me protected," I snap, cutting him off, and hissing the accusation at him before he can deny that, too.

His lips tighten, pressing together in a displeased scowl. "You're hurt," is all he says.

I shove him away from me. "No," I grit out. "No, you don't get to fucking do that. I'm either in this with you or I'm in it by myself, Dean. You are not going to tie me to this damn hospital bed and run off trying to find out who hurt me. I need…" My breath catches as a bolt of panic rockets through me. I clench my hands into fists and push up from the bed, wobbling slightly as feeling rushes back to my legs. I wait a moment to make sure I'm good before I turn and jerk my chin up, glaring at the man who has come to mean more to me than anyone or anything else in this world.

"I need you to not do what you're planning on doing," I say. In the last few months, I’ve come to know Dean as well as I know myself. There’s no doubt in my mind that he’s planning on wrapping me up and stashing me away somewhere while he goes off to play some knight in black armor. "I know that's hard for you—to resist that little voice in your head telling you to lock me up until it's all over, but you will. You’ll do it for me. Because you know I'm not the bitch that lets you take care of her demons for her. I am not your fucking damsel, Dean.”

Dean stares at me for a long moment. Then, slowly, his hands lift to my shoulders. His fingers clench me and yank me forward until my face is pressed into his shoulder. I wince at the sharp pain that lances through my own shoulder, but the smell and feel of him against me is worth it. I breathe him in, letting my hands find his waist. How the fuck was I ever able to resist this man?

“Okay,” he says. “But no more running off.” He pulls away and glares down at me, bending slightly so that his eyes are level with mine. “Do you understand me, baby? The second you lie to me or run from me, any freedom you have now will be revoked. Even if it’s as simple as going to see Rylie, I need to know. For however long this takes, you’re going to be glued to my side—and if you’re not with me, you’ll be with someone I trust.”

“I don’t need a bodyguard,” I protest.

“I know you don’t, but I need to know you’re safe.”

The desire to buck under these conditions, to tell him to shove these restraints so far up his ass they won’t ever see the light of day again, is heavy on my tongue, but I bite it back. “This isn’t forever,” I tell him. “The second we find Corina, Ace, and whoever the fuck is controlling them, I get my freedom back.”

He smirks. “I doubt you’ll be able to last that long,” he replies.

My eyes widen. Oh, this fucker…

I lean up on my toes, grabbing the lower half of his face in my grip. My nails scrape against the prickly shadow of hair on his jawline. “You’ve got about two weeks,” I tell him honestly. If I’m judging correctly, that’s about how long I’ll last under his constant guard and watch. “Maybe a month, depending.”

Dean’s gaze darkens. “We’ll find them, baby,” he tells me, his breath brushing over my lips. “I swear.”

“Good,” I reply, and then, because I can’t seem to fucking help myself when it comes to this man, I lean up further and bring my mouth to his.

Dean’s hands clench and his arms encircle me as mine fall away from his face. His tongue dives into my mouth as my eyes close. Heat—molten and wicked hot, consumes me. When he lifts away from me once more, the room feels a bit blurry, and I realize that my body has definitely flushed out what little pain meds I’d been given when I first arrived hours ago because every-fucking-thing hurts.

I press my forehead into Dean’s chest. Never in my life have I ever felt as safe as I do in his arms. It’s unsettling.

Dean’s chest rumbles as he speaks. “We should talk to my father, though. I’d rather deal with him here than have him at the house.”

I frown and look up. “Isn’t it his house?” I ask.

Dean snorts. “No. It’s mine. Mine and the guys. We own it outright. Bought it when we first started at Eastpoint. It’s under my name.”

“Oh.” I consider his words for a moment. If I know him like I think I do, then it doesn’t matter what I say now. Even if I tell him not to—he’ll find a way to do what he wants. He always does. “Fine,” I finally say. “Tell him to come in, but don’t fucking lose it. We’ll deal with him and then we’ll go home.”

He presses a kiss to my forehead and it satisfies something inside of me to feel his lips against my skin in that chaste way. We’ve never been chaste—the two of us. It’s always been a riot of bloody fights between us. Even the sex had been uncontrolled. But this … this is something different. When he steps away and I sag back into the side of the hospital bed, I can’t help but track his movements across the room and he glances back once, giving me a brief smile that’s full of his usual arrogance before disappearing into the hallway.

Fuck me, but I really am screwed by Dean Carter.

4

DEAN

"DEAN, you need to listen to me." The second I step out of Avalon's hospital room, my father is there. I turn just as he approaches me, but that's as far as he gets. My hands clench into the front of his finely pressed shirt and I shove him against the opposite wall. An orderly approaching from the right gasps and spins right around, scurrying away.

"No," I growl. "You need to listen for a change. Avalon is mine—do you know what that means?" I don't give him the opportunity to reply. "That means she's under my protection. What happened last night will never happen again, are we clear?"

"Damn it, Son, you don't think I'm worried about her?" My old man has been a cold bastard for as long as I've known him, so the tightness in his voice is a surprise to me. It's not angry. If anything, it's concerned.

"I don't know what you are," I state plainly. "I don't know you at all. All I know is the man you've shown me, and I'll tell you this right now, I'll make it as clear as I possibly can, that man—the Nicholas Carter that I know—isn't welcome around my girlfriend."

"Dean, there are things you don't know," my father presses.

"I know," I say. "Which is why you're going to tell us."

"You just sent me from her room," he points out; his exasperation is clear.

I glare at him a moment longer and then slowly, I unclench my fists from his shirt and step away. "You're going to come back in with me and you're going to tell Avalon and I both what the hell kind of secret you've been keeping. Then you are going to stay the hell away from her."

Nicholas's face blanches. "Dean, you have to know, the information I have is … delicate. No one outside of our family can know."

I stiffen at his meaning. "Braxton and Abel are family," I say. They're closer family than he ever has been.

He shakes his head. "They can't know."

"I'm not keeping it from them, and neither will she." I know that much at least. Avalon and I are past that. We're through with the secret keeping. Whatever I know, she will too.

My father shakes his head. "Then I can't tell you what I know."

"What?" I gape at him. "You just told me that we needed to know. That she's in danger."

Nicholas visibly grits his teeth. "Dean, I can't help if you don't let me. You have to trust me."

I can't trust him. I don't trust him. I shake my head.

Silence stretches between the two of us. We're so close—barely two feet from each other—and yet it's as if we're continents away. My father's head lifts and as he stares at me, for the first time in my life, I see him as he actually is. I don't see the all-powerful man who rules the Eastpoint empire with an iron fist. He's got age lines, marks under his eyes and around his mouth. Frown lines. It's clear that life has not been as easy as I always assumed it was for him. He looks older now than I've ever seen him.

"Then you'll have to keep her safe, Son, because if I go after the men responsible, she'll need all of the protection she can get," he says.

"Just tell me who it is and I'll take care of it," I demand, but he shakes his head.

"This is above you, Dean," he replies. "So far above you. Find the girl—the one who was with her. Hell, go after the people who held her. But you cannot go after the men responsible for her brush with death."

It should shock me that he knows about Corina, but it doesn't. What I know, he likely already knew long ago. I'd only wished he'd shared it before this whole clusterfuck had happened. "I will find out what you're hiding," I warn him.

Nicholas's lips quirk up on one side and his eyes soften. It's such a strange look on his face that it forces me to take another step back. I don't trust that look. "I know you will, Son," he replies. "But not before I do what needs to be done. You've already taken enough of this family's sins upon yourself, don't let this be another one."

"You were the one who forced those sins on me," I hiss through clenched teeth.

He nods. "Yes, I am," he agrees. "And look at the man you've become. Strong. Competent. Capable. You can protect her."

He turns to go, and a bolt of panic hits me. Avalon deserves the information that he has if nothing else. "At least tell her what you won't tell me," I urge.

Nicholas Carter pauses as if considering my request but then he looks back and shakes his head. "Her loyalty is to you and the boys," he says. "You were right. She'll share any information I give her with the three of you and if that happens, then there will be no stopping the chain of events I'm trying to prevent."

"Goddamn you," I snap. "At least give me something. She deserves to know the truth—whatever that is. Why did you have us watch her?"

Nicholas inhales a shaky breath and closes his eyes before tilting his head back. On his exhale, he opens them and looks directly at me. "Whether you realize it or not, Dean. You've always been protecting her. Ever since she arrived." He sighs. "I wanted the three of you to watch her because I knew if someone didn't she very likely would've disappeared and no one would have noticed a thing. With your eyes on her, she was safe—even if you hated her at first."

"You have no idea what I felt for her." I can't stop the denial from coming out any more than I can stop my own heart from beating. But I know he's right. When I first met Avalon Manning, I'd hated her very existence. The way she made my chest clench and my dick tighten. She was a foul mouthed, gorgeous program princess just asking for someone to push his dick between those luscious lips of hers and see if those cold cruel eyes would watch as she drove a man over the brink. She was a little bit heaven and a little bit hell and she was mine. All fucking mine.

"I have an inkling." Nicholas smirks. "Keep her safe, Dean. I'll tell you what I can when I can, but for now, I can't trust either of you with this information. But I suppose I will tell you this … the reason I've been looking after her is because I knew her father."

My head reels at this information. "Her father?" I repeat.

"Yes," he says. "And he was a good man."

"Who was he?" I ask, but before I'm even done with my question, he's already shaking his head.

"I've already said too much," he replies, turning away. "I'll leave the girl and the man up to you. Leave the rest to me."

He begins to walk off, but that can't be it. I won't let it be. "If something happens to her," I call out, causing him to pause halfway down the hallway, "if anything happens to her," I continue, "I'll burn your empire to the ground, old man." My chest pumps up and down with the proclamation. Every word is a promise. "Make no mistake," I say, "she's the only thing that matters to me."

And just because my father is who he is, he turns back and gives me a sad smile. "I know, Son," he says, and then he's gone. Heading off to only God knows where and I'm left with the knowledge that I've just ruined any chance of him telling us the truth and of Avalon getting the answers she deserves. My only problem is that this … softer version of my father is far more disturbing than the ruthless Nicholas Carter I’ve always known. I can’t tell if it’s a façade or if it’s genuine. More importantly, the sudden shift makes whatever his endgame must be that much more elusive.

5

AVALON

EXHAUSTION PULLS at my every muscle. The aches and pains have been so consistent that they've become nothing but background noise now. After several long minutes, the door opens and Dean comes back in with a frown on his face and a gym bag in his hand. With that expression, it doesn’t take a genius to know something's wrong.

"What happened?" I demand, straightening even though it makes my muscles scream in protest.

Dean lifts his chin and looks at me, but instead of answering, he merely shakes his head and moves towards the bed. "Come on, baby," he says before setting a bag on the end of the bed. "Let's get you dressed and get home."

"What about your dad?" He shakes his head again, making my chest clench. "Dean?" I reach out and touch his shirt. There are so many questions swirling in my head that there seems to be some sort of disconnect, and I can't voice any of them.

"I'm sorry, Ava," he says. "He's not going to tell us."

"What?" I had to have heard him wrong. "He was just in here," I state. "He was going to—"

"He doesn't want Abel or Braxton to know," Dean cuts me off sharply, his brows lowering. "And he knows if either of us know, then they'll know."

That makes no fucking sense. "Of course they'll know," I say. "Because we'll tell them."

"And he’s well aware of that," Dean grits out, a scowl playing at the corner of his lips. "He thinks it's too risky, and he wouldn't explain why."

Confusion and anger swirl within me. I sink back onto the edge of the bed. Every single time it seems like we can catch a fucking break, it’s ripped out from beneath us. Nicholas Carter is pulling the strings. He knows who’s behind this. Why wouldn’t he want Abel and Braxton to know?

I sit there, perched on the hospital bed as Dean opens the gym bag he must have grabbed from Brax and starts to dig through it until he pulls out an oversized shirt with no sleeves. My mind riots and rolls over itself. Anger and frustration. Suspicion and mistrust. Have we gone about this all wrong? I thought this was about Dean, but maybe it’s not. Nicholas seemed to think it was all about me. But why? What the fuck is so goddamn special about me?

Dean tugs on the clasp of my gown. He pulls off the plastic-y hospital gown I'd been given and tosses it into the corner before pulling the shirt over my head, sans bra, and gently helping me maneuver my arms through the correct holes.

"Did he tell you anything?" I finally ask.

He moves back and goes to his knees as he takes a pair of drawstring basketball shorts and starts sliding them up my calves. "He did say something," Dean admits as he urges me off the bed so he can finish pulling up the shorts and tying them at my waist so they won't fall off. "He said he knew your father."

So, it is about me.

"My father?" I gape at him. "That's impossible." I shake my head. "Even I don't know who it is. I figured Patricia probably just slept with one of her drug dealers or even a guy from the strip club. A drifter." A brief thought enters my mind, a disgusting possibility. Roger Murphy was far older than me, closer to Patricia’s age. He very well could’ve been my father. I can’t stop the physical shudder that moves through me.

Dean stops what he’s doing. “Ava?”

I turn my head away from him. “It’s nothing.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

I stiffen. “I’m not. It was just a bad thought.”

“What was it?” he presses.

A scoff leaves my lips and I turn back to him with a glare. “Do you need to know every-fucking-thing that goes on in my head?”

He doesn’t even blink. “Yes.” He says the word with such conviction, I don’t know how I expected anything less.

My eyes roll. “I just thought that Murphy could’ve been my…” I grimace. Shit, I can’t even finish that damn thought out loud. It’s too revolting.

Dean shakes his head. “I doubt it.”

“Why?” I frown. “Do you know something?”

"Everything I know, Ava, you know,” Dean replies. "My father—he's..." Dean's teeth clench as if the thought of his next words anger him and then he continues. "He's given us his permission"—there it is, I think. The reason for his anger. Dean isn’t the type to get permission from anyone—"to go after Corina and the other man, what did you say his name was?"

"Ace," I repeat. "His name was Ace. I didn't exactly get a last name, though, what with all of the torture and shit."

Dean's eyes darken. "It won't happen again," he swears, pulling me close.

I pat his shoulders. "I know, D-man," I say. "I know." The door to the room opens again and Abel pops in the doorway.

"Hey, we're good to go," he says. "Brax went back down to get the car. He's waiting at the exit."

"Do I need to sign anything?" I ask.

He shakes his head. "Don't worry about it," Abel replies. "It's all taken care of."

Money, I think. It's the only explanation for my hasty check out and lack of paperwork, and for the first time, I'm thankful that Dean is as rich as he is. I'd always thought it a hindrance before now, but I'm starting to see how money holds power and power makes the world go 'round. Right now, I'm willing to pay anything to get the fuck out of here.

"Come on, baby," Dean says, taking my hand. "Let's go home."

Home, I think. A place I’ve never known before. Now, though, when he says the word “home,” I can only think of one place. The house where three annoying assholes live and sleep … and where I do too.

WALKING BACK into the house is like walking into a world I no longer recognize. The place is the same. Nothing touched or moved or changed since I've been gone, but at the same time, I feel different. I don't know—maybe torture changes a person. For me, I just feel more committed to finding the people who've hurt me and making them pay. Starting with Corina.

Those thoughts are prevalent in my mind as the guys and I enter the foyer. I stop inside the doorway and Abel rushes around me as he hurries to set the prescriptions the doctors gave me down on the front hall table that looks like it belongs in a house decor magazine rather than the house of the infamously fucked up Sick Boys.

"Okay," he says, quickly opening the bag and digging through the plastic and paper until he's got two orange and white bottles in his hand. "I got this." He turns each over and scans labels. "This one is for pain and inflammation," Abel announces, shaking the first one at me. "And this one is antibiotics. Which one do you want first?"

"Gimme the antibiotics," I tell him with a sigh. "That's all I need."

Dean pauses as he drops the gym bag he'd brought inside to the floor. "You're taking the pain meds, Ava," he says without looking at me.

I snatch the first bottle from Abel's hand as Brax closes the door. "I don't need it," I state, dumping a pill into my hand and then shoving it in my mouth. It's big and goes down a bit rough without water, but it works. I hand the bottle back to Abel and wave away the second when he tries to hand it over.

"Avalon." Dean's voice deepens, but I ignore the warning in his tone as I head for the stairs.

"I'm fine, D-man," I call out over my shoulder. "A shower, a little bit of sleep, and—"

"You're taking the damn pill if I have to shove it down your throat myself," he cuts me off.

My feet pause on the lowest step of the ascending staircase and I turn back, a scowl curling my lips down. "No, I'm not," I say. "I don't need it."

Abel and Braxton exchange a look. "Avalon, we'd feel better if you just took it," Abel says.

"I will," I tell them, "if I need it. Don't start treating me like I'm made of glass now, boys. I can handle myself. If I need it, I'll take it, but I don't need it."

There's a brief moment of silence and without looking back at them, Dean speaks. "Guys, can you give us the room?"

"No need," I say, turning back to the staircase. "I'm going up to bed. I'm fucking tired."

I don't wait to see what they'll decide. I can already guess, but whether Dean realizes it or not, I'm not taking those fucking pills. It takes me twice as long to get back to the room I’ve been sharing with Dean since I was unwillingly moved into this house, partly because of my exhaustion and partly because every movement reminds me of the aches and pains in my bones and muscles. Almost as if my body is screaming at me to take those damn meds. But I know I won’t.

I push the door to the bedroom open and shuffle over to the bed without closing it. I expect within a few minutes, my own personal bodyguard will be coming in and it just seems pointless to try and keep him out now. My body hits the mattress and with a groan, I roll and twist and turn until I’ve got the comforter up and over half my body. A shower would be heaven right now, but I just don’t know if I’ve got the strength to stand for another twenty minutes.

I close my eyes and relish in the feel of Egyptian cotton for several long minutes of silence. Time flows so smoothly and uninterrupted, that I almost forget what I’m expecting and drift into sleep. A creak on the floorboards just outside of the room brings me crashing back to the real world. The gentle snick of the door closing lets me know I was right. I crack an eyelid and watch as Dean approaches the bed.

“Just spit it out,” I huff when he remains stubbornly silent, just staring at me with those dark chocolate all-consuming eyes of his.

“Why won’t you take the pills?” he demands. Always demanding. Always bossy. What an asshole.

“Because I just don’t want to,” I say, hoping he’ll drop the subject.

Dean, however, is nothing if not persistent. “Don’t bullshit me,” he growls, rounding the side of the bed. He grabs the comforter and pulls it back, his eyes widening. “And I thought you were going to take a shower?”

I sigh and squeeze my eyes shut. “Dean … please.” I never fucking say please. I never fucking beg or ask for shit. Why would I? Any time I’d asked anything of Patricia, it’d been met with rejection and hate. But I’m trying. For him, I’m fucking trying.

There’s silence. He doesn’t respond and then the comforter moves and slides off of me and my eyes shoot open when his hands touch my skin. He moves his hands to the bottom of my shirt and I don’t have the goddamn energy to resist as he does the exact opposite of what he did at the hospital and instead of putting clothes on me, he begins to strip them off.

Nothing about the way he touches me is sexual, and yet there’s still an underlying spark of lust beneath my skin. Whenever his skin brushes mine, I feel like fireworks are shooting through my veins. My entire being focuses solely on the man in front of me as he tugs me into a sitting position and helps me remove the shorts as well.

“Put your arms around me, baby,” he says quietly.

I don’t have it in me to refuse him anymore. I just do as he says. I circle his neck with my arms and sink against him as he lifts me out of the bed and strides into the adjoining bathroom. Dean sets me on the counter, making me jump slightly at how cold it is against my skin. He turns to the walk-in shower, twisting the handles until steam begins to fill the room. Then he steps back and strips his shirt off.

My mouth waters as his hands go to the waistband of his jeans. I trace down the grooves of his muscles and to the thatch of hair at his groin that reveals itself when he bends and shucks his pants as well. He’s built like a Greek fucking god. It’s not fair.

Dean turns back to me and without asking, he lifts me once more and steps into the shower, letting the door shut behind us. The second the hot water hits my skin, a low groan leaves my chest.

Fuck, I needed this, I think. But even as the water sluices over my skin and down my sides, memories begin to pour in. Memories of that damn warehouse and Ace and Corina. Dean settles me on a low bench to the side, reaching up to remove the showerhead. I’d cleaned up when I’d first gotten to the hospital. It’d been nothing more than a few warm wet wash cloths and some antibacterial soap, but this—this is real. When Dean takes the showerhead and tips my chin up so that I’m forced to look at him as he runs it through my hair and down my back, it feels like the realest thing I’ve ever fucking had.

There’s crusted blood under my nails. My shoulder has an angry, red wound. The bruises from the fight are finally starting to darken. Maybe I was just being the tough bitch I’ve always had to be. Maybe I was in denial. But when reality finally crashes down on me, my limbs begin to tremble. I shut my eyes—unwilling for him to see the tears that start to burn in the back of my corneas.

I don’t want to cry. I don’t need to cry. There’s no reason to cry. No matter how many times I repeat those lines in my head over and over and out loud, there’s no denying the fact that I am. I squeeze my eyelids shut even harder, but the tears merely leak out and wash away under the falling water.

I’m angry. Angrier than I’ve ever been. The tears aren’t because I’m sad. They’re not the result of the tragic fucked up way my life has gone. They’re tears of absolute fury. They burn down the sides of my face as Dean washes my hair and then my body, taking care with each and every single cut and bruise and mark. The violent need to exact revenge, to make Corina pay for everything she’s caused, rips through me. The things I want to do are the actions of a true psychopath. I want to string her up and cut her open and pull her intestines out and make her eat them. I want to tear her throat open and watch her bleed out. I want to stab her over and over again. I want to make her feel every single bit of pain she’d ever caused. And I know, when I get my hands on her, I will.

She’ll know exactly what I felt when Roger Murphy assaulted me. She’ll know every bite of pain, of confusion, of disgust, of deadened agony that lived within me because she had opened the door for that Avalon to be born.

Patricia had merely nurtured a survivor. Corina had awakened a monster.

With my eyes closed, my anger flashes over my mind’s eye. The reminder of Roger and Ace. Hands pushing me into cold, dirty vinyl. The smell of old blood and the burn of drugs entering my system. The strike of a fist against my cheek. The cut of a blade down the side of my face, in my shoulder. I stiffen when Dean washes away the soap in my hair and body and the spray moves over my face. For a split second, I forget. All I can see is the towel dropping over my face and my throat closing as water comes down, choking me. I reach out and grip his wrist, stopping him.

“Baby?” My grip tightens. I know it must hurt. I’m not a weak woman. I’ve broken bones before. Now, would be no different. I could do it. I could twist my wrist and snap his. I could hurt him the way I’ve been hurt. I could—but he isn’t the one I’m angry at. That person is none other than myself. Dean doesn’t say anything at all; he only waits for me to come to a decision.

Slowly, I release him and let my hand fall away. “Hurry up.” My voice comes out as a croak, and I tip my head forward until all I can see are our feet on the white tile. His tan legs next to my pale ones. No matter that I recognize the riot within me, that I acknowledge its existence, anger is not a creature that’s easily subdued.

Dean finishes rinsing me off. This time, I don’t let him carry me out. I get up under my own strength, feeling the rush of life coming back to me more and more with every step I take. Outside of the shower, he hands me a towel. I dry off quickly, tossing it to the floor and listing towards the bedroom. He follows behind me, and together, the two of us crawl beneath the covers, completely naked.

A masculine arm slips around my middle and drags me back against a wide chest. His lips touch my shoulder and he blows over my skin, the feel of his hot breath making my anger dim just the slightest bit. Just enough for a new emotion to rise. Lust. My thighs tighten. I want to turn over and climb on top of him and forget the horrors of the last twenty-four hours, but I meant it when I told him I was tired. Even though my mind is fully ready for him to slip deep inside of me, my body refuses to move.

“Why won’t you take the pain meds?” he asks in the quiet of our bedroom.

I release a breath. “Patricia’s a drug addict,” I tell him. “I don’t want to be.”

“Taking pain pills when you need them doesn’t make you an addict, baby,” he replies, tightening his hold. It’s as if he needs the physical reminder that I’m here. His body curls around me, encasing mine and bringing me further into the warmth of his chest.

“I know,” I say. “But…” My words drift off. It’s easy enough to say that I trust Dean Carter. That I … like him. More than like him. That I think I fucking love this man and even if he fucking dies, there will never be another for me. That’s all easy in comparison to letting him inside my head. Something that Rylie once said to me slips into my mind, though.

You are so fucking damaged, aren’t you?

Damaged. Rotted out from the inside. Braxton calls me a savage, but the reality isn’t that I’m better or stronger than anyone else. It’s not that I’m all powerful or even a badass. Sure I know how to fight. Thanks to Micki, I know how to fight better than most amateurs. The only reason I am the way that I am is because I’ve had to be. Others got choices, I never did. It was either do or die for me. It always has been. I’ve been alone for so long that I don’t know how to be with someone. And that scares the shit out of me because, for the first time in my life, I want to be.

“Ava? Baby?” Dean’s whisper isn’t pressing, just curious. His hold hasn’t loosened.

My lips part and I force the words out. “Jumping is one thing,” I say. “The rush of adrenaline feels natural—it is natural.” Feeling the adrenaline flooding my system has always been my way of coping, of keeping control. Even though I bring it on myself, it’s still something my body automatically provides. “Pain pills—drugs—I can’t, Dean. I know it won’t make me an addict to do it once, but I’m constantly afraid that even if I do, one time won’t be enough for me. It never was for her.”

I close my eyes and sink further into his embrace and the bed as soon as the words are out, and I hope like hell he takes my explanation and doesn’t press for more. I honestly don’t know if I have any more to give. Dean cups my abdomen and strokes a thumb over my skin as he leans up and presses a kiss to the side of my throat. “Okay, baby,” he whispers. “I understand.”

My lips twist and morph and without thought, I turn in his arms and shove my chest against his, reaching up to twine my arms around his neck. “We have to kill them,” I say, my words slurring as my tiredness becomes overwhelming.

His hand cups the back of my head, and when he replies, it’s more of a rumble against my body than actual words. Still, they reach my ears. “We will,” he promises. “We’ll fucking kill them, baby. I swear it to you.”

And with that, I finally pass the fuck out.

6

AVALON

"WHAT THE FUCK do you mean you can't find her?" I stare at Rylie in a combination of irritation and shock.

"I mean…" She chews on her lower lip and turns back to her laptop, hitting a few keys that bring up a screen full of documents that I can't understand, "that she's gone completely off the grid. She has to be—it's the only explanation. There's no movement on any of her accounts or cards. I've put some alerts on her family too, but turns out they regularly go months without contacting each other. Did you know that her mom and stepdad spent their last Christmas in the Caymans? Her records indicate she was here. Alone."

I don't care to hear how poor, unloved Corina has never spent a holiday with family. As far as I’m concerned, she’s lost the right to any such compassion or sympathy. No, she’s beyond that now. She’s completely lost her mind. She’s become so obsessed with Luc that she let herself be led by the hand straight into the Devil’s den, and then she made a deal. That deal of hers hasn’t cost her anything yet, though. It cost me everything, and now I intend to pay it back with interest. No, I don't care about her problems at all. What I care about is finding her and making her tell me who hired her before I kill her.

"There has to be something," Dean insists.

Rylie shoots him a dark look out of the corner of her eye—a testament to how far she's come in the few short months I've known her. She'd been the first to warn me away from the Sick Boys, her fear of them obvious. Now, she seems to have grown some sort of spine. When her eyes slide away from Dean to the man stationed behind him, I have to wonder if there’s something I’m not seeing. As she returns her attention to the screen, I glance back at Abel, mildly curious to see him staring at the back of her head almost as intently as Dean is.

"Listen, I'm doing all I can, but unless you have some sort of homing beacon, there’s no telling when she’ll pop up. I’m good, but some people are better. If she’s got the money, she can stay hidden for years. I have a feeling she's probably going to be off the grid for a while. She's laying low and I don't freaking blame her; she probably knows what you're planning to do to her."

"Kill her," I state.

"Ahh!" Rylie shouts and then shoves her fingers in her ears. "No! No! No! I hear nothing. I know nothing. I'm just being paid to trace suspicious accounts. I don't know whose name is on them or why you want to track them down!" She turns and glares at me. "I know nothing," she snaps. "Get that right. Don't tell me anything. I don't care, and I don't want to know.”

"Noted." I deadpan, turning away. This still doesn't solve the issue of finding Corina.

Brax lifts his head and looks at me. "What do you want to do?" he asks.

I can feel Dean's eyes on me; the weight of his stare is heavy. "We need to go see Luc," I say. A low growl fills the room, and I roll my eyes before turning to the source. "Dean."

He curses, glaring at me. "I don't like this."

I know that. It doesn't take a genius to figure it out. I glance at Rylie, who watches all of this with wary consideration. "Let's head out," I say instead of responding to him. "We'll talk more at the house. Rylie"—Her head jerks up and her eyes meet mine—"keep us updated. Your contact is Abel. Let him know if you find anything."

An automatic scowl darkens her expression before she bites out a quick, "Fine," and whirls around to her screen again.

When I turn towards the door, Abel raises an eyebrow at me before shaking his head. Whatever they've got going on is none of my business and it's obvious she's uncomfortable around him, but unless she does something to betray us, he won't hurt her. She'll just have to get used to it.

I snag Dean's wrist on my way out the door and he follows willingly enough. That is, until we get to the stairwell when he pulls me up short and lets Abel and Braxton head down before us. I half expect him to lay down some sort of ridiculous rule about staying the hell away from Luc Kincaid. He hates the man enough, but that's because he doesn't see what a great asset Luc can be. Luc and Dean, for all of their faults and rivalry, are very similar. Rich, powerful, and proud men with axes to grind and loads of daddy issues. Dean surprises me though.

He lets out a breath as he cages me against the wall on the first landing. "What are you thinking?" he asks.

My head cranes back until I can see his expression fully. His eyes are centered, focused. His lips are turned down and it's obvious he's not happy, but he's not out of control either. Dean is leashed—a great powerful beast of a man holding himself back and waiting for my answer. It makes me fall in love with him a little bit more.

"Corina wants Luc," I say. "When she had me captive, she said she did it all for him. She hated you because he hates you. She's in love with him—to an obsessive degree."

He blows out a breath and rocks back on his heels, putting a hand to the back of his neck and rolling it. "That's fucked up."

Yeah, it is. Luc is, after all, her cousin. Then again, it's only a relationship by marriage.

"You think he can really help us get to her?" he asks after a moment of silence.

"I think it's our best bet for now," I reply.

He nods. "Things are going to get more complicated, baby."

I tilt my head. "What do you mean by that?"

"I mean, we've got other shit to consider too. Football season is starting back up in the Fall. Abel, Brax, and I have training this summer. Your graduation is next week—"

Blowing out a breath, I wave a hand through the air. "Don't worry about that. I'm not going."

Dean frowns at me. "Why not?"

"Because it doesn't matter to me," I say. "Graduating high school isn't a big accomplishment. Hundreds of thousands of kids graduate high school; doing so doesn't mean I'll do anything grand with my life. I like to save the celebrations for big things."

"It is a big thing..." His words drift off, but I catch his meaning. Graduating high school is big for kids like me. Kids no one expects to do anything with their life, much less graduate.

I scrub a hand down my face, my shoulder twinging slightly with the effort. It's only been a week since we left the hospital and though I'm on the mend, I'm still not at a hundred percent yet. That irritates me almost as much as Corina being on the loose. "It's not to me," I tell him. "I'm more concerned with finding Corina."

He stares at me for a moment, as if trying to read into my mind to determine if my words are genuine or not. Then, finally, he lets it go with a nod of acknowledgment. "Fine, I'll make sure your certificate is mailed to the house though. I've already contacted Bairns."

"And Luc?" I prompt.

He grits his teeth. "I still don't know if he can be trusted," he says. "I want to do some surveillance on him first."

I press my lips together, considering that. "Fine," I concede. "But I'm coming with."

"Only if you stay your ass in the car," he shoots back. I shrug and turn away, heading down the stairs. "Ava!" he calls after me. The hard thump of his boots hit the steps as he follows behind me. Just as I hit the bottom floor, he reaches out and snags my elbow, jerking me around. "Promise me."

I roll my eyes. He can be such a drama queen. "I promise I won't put myself in danger," I tell him. "Is that good enough for you?"

Dark brown eyes narrow on my face. As if sensing that's the most concession he'll get out of me, he finally acquiesces and releases my arm.

"Oh, before I forget," he says a moment later as he slings his arm over my shoulders and leads me towards the exit, "even if you don't go to your graduation, Braxton and Abel are throwing you a party."

I stop dead in the doorway and turn to look up at him in shock. His lips are twitching with amusement but he refuses to look at me. Dean's arm slips lower around my back as he nudges me out onto the sidewalk to the waiting SUV.

"They wouldn't," I say as I look from him to the two men waiting in the vehicle in front of us.

A short chuckle escapes him. "They already have," he replies. "Don't worry, it's not for another week or so; you should be all healed up by then."

Great. I'll be healed up just in time to kill two dumbass nosy motherfuckers.

My irritation can't sustain(?) itself though. Even as Dean leads me towards the back, I can't help but mutter out a response. "I fucking hate parties."

Dean’s chuckle turns into a laugh and I decide adding another couple of names to my murder list isn’t such a bad idea.

7

DEAN

AVALON IS PASSED out against my side when my phone goes off in the middle of the night. Carefully, so as not to wake her, I withdraw my arms from around her body and slip out from beneath the covers. I grab the phone, but I don't answer until I'm out in the hallway.

"Speak," I order the second I press the green button.

Troy Rodriguez's voice comes through. "We've got tabs on the older woman," he tells me.

I blow out a breath, glancing over my shoulder at the closed bedroom door before making my way further down the hall and away from Avalon. She doesn't need to know about this—not yet. "What about the other one?" I demand.

"No, I'm sorry. There's no hint of the younger female you asked us to locate."

A curse slips from my lips as I enter one of the offices on the second floor. Corina is proving to be far more elusive than any of us expected which tells me one thing, she's got some heavy-handed backers. Patricia Manning, however, appears to be all on her own.

"What do you want me to do with her?" Troy asks.

I consider the question. I have no doubt Avalon will want to deal with her mother in her own way, and though a part of me wants to just handle it for her, if she ever found out my balls would be in serious trouble. One might think I’d feel emasculated by the fact that I've let one little woman tie me up so fucking much, but I don’t. It's a two-way street. Avalon is mine as much as I'm hers.

"Don't approach just yet," I tell him. "I just want you to watch her. Keep her from disappearing again. I'll let you know if anything changes."

There's a moment of quiet on the other end of the line. It lingers for so long that I pull the cell away from my ear to make sure I haven't lost the connection. When I put it back, Troy speaks.

"Do you know what you're doing here, man?"

I inhale sharply. Troy's never questioned me before. He's been my trainer—as well as Abel’s and Braxton's—for years. He's loyal to us, and he's made no qualms about making that clear. Were it anyone else questioning me, I'd quietly relieve them of duty and move onto a new worker bee, but Troy is no drone. He's as solid as they come. So, if he's asking, then that must mean I'm losing my touch.

Carefully, I pose my next question with an even tone. "Why do you ask?"

"You're tracking down a college girl and a drug addict," he states. "I'm not sure what you've gotten yourself into, but I have a feeling it has something to do with that girl the boys mentioned. I just need to ask if this is more danger than it's worth. What is she worth to you?"

That answer is simple. Avalon is worth everything. She's worth the moon and the stars. The sun and the sky. She's worth my death and my afterlife. If she asked for my beating heart right out of my goddamn chest just so she could live another day, I'd give it to her without a second thought. Avalon, however, is not that type of person. She'd never ask me for anything simply to gain. I think about the box I have stashed away in our bedroom. The one that I know if she ever finds, she'll run so hard and so fast, she'll leave burn marks behind.

"I'm going to marry her, Troy," I say. "So, yeah, she's worth the danger. And don't underestimate the girl and the addict," I tell him. "They're much more than they appear and they're not to be trusted. If you can find the man as well, I'd appreciate it."

On the other end of the line, Troy blows out a breath. "Shit." I can just picture his face, scrunched up with discomfort. "I guess … ah … congratulations are in order?"

I chuckle, turning and crossing an arm over my chest as I lean against the desk in the center of the office. "I gotta convince her first," I tell him.

"I'm sure she'll come around," Troy replies. "They always do for you. If she doesn't, just throw some money around. Let her know she'll be taken care of."

My chuckle turns into an outright laugh. "That won't work on this one. The way I take care of her is tracking down all of the people that hurt her."

"Hurt her how?" His tone grows serious.

I trust Troy. I trust the man with my life, with Abel’s and Brax's lives, and with my secrets. When it comes to Avalon, though … no amount of trust is good enough.

"Just know that they'll get what's coming to them," I say in lieu of a true answer. "None of them are redeemable."

"Understood," is his only answer and I know he gets it. And without any further talk about my girl or what the fuck is up with my head, he launches into his report. "The addict is in a trash motel outside of Spearwood. I tracked her there from the last known location you gave me."

"The rehab facility," I state.

"Yeah," he replies. "Looks like she left there, hitched a ride out of town, but only made it a few hours away before she ran out of money."

"Do you know where she got the money?" I ask. Rylie had mentioned something that had seemed odd to me. Despite where and how Avalon had grown up, Patricia Manning had money. Someone had been slowly funneling money to her for years now. I turn and flip open the laptop there, clicking away at the keys until I find the files she sent me.

The money trail ends about a month before Avalon had been accepted into Eastpoint. Why?

"No clue," Troy answers. "But I do know she's not paying for the motel she's in. Looks like your addict has graduated from druggie to prostitute. She's got a slew of men in and out—customers, I assume."

"Assume nothing," I bark. "I want every single person she takes into that room photographed and sent to my analyst." Rylie would at least be able to get a work up on those people. Background checks were easy enough to procure as long as the money was flowing.

"Consider it done," Troy replies.

"Keep me updated,” I say.

"Will do." With that, I hit the end button and set the cell phone on the desk before blowing out a breath. A creak in the doorway alerts me to company. I flip around, reaching back for the antique letter opener one of my father's business associates had given me at my high school graduation.

Unlike Avalon, I'd never gotten the opportunity to say no to attending my graduation. Nicholas Carter had used it as an excuse to invite over anyone and everyone who had money, ties, and no fucking sense. After all, who gave a letter opener to an eighteen-year-old boy? Regardless, I'm almost thankful for it now. Though dull, with enough force behind it, the end of it will cause a considerable amount of damage.

I freeze and relax when I see who's there. Avalon pushes the door open wider and steps into the room. "Sneaking around behind my back?" she asks as she shuts the door and leans against it. My fingers relax and I release the letter opener, letting it clatter back to the desktop. Her eyes flash to it before a smirk rises to her lips. "What were you planning to do with something like that? Kill me?"

"Of course not..." I reply, but my words trail off as she moves across the room and my eyes drop to what she’s wearing.

Avalon isn’t a normal seductress. She doesn’t plan. She doesn’t scheme. She just is. She’s simple. So, I know that how she appears before me now isn’t done in an effort to get something from me, but there’s something so goddamn enticing about seeing her in one of my t-shirts.

“What were you doing?” she asks, moving closer.

“I got a phone call.” I talk but I can hardly hear my own words. The whole of my world has narrowed down to the way my white t-shirt hangs off one shoulder and bares her collarbone to my view. “Didn’t want to wake you.”

“Well, I’m awake now,” she says.

I lift my hand and hold it out to her. “Come here.”

Her body stills and I know it's because of the bite of demand in my tone. Avalon doesn't take well to commands. I keep my hand out, palm up, waiting nonetheless, and finally, with excruciating slowness, as if to tell me she'll come to me when she damn well pleases and not a moment sooner, she moves towards me. It would be amusing if I didn’t need her so damn badly.

Her hand slips into mine and I close my fingers around it. I use my hold on her to tug her forward and straight into my body. Spinning, I pin her back against the desk and dip my head.

"You smell so fucking good, baby," I tell her, nuzzling into her throat. "How are you feeling?" I can't go too fast. She's still hurt. She needs to heal, but it's been over a week and my cock is pounding. I want her. There's nothing else in this world that I could ever desire the way I desire her.

"I'm fine," she stresses. My hands clamp down on her hips and I know my fingers dig in much harder than necessary. I hope she's right. I hope she's healed enough because I don't know if I can stop myself from taking her now.

My fingers slip under the hem of the shirt and skate across naked flesh. A groan works its way up my throat. She's not wearing any underwear. She's open and ripe for the taking. My teeth itch to dig into her the same way my hands are. I part my lips and set them on the tender side of her neck and bite down.

Her head tips back and a soft cry of surprise echoes out of her throat. Her lower half undulates against my hips. "Dean..." My name is a breathy sound on her tongue and nothing any other woman has ever uttered to me has sounded so goddamn hot.

I grip the t-shirt and drag it upwards and over her head until she stands naked before me. Her lips quirk as she pushes the basketball shorts I’d pulled on earlier down. As I step out of the fabric, kicking it to the side, she shoves the laptop back and jumps up on the desk, spreading her legs.

My baby. My sweet, vile little demon. She's hell and heaven. I go to my knees before her because I know as well as any man there's only one way to worship a queen. The second my mouth descends on her pussy, I push my tongue inside and relish in her taste. She cries out again, spreading her thighs even wider as she lifts her legs and sets first one foot on the edge of the desk and then the next.

"Dean—fuck!" I lean up and suck her clit between my lips, laving it with attention. Her body shudders. I want her to come all over my face. I want to taste her juices in the back of my throat for days to come. I want to fall asleep buried inside of her and wake up with my arms wrapped around her.

I just want … her. In a thousand years—in a million—all I’ll ever want for the rest of my life is this psycho woman in my arms. Some people are born whole. I didn't realize that I wasn't one of them until I met her. Avalon is the other side of my fucked-up coin. The darker side to my already pitch-black moon.

I can’t hold back anymore. Though I want to taste her on my tongue for the rest of my life, I can’t not be inside of her. I rip my mouth away from her pussy and rise up, lifting her legs off the edge of the desk and hooking them at the knees over my arms as I push forward into her. Her hands come up and lock onto my shoulders, nails digging in, scoring my skin—scarring me the way only she can.

Every thrust. Every withdrawal. It’s a drug—this intimacy between us—and I’m hooked. Hooked on the pain she gives me when she cries out and I feel a fresh wetness on my upper back as her sharp little dagger-like nails drag down the flesh there.

I tip my head towards her as I pump into her with short, rapid thrusts. Our foreheads touch and I can feel her breath against my lips. “Harder,” she pleads. “Dean, fuck me harder.”

“Hurt me,” I tell her. I want her to mark me. I want the pain to last. Because I’m afraid … for the first time in my life, I’m scared. I’m afraid that the second I stop feeling her so deeply, she’ll disappear. Perhaps it’s egotistical of me, self-centered for sure. Her existence doesn’t revolve around mine, but mine does revolve around hers. And I’m afraid that the moment she disappears, I will too.

Her eyes lift and mine fall, they clash—the two of us reading each other with nothing but panting breaths and slow, inexorably delicious thrusts between us. An understanding lights her expression and she tilts her face up, her mouth slamming into mine. Our teeth clang together, sharp bites of discomfort ricocheting through my head, but it’s not enough. It’s not nearly enough. Her nails cut a path down my back, lighting up the nerve endings in my skin and I groan loud and long as I fuck into her. I drive myself in as deep as possible. Fucking her until our lips part and she throws her head back and screams her orgasm.

I follow behind her only moments later.

8

AVALON

I STARE DOWN at the grainy black and white photograph of the woman, a woman I've known all my life, but for some reason, I don't recognize her anymore. The last time I saw my mom, she was asleep. Or rather, she was in an induced coma because she'd overdosed on only God knew what.

This, I realize, is what Dean was doing last night. He had someone track Patricia down and they'd called him. I look up from the photo and glare at him. "Why the fuck didn't you just tell me?"

Abel's eyes widen at my tone and he very slowly goes back to sipping his coffee. Dean, on the other hand, just stares right back at me. "I'm telling you now."

I grit my teeth. He's right. It's not like he kept it from me. He'd only waited a few hours to tell me, and half of that time had been taken up by fucking me on his desk, and next to it, and under it and against the wall and—okay, we fucked a lot last night. Maybe that was the reason he hadn't told me until we'd woken up again this morning and came down for breakfast.

Braxton stands at the stove, shirtless. He flips a series of pancakes onto a plate and slides it onto the table. My eyes track him automatically. It's not purposeful, but a reflex. His back is a mass of ink—violent scenes and great big creatures all jumbled together—where the rest of his body is clean. Save for his knuckles anyway. On either hand, he has the words "Sick" and "Boys"—it's funny because I know they hate that name, but apparently Abel had gotten Braxton drunk on his eighteenth birthday and dared him to do it.

It's hard, sometimes, to remember that under all of the damage and cruelty, they really are just guys. Guys who love to fuck around with each other. Guys who live together. Fight together. Breathe together. They may not be brothers by blood, but brothers by circumstance and certainly brothers by choice.

I shake my head and return my attention to Dean as he asks, "What do you want to do about her?"

What do I want to do? I crumple the image in my hand and then walk across the room to stand in front of the trashcan. I step on the pedal to pop the top open and dump it inside.

"She's not our priority right now," I say. "She can wait until after we find Corina."

"Food's done," Brax announces, turning off the stovetop and turning around with a plate in each hand—one laden down with scrambled eggs and the other with bacon.

My stomach growls and before he can even set them down, I snag a couple of pieces of crispy fresh bacon and shove the salty fatty goodness in my mouth before taking a seat.

"Speaking of," Abel says as Brax disappears out of the kitchen and Dean takes a seat next to me, "I figure we can probably invite Luc to your party."

I scowl. As if I needed the reminder of their stupidity this early in the morning. "Why are you throwing a party when we have more important things to worry about?" I bite out, grabbing another few pieces of bacon.

Dean eyes me before scooping a spoonful of eggs onto a plate along with a few pancakes and sliding it my way. He eyes me meaningfully. I snort, but pick up the fork anyway and dig in when my stomach growls again.

Abel sets his coffee cup down and looks at me from across the wooden surface of the table. "There are a lot of reasons," he says. "One, you need to celebrate the big things in life." He holds up a finger.

"Not big, but whatever floats your boat, Frontman," I reply, shoveling a forkful of pancake in my mouth. I hate the idea of a party, but honestly, I'm too tired to argue with them over something so insignificant.

"It is," Abel argues before holding up a second finger. "Two, to keep up appearances. No one else knows what happened and we need to keep it that way. Whether you realize this or not, whoever is doing this is likely watching us. If you think about it, they have to be expecting something. From you and from all of us."

I frown, chewing my food, as Braxton comes back in the kitchen with a shirt covering his massive chest. He takes a seat and loads his plate. I swallow and turn to Abel. "Okay, but that still doesn't explain the reason for a party. Just to keep up appearances?"

Abel sighs. "How does the outside world view us, Ava?" he asks.

That's easy. "A bunch of rude assholes with rich parents," I state.

Braxton snorts but doesn't say anything.

"Exactly," Abel says with a nod. "We're putting on an act, Ava. Everyone expects us to fuck bitches, get money, blow cash."

I deadass stare at him. Did he really just ... Before I can say anything, Braxton reaches up and slaps the back of his head.

"Hey! What the fuck was that for, asshole?" Abel rounds on him.

"Don't be an idiot," Brax states plainly before shoving a bite of eggs into his mouth.

Abel rubs the back of his head, and still cutting a dark look Brax's way, he starts talking again. "Okay, maybe that wasn't the best way to put it," he admits, "but it's the truth. Fact is, we're throwing a party and we can use it as cover. Invite Kincaid, bring him in, get him to help us."

"He'll help us," Dean says.

I look at him. There's no uncertainty in his tone. It's a statement of fact. Luc Kincaid will help us find Corina or he'll be a very sorry man indeed. I go back to eating my breakfast, but as I do, I start to wonder if maybe Dean isn't already recognizing something in Luc that he was blind to before.

I AGREE TO THE PARTY—THOUGH in actuality, it wasn't like I had much choice—on the condition that Rylie come as well. I watch Abel in particular when I make this demand, but he doesn't appear fazed by it, which makes me think that the problem between them is on Rylie's part, and not his.

Whatever the case, I get my way, and by the following weekend, we're in the Mustang, heading for the Frazier House.

When we get there, the whole place is lit up like a Christmas tree. Lights are on in every window, a golden hue spilling out over the lawn as cars are lined up on the grass. Benzes and Ferraris and BMWs. I shake my head as we get out and head around the back, not even bothering to cut through the actual house.

"Platform," Dean says.

I don't know what the hell that means, but the others obviously do. Both Brax and Abel nod and then Abel links his arm with mine, dragging me after him as Brax follows a little further behind.

"Where's he going?" I demand as Dean disappears into the back door.

"Drinks," Abel replies. "Appearances. Remember. Don't drink anything one of us doesn't give you."

I roll my eyes. "As if I would."

When we reach the small, stage-like level to the side of the pool, I realize what Dean meant by 'platform;' he'd been telling them to bring me here. I shake off Abel's hold and climb the stairs myself before turning and taking a seat in the back—the perfect watch point.

Just a few short months ago, I'd been forced to come to one of their parties. I'd been the outsider looking in, not really wanting to be here, but curious nonetheless. Now, here I sit, atop my throne.

The backdoor opens once more and Dean comes out, carrying a bucket and a few water bottles under his arm. He makes his way to the platform and then drops the bucket in the center of the table before taking his position at my side.

"Is Luc here yet?" I ask.

He shakes his head. "I've got guys looking for him, but so far no word. He hasn't arrived yet."

"He will," I tell him.

A half hour goes by and the party really kicks up. Abel and Braxton disappear at odd intervals, sometimes pulled away by a smiling girl in a bikini and others just on their own. The entire time, however, Dean remains at my side. A thought pops into my head.

"What happens when this is all over?" I ask after a while.

Dean turns and looks at me. "What do you mean?"

I lean forward and cup the underside of my jaw as I set my elbow on the table, looking out across the backyard where dozens of college kids that I've seen in my classes for the last four months drink and play and make out in what I'm sure they think are private corners. It's all visible to me here.

"I mean," I say, "where will we stand when we catch who set me up?" My head tilts until I'm staring Dean in the face, locking my eyes with his chocolate brown irises. “What’ll we do after it’s over?”

"Nothing," he replies, tipping the neck of his beer bottle back until he swallows a mouthful.

"Nothing?" I frown.

"We go on as we always have," he says. "You're staying."

"There won't be any need for you to protect me," I point out.

He cuts a dark look my way and then sets his bottle down on the table before leaning closer. His hand cups over my bare knee and a part of me wishes I had chosen a pair of jeans tonight rather than the loose cut offs I'm wearing. The heat of his palm sends shivers down my spine.

"If you think I'm keeping you close just to protect you, babe," he says, his breath brushing over my lips, "then you haven't been paying attention."

My lips twitch, a smirk coming to life. "Oh yeah?" Two can play at this game, I think. I lean forward myself and his eyes dip to the t-shirt I'm wearing. It's older, frayed, and certainly not something anyone in this crowd would ever be caught dead in, but it's comfortable and, lucky for Dean right now, gapes slightly open. One slice of a pair of scissors had turned the once crew into a nice, deep v-neck.

"You're playing with fire, baby," Dean warns me, a growl in his tone even as his gaze locks onto the flesh I'm revealing to him—only ever to him.

"Then burn me," I dare him.

He looks like he's about to say something when someone calls his name and both of our heads jerk up toward the sound. On the back patio, Braxton stands with his arms crossed. He tilts his head back towards the house. I know what that means.

Our guest of honor has arrived.

9

AVALON

THE FRAZIER HOUSE is a winding maze of people tonight. Outside, things are calm. Even with the Sick Boys watching on, everyone around the pool must already be too high or buzzed to really give a shit that they're there. Inside is a completely different story.

I feel like I'm practically wading through the tension. Though people have drinks, though the noise level doesn't lower, the second we step inside, everyone is on edge. They watch us like vultures—a part of me thinks that they're waiting for something. A wrong move. A mistake. Anything they can use to unseat the kings from their thrones. Or maybe it's because they know who's here and they know the history between Eastpoint and the Kincaids.

Whatever they're waiting for, though, they won't get it tonight.

As we're passing by one of the rooms on the bottom floor, I catch a glimpse of lavender hair. So, she did come after all. I scan the room around her; she’s standing with Jake. A smirk comes to my lips when she lifts her head, as if sensing my stare, and blinks back at me. Her eyes rove around me as well until she sees the guys.

She tilts her head, a question in her eyes, but I shake mine. If we need her, we'll call for her.

Dean sets his hand on my lower back and urges me forward. "Here," he says. We turn into a dark side staircase I've never seen before and he leads me up it. We bypass the second floor's landing and hit the third. Up here, there don’t seem to be any party-goers. Instead, it's completely silent. That is, until we get to the third door on the right.

"—pretty boy face up," I hear Luc say, his tone dark and threatening.

Brax twists the knob and shoves the door inward, revealing Abel and Luc standing across from each other. Both look irritated, but the second Dean steps inside, Abel relaxes. Luc turns to us.

"What do you want, Carter?" he demands.

"Your cooperation for one," Dean replies.

A vein pulses in Luc's forehead as he glares at Dean, but when his gaze drops down to me, his expression softens and he even offers me a smile. Before he can open his mouth, Dean steps in front of me, and Luc chuckles.

I shake my head and step out from behind Dean. "We asked you here because we need your help."

Luc crosses his arms and tilts his head to the side. "Oh yeah? I thought I already helped you."

"We're hoping you'll help again," I tell him.

Despite his initial softening when he saw me, tension still seeps from him. He takes a moment to survey the room, from me to Dean and from Dean to Brax and Abel. Luc sucks in a breath and exhales in a rush. "What the hell have you gotten yourselves into?" he demands.

"That's not—" Abel starts.

"I was raped."

The room goes dead silent. Shock ripples across first Luc’s face and then Abel’s and Dean’s. Brax, of course, shows no emotion. Even though this isn’t news to them—they saw it with their own eyes—I've never actually said the words aloud and certainly not in front of an audience.

Luc's arms drop back down to his side and his face drains of color. "W-what?"

I take a step forward. Dean moves with me, but I hold out a hand, keeping him back. "It's true," I continue. "I was raped during Spring Break—when I was at the Eastpoint estate. It was after I left—"

"Me?" He interrupts with his own question.

I nod. "Yeah."

"Jesus Christ, Avalon … I'm so—"

"There's more," I cut him off. He looks like he's going to be sick, but he doesn't say anything. I have to hurry this along. "A few weeks ago, I was kidnapped and tortured and almost killed. We don't know who was behind it all, but we do know people who were helping them and we're trying to find them all. We need your help to find one of them."

Luc brings a shaking hand up and scrubs it down his face. "Shit," he hisses. He grits his teeth and then looks at me, really looks at me. I hate the sympathy in his expression. I didn't tell him all of this to gain that reaction. I don't want anyone's pity or sympathy. I want their damn loyalty because I'm tired of working shit on my own. "Who?" he asks, but I have a feeling he already knows.

"Corina."

Luc Kincaid goes green, and though his eyes widen slightly, there's no real surprise in his expression. Corina had been good at hiding who she was around others, but if she was as obsessed with Luc as she claimed to be then it turns out I was right—he knew something was off about her.

"I didn't know," he promises.

"I believe you," I tell him.

He frowns and gestures to the room. "Then why am I here?" he asks. "You're not here to kill me?"

I scoff and cross my arms over my chest. "Absolutely not," I say. "You're here because we need to track her down."

"What makes you think I can help you?" Luc demands.

"Because, Luc," I take a step closer and drop my arms as I stare up into his face, "she's in love with you."

This time, Luc's face does go slack with shock. "Excuse me?" He blanches. "She's my fucking cousin."

"By marriage," I point out.

"That's still—that's not—"

"I know," I interrupt him again. "But stay with me, Luc. We need to track her down. I've told you all of this—my rape, my kidnapping, and torture—so you can understand that this isn't for shits and giggles. You should know that when I find her, no one else will … ever again." I let the meaning of my words sink in.

"Corina Harrison pretended to be my friend because she's in love with you and you hate Dean. She helped a man drug me and rape me." The words don't feel like they're coming from my own lips, though I know it's my voice filtering through the air and forming them. The words are a story—my story—unfolding in plain language. It almost hurts to hear it but at the same time, it makes me feel numb because it doesn't sound like I'm talking about myself. It sounds like I'm just recounting the experiences of someone else. Someone not nearly as damaged by it all as I am. "She planned my kidnapping. She hired the man who tortured me." I take another step forward. "She did it all because"—another step—"she's obsessed"—one final step until I'm standing right before him, within touching distance—"with you."

Silence stretches around the room as we all wait for his response. Will he prove me right—and be another man like Dean—or will he prove me wrong?

"That's..." he looks down, avoiding my gaze even as his shoulders tighten, "fucked up," he finally finishes.

A laugh bubbles up out of my throat. Fucked up? I think. It's beyond fucked up. My life has become something utterly foreign. Something straight out of a soap opera. And truth be told, all I want to do is exactly what Dean promised. I want things to go back to normal, or as normal as they can be for someone like me.

I want to go to class and fall asleep in his arms. I want to fuck on his desk. I want to just fucking be for a change. But I can't do any of that until this is taken care of, and Luc Kincaid is the key to starting. It's been weeks since I was released from the hospital, and as far as we've come the only person we have in our sights is my mother.

Patricia Manning will get her just rewards. She'll find out just who the daughter she didn't even bother to raise has become. But first, I need to know what Corina knows. She's the one who has the information we need. She knows who orchestrated all of this—who hates my existence enough to want me dead.

"Will you help us?" I ask, as my laughter dies down.

The lines of Luc's face deepen as he takes a step back and lifts his chin. He locks eyes with someone over my head. Dean, I assume. And after a long moment full of ridiculous tension, he finally lowers his gaze back to mine and nods.

"Yes," he says. "Tell me what you need and you'll have it."

Heat touches my spine as Dean moves up behind me. "Do you have a way to contact her?" Dean asks.

Luc grimaces. "Not exactly. Corina is known for going off on her own a lot. I've got a few cell numbers, but there's no guarantee she's taken any of them with her. Haven't you had a tracer put on her yet?"

"She's off grid," I answer before Dean can.

"That's not good then."

"She'll respond if you message her," I tell him.

"How can you be so sure?" he asks.

He doesn't know. It's different hearing it than viewing it with your own eyes, but the fact is, I recognize how obsessed Corina is with him. I'd seen the light within her eyes when she'd talked about him while I was tied to a chair in Ace's torture chamber. Corina was good at playing the sweet, ditzy rich girl. She had fooled a lot of people. She seems gentle, maybe a little self-centered, but altogether normal.

Reality was far different.

Corina was a snake in sheep's clothing. She was a monster just waiting for her prey. And somewhere along the way, she'd locked her sights on Luc Kincaid and convinced herself that everything she did—every vile action she'd taken—was to help him.

"Trust me," I say, "she'll answer."

10

AVALON

"WILL YOU DO IT?" I demand, locking eyes with Luc.

He straightens his posture and nods. "Yes," he agrees. "What happened to you was fucked up, Avalon. I'm not saying I can change it, but if there's anything I can do to help you—I will."

I exhale long and slow. "Good, that's … good." Relief fills me. We could've forced the issue. We could have made him help us, but it's always better to have loyalty that’s given willingly than loyalty that is compelled.

"We need you to be on standby," Dean says, his voice rumbling against my chest. I look up at him.

"You need my contact information?" Luc asks.

Dean arches a brow. "No. We've got what we need. All of the numbers you have for Corina, use them. Call her, leave a message. I don't care how you go about it. I think it goes unsaid that you need to keep our involvement a secret. She can't know that you're working with us." Dean palms the side of my waist and moves me slightly over until he's standing before Luc all on his own. "When you do get in contact with her, have her meet you somewhere. Remote. Just the two of you. Then give us the address."

"You want to ambush her?" Luc sounds a bit wary of that.

"It's not like she gave me a heads up on all the shit she pulled," I point out, turning back to him.

He frowns but doesn't disagree. "Fine," he says. "What else?"

"Just one more thing." Dean takes a step forward. "Since everyone already knows you came here and we can't have Corina thinking you're willingly working with us—" Dean doesn't give him a split second of warning before his fist is crashing towards Luc's face.

I wince as Dean's knuckles hit the underside of Luc's jaw, sending him into the wardrobe on the other side of the room. Luc crashes into the giant wooden structure, the doors cracking under the immense force of his weight.

Abel snorts in the background just as Luc growls and shoots out of the broken mass of wardrobe, his own fist sailing through the air. “Motherfucker!” Luc yells.

A hard arm bands around my waist and yanks me out of the way just in time as Luc and Dean really start to go at it, the two of them trading blows and slamming each of their fists into the other. Abel rushes past me and heads out into the hall, leaving the door open so that must mean Brax is behind me, still holding onto me as I gape at the two of them in confused silence.

“What the fuck?” I manage to mutter as Dean and Luc end up in the hallway after Abel. They disappear from my view, but I can still hear bodies slamming into the walls and grunts and curses which means they’re far from done. I look back into Braxton’s slightly amused expression. “What the fuck was that?” I demand.

He chuckles, releasing me as he moves a hand up to my head, sliding his fingers through my hair and patting me like I’m a child. The urge to grab his hand and break a few fingers surfaces, but I hold myself back as I wait for an explanation. "It's all about appearances, savage girl," he says. "All about appearances."

I roll my eyes. Fine, if they want to fight and lead everyone here to believe that two of them are still mortal enemies, then they can be my guest. It will, after all, help sell it to Corina who, I don't doubt, has her own spies watching us. Still…

I grab Braxton's hand and rip it off my head, spinning and shoving upward until his thumb meets the middle of his back and he grunts. "Little savage?" Bastard sounds like he's more amused than annoyed. I roll my eyes and release him.

"Don't patronize me," I warn him as I head for the door. Abel is out in the hallway, watching as Luc and Dean—both sporting new cuts and bruises—make their way down the hallway. Dean grabs Luc into a headlock and leads him down the first staircase, the two of them cursing and slinging threats the whole way.

"Where are you going?" Abel asks.

"Where does it look like?" I snap back heading for the same staircase. "It’s my damn party, I’m going to get a drink," I call over my shoulder.

HOURS later and long after Dean had very publicly kicked Luc out of the Frazier House, I'm flying high and feeling good on the platform out by the pool. Instead of taking up at the table meant for the Kings of Eastpoint, I sit on the very edge of the platform, swinging my legs as I down another shot that Abel hands me.

"How many does that make?" Dean growls out, glaring Abel's way.

Abel rolls his eyes and then downs his own. "Not enough if you ask me," I say. I glance back at my alcoholic partner in crime. "Where's my next one?"

Abel sets his shot glass down and shakes his head. "Sorry, doll," he says, "but your boy caught me making these and confiscated the bottle, and unless it's made or retrieved by one of us, you're not drinking it. Guess you're done for the night unless you can convince him."

I round my irritated gaze on Dean, but just as my head spins his way, hands lock under my armpits and lift me up, depositing me over a hefty shoulder. A hard smack lands on my ass. "Come on, baby, I think it's time we head home.”

"What?" I rear up. "Why?"

"'Cause we got shit to do tomorrow," Dean replies.

"Oh?" I relax against him. Even knowing that people are staring, it doesn't make the skin on the back of my neck itch like it normally would. The looks are there, the quiet whispers follow us—or at least the edges of them. I can't make out what anyone is saying, but I know what they're talking about. Me—the girl who drives Dean Carter out of his fucking mind. At least there's a tradeoff. He drives me out of my fucking mind as well. "What are we doing tomorrow?" I ask.

"Don't worry about what's happening tomorrow," Dean says. "You should worry about what's going to happen tonight."

Maybe I should be worried, but Dean is one of the few people in this world I trust. One of the few men I know would fucking stop if he knew I really wanted him to. So, instead of asking a million and one questions, I just relax against his back and let him carry me through the party on the patio and around the side of the house.

When we're no longer in view of the others, he sets me back on my feet and I find myself tipping my head back to look up at him. Reaching up, I touch the side of his face, the pad of my thumb skimming down a bruise that's already forming from his earlier fight.

"There were other ways to deal with Luc, you know," I point out.

Dean's hand comes up and catches my wrist. A boyish grin takes over his features. No—not a boyish grin. The wickedly amused grin of a man who knows he's God's gift to womankind. What an arrogant asshole. And then a smaller voice pipes up. My arrogant asshole.

"None were nearly as fun," he replies.

"I think your definition of fun and mine are completely different," I point out.

"Oh?" He pushes me back until my spine meets the side paneling of the house. Back here there's so much goddamn greenery, even if someone were to walk by there's no telling if they'd actually be able to see us or not. Then again, it's not like I care if someone sees us. I don't care much about anything these days. If it doesn't have to do with my revenge, with understanding why I seem to be the center of so much hate, and if it doesn't have to do with my boys then it's insignificant.

"Ava..." Dean leans down, his breath blowing across my face. Once, I hated this man. Once, I wanted to put my hands around his neck and strangle him. I would've done anything to get him to leave me the fuck alone. Strange how time and experience change things, though.

Dean Carter scares me. He awakens a bone deep fear inside of me that I didn't even know exists. If he disappears. If he dies. If he abandons me … What will there be left of me? An empty husk of a person? Or will I at least remain human? I can't imagine it. I don't want to. My breath catches in my throat as he leans down and presses his mouth to mine. His tongue moves against me, pressing my lips apart and diving deep.

Everything is spinning out of control.

I'm being too needy. I'm getting too attached. I never wanted to be one of those girls who needed someone. Trails of ice drip down my spine as an image from my past resurfaces. Micki's warning. Never need anything because then people will take advantage of you.

"Dean." My voice is hoarse in the darkness. If he hears me, he doesn't show it. His hands find the hem of my shirt and dive beneath it. I jerk when the heat of his palms touches my stomach. He curves upward until the undersides of my breasts are within his grasp. "Dean—wait."

His mouth descends on mine once more, silencing and driving away my thoughts. I want this. I want him. Fuck. I want his cock. It's the only thing that makes me feel grounded anymore. Adrenaline pours into my system.

I was always strong. Stronger than any mountain. Stronger than any wall. I kept people at a distance. I was aggressive before they could be. And it was all for nothing. Micki was right. Rylie was right. Even Patricia … she was right.

There comes a time when you're nothing if not open. You're nothing if not completely reliant on another person. Patricia said I'd end up paying … and here I am. Just not in the way she expected.

"Avalon." Dean's voice is deep, hypnotizing. He pulls away from me, and in the darkness, I see the slightest glimmer in his eyes. I don't want to think anymore. I just want to feel. I want to feel him. My arms lift and wrap around his neck and I go up on my toes.

He's so much taller than me. Larger than fucking life, itself. That, too, is a turn on.

"Dean..." His name is a whisper on my lips, a fucking prayer to someone so goddamn self-righteous. Before he can respond, before anything else can happen, something shatters in the nearby distance.

"I said no!" That voice. I know that voice. It's Rylie.

Without a second thought, I push Dean back as our heads turn towards the sound.

"You're a fucking bitch, you know that?" a deeper male voice responds.

"I don't give a shit what you think, asshole," Rylie replies. "I told you to leave me alone and you didn't. You got what you deserved."

What the hell is going on? Dean releases me and, together, the two of us move back towards the path.

Some guy I don't recognize is standing on the path in front of Rylie, and from the looks of it, he's not happy. His shaggy light brown hair falls over one side of his face, and like half of the guys that showed up tonight, he's dressed in casual jeans and a t-shirt.

"I told you what my payment was," Rylie continues, unaware of our presence. "It did not include having you fuck me at a Sick Boys party."

The unknown guy scoffs. "Like you don't want it," he says. "I see how you've been looking at me."

"Like you're an insect that needs to be squashed?" Rylie shoots back. "Don't fucking mistake politeness for attraction, asshole. You wanted me to run a background check. I did. Either pay me, or the information you need disappears, and I fucking promise I’ll make sure no one else can find it, dick."

We're still in the shadows, Dean and I, so I take the brief moment before I know we'll interrupt the two of them to really take a look at the situation. Rylie is tense. Her back straight and her hands balled into fists as if she's ready to take a swing at any given moment.

Why? I wonder.

Then my eyes trail to the unknown guy. He's taller than her, though that's not hard to accomplish. She barely tops out at five-two. Even I've got a few good inches on her and I'm nowhere near tall. He's relaxed where she isn't. He doesn't even seem to give a shit that he's crowding her. His face is smug, as if he expects her to fall in line with whatever he's contracted her to do. Knowing what Rylie's little side gig is, I can guess, adding to what they've both been saying.

"Come on, Rylie," the dude wheedles. "It's not such a hardship, is it? I ain't a bad looking guy. Heard you haven't done shit with anyone else anyway. S'not like I'll tell anyone."

I scoff quietly, and Dean glances down, curious. I shake my head. Do guys really think we don't know that they are bigger gossips than any woman? The second Rylie lets this shitbag of a dude into her pants, he'd be blabbing it across the campus. I know that, and I have to hazard a guess that so the fuck does she if her next words are anything to go by.

"I wouldn't give a rat’s ass if you were the hottest thing to walk the earth, Matthews," she grits out. "You either pay me what we agreed or that background about your dad's new mistress goes missing … who knows maybe it'll show up in your Dad's email along with a little note about how you planned to blackmail him with it."

The guy's cajoling attitude disappears in an instant and his face falls into a mask of anger. He takes a step closer, not even concerned when she moves back. "You wouldn't fucking dare," he growls.

Rylie swallows and takes another step back for good measure. When Dean moves to break up this little party, I put a hand on his arm, stopping him. No, I want to see what she'll do. I want to see what she'll say.

It's not friendship that keeps me there, in the dark. If we even have one, it's loose at best. It's a curiosity, maybe. Rylie Moore still has a lot of secrets. They're like nondescript sounds in the dark or shadows on the wall. I hear them. I see them. I know they're there, but I don't know what's causing them or what they truly are. I have an idea and if I'm right, then she's more than just a girl from the wrong side of the tracks like me. She's just as fucked up as I am, just as damaged.

"Try me," she threatens. "I offer a service for payment—not for dick. If you want to whore yourself out, go to some other chick."

The guy's face turns a deep shade of red. "The fuck did you just call me, you little bitch?" He reaches for her, but before he can even touch her, she's gone. I blink and she's another few steps back, her fists drawn up and settled on her hips. I doubt Dean or this Matthews guy can see the way she's shaking. From fear? I wonder. Or adrenaline?

"Give me the fucking information and I'll pay you as soon as I get the money from him," Matthews tries again. "He's cut me off, Rylie. Why do you think I came to you? I need that fucking money. I don't have anything to give you right now."

"Then you're not getting shit from me, dickhead," she snaps. "Go find your party girls to wet your dick; we're done here." She moves around him, giving him a wide berth, and heads back towards the party.

"Oh, no we're not—" Matthews snarls, reaching for her once more. And this is where this little drama scene ends for me. I take several steps forward, the soles of my shoes hitting the stones and alerting the two of them to my presence. Rylie spins around much faster than the guy, and as soon as her eyes land on me they widen in surprise.

Matthews, on the other hand, doesn't get the opportunity. I grab his wrist, turning and yanking until it's pressed firmly against his back. He struggles in my grasp, cursing a blue streak. "Fuck!" he shouts. "You had a goddamn bitch watching us?"

Rylie doesn't say a word. She doesn't have to. Dean moves from the shadows into the light, and as soon as Matthews sees him, he freezes. "D-Dean?"

Dean looks from me to Matthews and then frowns when I grin at him over the guy's shoulder. He sighs, then draws his fist back and punches the dude in the face—once, twice, three times until he lists in my grip and crumples to the ground like a deflated balloon. Rylie gapes.

"W-why did you hit him?" she asks as I wipe my hands against the sides of my shorts.

I shrug. "He was being annoying,” I answer for Dean. “That’s reason enough.”

She continues to stare open-mouthed at me and then Dean. "You two are fucking psycho," she finally says. I don't say anything. It's not like she's wrong. I glance at Dean.

"You ready to go, baby?" he asks, holding his hand out.

"Yeah." I nod, reaching back for him.

As if it's the most natural thing in the world, Dean pulls me into his side and slings an arm over my shoulders, before glancing back to where Rylie still stands. "You should take better care with your customers, Rylie," he says. "We let you run your business on the side, but also remember—we're top priority."

"Yeah," she mutters, "you’ve made that clear.”

11

AVALON

DEAN STOLE ABEL'S KEYS. I don't know when it happened. All I know is that when we arrived, Abel had them. Now, Dean has them and he uses them to unlock the Mustang doors and closes mine behind me before rounding the front and climbing into the driver's seat.

"You want the top down?" he asks as he starts the car.

"Don't care," I say. I assume he takes that to mean that I don't, so he leaves it up, but rolls down all of the windows so that the wind whips through the interior of the car as he pulls out of the makeshift lawn parking lot and onto the main road.

"How're the others getting back?" I ask quietly.

"Braxton will take care of it.”

I hum an acknowledgment in my throat, but my brain is feeling fuzzy from all the alcohol Abel had poured for me earlier. I'd sobered well enough to watch the scene with Rylie and that client of hers, but now that I'm back in a safe space—alone with Dean—it's coming back to kick me in the ass. My eyes droop low as I watch him. I trace the outline of his features in the dark. Every once in a while, light passes into the car—headlights from another vehicle or one of the randomly sporadic street lights we pass as we move further and further away from the main part of Eastpoint, heading home.

"Got something to say, baby?" he asks, glancing my way after what feels like several minutes of comfortable silence.

I turn my head one way and then the other, resting against the passenger seat, with my cheek pressed into the headrest. "Why are you looking at me like that then?" Dean's voice rumbles in the dark interior of the car. With one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the gearshift, he flicks his gaze from the road and back to me several times when I still don't verbally answer him.

His hand lifts and moves over, gripping my thigh as his thumb rubs back and forth. "How much did you have to drink?" he asks. "Are you feeling sick?"

I sigh. "No, Dean. I'm fine." I shift, restlessly, but I don't try to remove his hand. "Where are we going tomorrow?"

Dean doesn't respond for a long time. Long enough that I begin to grow nervous. I turn my head. My eyes center on him, on the way his jaw clenches and his hands tighten on both my thigh and the steering wheel. "Dean?" I repeat.

"You'll see," he tells me.

I don't like the way he says that—without meeting my eyes. "Dean." There's a warning in my tone.

He shakes his head and withdraws his grasp from my leg. My body turns cold. He doesn't do that. He doesn't pull away from me. If anything, Dean is a pusher. He pushes and pushes until I'm backed into a corner with nowhere else to go but towards him. What the fuck is going on?

"Dean, what are you hiding from me?" I demand.

The front of the Mustang turns into a familiar driveway. Dean still doesn't say a word as he pulls in front of the mansion, hits a button that lifts the garage door open, and then pulls the car inside. My heart beats frantically in my chest.

"Come on," he finally murmurs. "You're probably tired."

Tired? I am as far from tired as a person can get. I'm keyed up. Angry. Frightened. I stop as he pops his door and steps out of the car. Frightened? I repeat the word inside my head. Is that what this feeling is? Fear?

I pop the door and step out, letting it swing shut behind me as he rounds the hood of the Mustang, keys in hand, and heads for the door leading into the main part of the house. I don't move. He opens the door, hangs the keys on their hook, and then pauses. I don't know if it's because he doesn't hear my footsteps following or if he senses the rising tide of my emotions.

Anger. Fear. Panic. Uncertainty. They come crashing through me like a wave. For years, I'd gone without feeling anything too strongly. The only emotion I'd ever needed was anger. It'd been the root of my survival. Fear had been a much smaller monster. I became immune to it. When everything around you needed to be feared, it didn't hold as much weight anymore.

I've gotten too comfortable. I've come to rely on this man. Him and Abel and Braxton.

"Are you done?" I ask when Dean finally turns around to face me.

He frowns. "What are you talking about?"

"This," I gesture between us. "Are you fucking done with this? Is that why you won't tell me what the hell is going on?" Anger, yes. That one I can handle. That emotion is easy—like coming home to an old friend. It's the fear I can't stand. The fear that makes me want to … I shake my head. I'm not going there. Other bitches beg. I do not.

"Baby..." Dean takes a step away from the doorway and move towards me. "There's nothing going on."

"Then where the hell are we going tomorrow?" I demand. "Don't fucking lie to me, Dean. Lie to Abel and Braxton, fine. Lie to your father, I don't give a shit. But do not fucking lie to me."

"Avalon." My chest is pumping up and down rapidly. I can feel my heart pounding in my ears. Dean moves ever closer until his hands fall on my upper arms and I can see the way his brows are pinched together. "That's not what this is about. It's fine. We're fucking fine. What are you freaking out about?"

"I'm not," I snap, shoving away from him. I turn and stomp towards the house. "I just can't look at you when all you do is stand there and fucking lie to me."

"Avalon! Don't walk away from me!" he calls out, but I ignore him, continuing on into the house.

I need to get my shit and go, I think. I'm not gonna stay anywhere that I'm unwanted. I'm too used to being that way. Unneeded. Unwanted. It makes me think of another 'u' phrase. Un-fucking-hinged.

"Avalon!" Dean's shout echoes off the ceiling of this grandiose mansion. A place that I'd just thought of as home. Well, fuck him and his home. I don't need it. I never did. If he wants to lie and keep secrets then fine. Two can play that game. I don't need him—I can find Corina on my own. Luc will tell me—I was the one who convinced him after all.

I'm already halfway up the stairs to the second floor when Dean catches up to me. He grabs my arm and before I even realize what I'm doing, I’m swinging at him. My first punch grazes his already bruised jaw. My second meets his solar plexus and he doubles over, grunting in pain. For a brief second, I hesitate. But that motherfucker uses it to his advantage.

His arms band around me, lifting me up and swinging me back over his shoulder like he's done a million times before. "You fucking try to swing off," he growls, "and you'll send both of us plummeting to our deaths."

This feels familiar, I think distantly. It was something that happened right before we fucked for the first time. My thighs tighten at the reminder.

"Fuck you!" I scream, hating the way my body responds.

He chuckles, and it's a dark, sinister sound. Something wicked and deviant and it makes a shiver chase down my spine. A moment later, I feel the hot burn of a slap against my ass cheek that has me stiffening. "I don't know what the fuck is going on with you, baby," he says in response, "but I can assure you, after I get it figured all out—that's exactly how you'll be making up your little temper tantrum to me."

Temper tantrum? Oh, I'll show him a fucking temper tantrum. I stew in my fury as he carries me the rest of the way to our room. Violence burns inside of me. The second he sets me down, I become a massive ball of it. I swing at him again, but this time he's ready for me. His hands grab mine, turning me until my back is pressed against his front. I bring my head back and try to slam it into his face, but he's too tall and he just veers out of the way even as he kicks the door shut behind us and shuffles me towards the bed.

Oh no, I think. I'm not that fucking stupid. The second I let him get me on that mattress, this fight is as good as done.

I kick and scratch and twist my arms until his skin burns against mine. I know I'll have bruises, but I don't give a fuck. I try to head butt him again to no avail. I even attempt to rear back and kick him in the balls, but he's too fast—and too sober. Unlike me, Dean had nursed a singular beer for the entirety of the night. I can feel the slowness in my movements. Rage makes them powerful, but the alcohol in my system makes them predictable.

My front hits the bed and my hands are released for a split second, allowing me just enough time to flip over and bring my knee up towards Dean's groin as he comes down over the top of me. He chuckles and grabs my knee, lifting both of my legs up as he quickly unbuttons the front of my shorts and yanks them down and off, tossing them away.

"I'm not going to fuck you!" I snarl at him.

"Calm the fuck down," he growls right back.

“Tell me the fucking truth!” I counter.

“About what?” His hands lock into my wrists and slam them both above my head. Dean’s body comes down on mine, pinning it to the mattress as he glares down at me, his eyes clashing with my own. “What are you thinking?” he demands. “What are you so angry about?”

“What is happening tomorrow?” I challenge him. “What is it that you don’t want to tell me? Are you fucking done with me? Is that what this is about? Or are you hiding even more secrets? I’m not doing that anymore, Dean. If all you’re going to do is lie to my face and keep things from me then tell me right now because I’m tired—I’m fucking exhausted.” I’m so close to the edge, I’m walking a tightrope just to remain sane. One more betrayal will send me toppling into an abyss I don’t know if I can ever come back from.

Dean groans and sinks down on me, his head moving into my neck even as I continue to fight against him in my t-shirt and underwear, not that it does any fucking good. In a far part of my consciousness, I realize that perhaps I should be freaking out because of other reasons. The last time a man had me pinned like this. Helpless. Unable to control the things that were happening around me. I’d been raped. But even as furious with him as I am, this is Dean. My mind may hate him, but my body feels nothing but warmth and safety coming from his.

“Avalon…” His voice is dark. It vibrates against his chest and mine. “What are you thinking, baby?” He pulls away, his hands coming up to cup my face. Dean bores his gaze into mine. “What is going on in that gorgeous head of yours that has you so fucking crazy right now?”

My wrists are free from his hold, but my hands remain where they were originally pinned above my head. “You’re hiding something,” I tell him. “You said we were in this together.”

“I did,” he agrees with a nod. “Did you not believe me?”

It wasn’t that. At the time, I had certainly believed him. But now … that’s when I realize, this isn’t really about him. This is about me. Unwilling to stare into his eyes any longer, I close mine and turn my head away. Or at least I try to. His fingers dig into my cheeks and turn my face back towards him, but unless he’s willing to pry my eyelids open, he can’t doing anything about me keeping my eyes shut against him. It feels like the last barrier I have.

“Avalon, look at me.”

“No,” I rasp.

“Baby…” I grit my teeth and then gasp when I feel his lips against mine. He takes advantage and pushes his tongue into my mouth. It weaves and tangles with my own. Sliding along the rough ridges of my palate, slipping out and tracing my lower lip before his teeth nip me, causing me to jump. “Avalon, please.” He whispers that last word against my lips. A man who doesn’t ask for anything, a man who doesn’t beg. It’s the one thing I can’t hold out against.

Inexplicably slowly, I lift my eyelids and stare back at him. “What are you so afraid of?” he persists.

I know the answer. It pops up the second his question leaves his lips. I don’t just want Dean Carter, I’ve started to … need him and that fact freaks me the fuck out. Needing someone makes me weak. Children need their parents, but mine had been a piece of shit. The second I’d started needing Micki, she’d up and vanished on me. What’s to say Dean won’t do the same damn thing? The desire to escape this fucked up romance of ours wars with the desire to stay and cling to him. I want to stay, but I need to get out. Those two sides of me are playing some screwed-up version of tug-of-war with my emotions. I suppose there’s no more denying it to him, though. He asked for an answer so I’ll give him one.

“You,” I finally say. The truth is I’m fucking terrified of Dean Carter. When he meant nothing to me, I could brazen my way through no fucking problem. When he was just an asshole who liked to get in my way or torment me, I was fine. Now, things are different. Now, he’s more. More of everything. I’ve never needed anyone—not my mother, not Micki, not even myself—the way I need him.

His eyes soften. “You have no reason to fear me, baby,” he whispers. “Fight with me. Fuck with me. Hate me or love me. I’m not leaving this and I’m not leaving you.”

He’s saying all of the right words and with each and every one of them, my heart beats a little bit slower. I suddenly feel frustrated—not with him, but myself. I freaked out. I had a panic attack or something like it. I’ve never had that before. If anything proves that this relationship isn’t good for me then what just happened does.

I am, however, nothing if not a dumb bitch. Because regardless of whether or not this relationship is good for me, I’m in it and I can’t seem to want to find the exit any time soon.

“I’m … sorry,” I mutter.

Dean’s lips twitch and he releases my face. “Was that so fucking hard?” he asks.

My fist meets his stomach once more and he grunts as I turn sideways, pressing my cheek into the comforter. “Shut up,” I snap.

He chuckles. “Well, now that we’ve made up…” His hand starts to slide up my back, pushing my t-shirt with it, and I’m reminded of the fact that he stripped my shorts away from me. "What do you say we have a little fun?"

A sigh leaves my lips. "Has anyone ever told you that you have a one-track mind?" I say, rolling my eyes towards the ceiling even as his head dips and his lips brush against my throat. He nips lightly, making me jump.

"You do, too," he accuses lightly.

"Yeah, but my track is on the bloodier side, not the 'get in Avalon's pants the fastest way possible' side."

He chuckles as his hands slide out from beneath my shirt and to the tops of my panties. "Good for me you're not wearing any pants." Dean arches up over me and takes my mouth before I can form a response and just like that, a bolt of electricity hits me.

Why are we like this? I wonder absently as he devours my thoughts with his tongue. The piercing in the center skates across the back of my teeth when he pulls back. Every time we hit this point, the chemistry explodes and I stop being me. I stop being the logical Avalon I know. Suddenly, I become something—a creature—I didn't even know existed. I become his, solely and completely. Every touch. Every movement. Every caress jacks me up higher and higher until I'm trailing the fucking ceiling. A better rush than falling. A safer bet, though? Never.

Dean strips away my underwear and then rips off his shirt before grabbing mine and rending it straight down the middle. "Caveman," I mutter as he reaches back into his pocket and withdraws his pocket knife. A grin stretches my lips as he flicks it open. "Planning on doing something fun with that?" I ask.

He grins. "You know it.”

The fabric of my bra is no match for the keen edge of his knife. I know he keeps it perfectly sharpened because when I'd used it to hack through Kate's hair, it'd been much easier than I'd expected. My bra melts away like butter until I'm bare before him, but he doesn't stop there.

The flat side of his knife touches the skin between my breasts as he leans forward. "Do you trust me?" he asks. Had he asked me months ago, I would've said no. Hell, had he asked me weeks ago, I still would've said no. But that was then and this is now.

"Yes," I say, earning a wicked smile from his lips. He jerks forward and presses a fast kiss to my mouth as if to reward me for my quick answer, but it doesn't last.

"Good," he says, scooting back so that my legs are free. "Turn over."

I eye him suspiciously, but I'd already given my answer and Avalon Manning doesn't go back on her word, so I flip my ass over until my front is pressed against the mattress again. Dean peels away the scraps of my bra and t-shirt and tosses them to the floor, out of sight.

"Don't move, baby." The second he says that, it's all I want to do. I want to squirm and move and wiggle—away and towards him in the same breath. I force myself to concede to his command, though. There's no telling what he has planned with that dangerous knife of his.

I jump slightly when the cold metal of his blade presses against my upper back. The sharp sensation of it against my warm skin is a pinpoint of focus. I close my eyes and lower my head until my face is pressed into a pillow. Dean slips the knife from one side of my back to the other, back and forth, slowly, until the sensation becomes something I grow accustomed to. Only then does he change.

The metal leaves my skin and then comes back, the sharp tip of it digging delicately against the upper part of my spine. "I want to mark you here," he tells me, drawing a circle just behind my neck with the tip of his knife. A shiver skates down my spine. Cold fear washes through me. Adrenaline pulses in my veins. And sick bitch that I am, my pussy grows wetter and wetter.

"You're so pale." Dean's words become a whisper in the night. "I want to paint you red."

The image of it pops up in my mind. The two of us, covered in gore and blood, smiling and laughing. Two fucked up people doing fucked up things. It's everything I never even knew I wanted. I turn my cheek to the side and take in my first fresh breath in minutes.

"So, why don't you?" I challenge. Sure, the knife is there, the threat is there, but I feel no wetness on the back of my neck. He hasn't drawn blood. I want to see if he will.

"Do you want me to?" he asks.

Do I? I ask myself. The truth is, I don't really care. If he wants to carve me up inside and out, it will change nothing about me.

"Do it," I say.

He doesn't ask again and this time the sharp edge of the knife presses deeper into my skin as he draws it down and then curves from the top of it to the bottom. Those shivers turn into barely repressed trembles. My pussy fucking throbs as he draws on my skin with his blade. A moan echoes up from my throat, and unable to hold back, I let it out.

I can feel his cock against the backs of my thighs, hard and long. The tip of his piercing rubbing insistently against my skin. I want him to fuck me while he hurts me. I shift my hips.

"Don't move," he says again. "I'm not done."

"I want your cock," I demand.

"Soon," he promises.

My hands clench into fists as the sharp pain of his blade cuts back into my skin. Four more lines, one down, three across. Then three more, two down, slanted, and one across. Finally, the last three. One down. One diagonal. One up.

"You're done," he says.

I turn over underneath him and hold my hand out. The skin against my back tightens and burns where he cut me. There's blood on the blade as he passes the knife over to me. "Turn around," I say.

He shakes his head. "Do it here," he offers instead, pointing to his chest.

I arch a brow but don't question him. I lean up, feeling wetness drip both down my back and between my thighs. I'm going to make this quick. I can't stand it anymore. I carve out the letters I want, moving them swiftly across his chest. Maybe someday these will be a tattoo embedded into his skin. Maybe I'll ride his fucking cock while someone etches the markings of my name into him forever.

The second the last letter is done, Dean snatches the knife from my hand and stabs it into the pillow behind me before toppling me down onto the mattress. He spreads my legs and I gasp as he shoots forward, filling me straight to the hilt. His cock presses into my pussy until it fucking hurts.

I reach up and scratch my nails down his back as he palms the back of my head and brings my mouth to his. We clash. We duel. We fuck like maniacs. Like the world is exploding into existence and ending at the same moment. I moan as he reaches down and slips the pads of his fingers through the folds of my pussy, just above where his cock penetrates me. He takes hold of my clit and squeezes, sending shocks of both pain and pleasure rocketing through me.

My hands slap against his chest, slipping over the blood. He turns, rolling onto his back as his fists yank down to grip my hips. "Ride me, baby," he commands, and I do.

I place my hands against the headboard, grinning at the splotches of blood that cover the white blankets beneath us as I lift up and then fall back down, taking his cock in all the way once more. His groan rumbles up through his chest as his teeth clench. The ecstasy on his face is better than any porno.

My fingers are covered in blood—his blood. I relish in it as I start to move my hips. Up and down and back and forth. Harder and faster until the room starts spinning. Until his hands on my hips turn bruising. Dean curses and clenches his jaw and then, I feel it. He fucking comes and sends me right over the edge. I gasp as an orgasm swallows me up and carries me away as his cock jumps inside of me, pulsing and sending me to infinity.

I fall back down to reality with gasping awareness as I collapse against his chest. Panting, sweaty, bloody as shit, my back aching even as I finger the lines I cut into Dean's chest.

"How was that for a little fun?" I comment dryly.

He laughs, but if he answers, I never hear it because in the next few seconds, exhaustion finally overwhelms me and I close my eyes, falling into blissful fucking sleep.

12

AVALON

THE MOON SHINES down over the old Georgia back road as I recline against the porch steps of Micki's house, letting the smoke from my cigarette drift up towards the sky. The light from inside goes out and then the door opens. She doesn't say anything as she descends the steps to take her place next to me.

She's unusually quiet tonight. I get the feeling that there's a lot she isn't telling me. A part of me wants to call her out on it. I refrain. Everyone's got secrets—including her—I don't need to know all of her business. If she wants to tell me, she will.

Something heavy clunks against the porch step and I look down, my eyes widened as I spot the bottle of tequila, a giant ass liter at that. "Damn," I say, "must've had one hell of a week."

She twists the cap off, cracking the seal, and chuckles at my comment before lifting the bottle and sucking back the first few gulps. She doesn't stop at the first few gulps though. My eyes widen as the once full bottle slowly begins to drain. There's a twisted grimace to her lips, but it doesn't stop her. I have to.

"Whoa, slow the fuck down," I say, reaching for the bottle. I snatch it from her grip and some of the tequila spills out onto the wooden steps between us. The scent of sharp, biting alcohol reaches my nostrils. I might have thought she switched it out for water given that she gave no indication of how strong it actually was had it not been for the fact that before she'd opened it, it'd been sealed … and that smell. "What the hell are you trying to do?" I demand. "Kill yourself?"

Micki sighs and lets the bottle go without complaint. I set it down on the other side of me, away from her. "Not tonight," she answers. It's such a vague and yet meaningful answer, it catches me off guard.

"What do you mean, not tonight?" I clarify.

She shrugs. "Just what I said, kid."

I scowl. "How many fucking times have I told you, I'm not a damn kid."

Her lips quirk up. "Hey," she says, ignoring my statement, "I've got an idea. Wanna go somewhere?"

I eye her. "After all that shit you just drank?" I shake my head. "You're not driving anywhere, bitch. Let's just hang here." I like it here anyway. Patricia doesn't know about Micki—who she is or where she lives. I like it that way. This is like my little safe place away from all the shit I have to deal with on the daily.

She smirks at me before reaching into her back pocket and lifting a key ring with a dangling rabbit's foot. "Who said I'll drive?" she asks. "I've been teaching you, you can do it."

I stare at the keys as she swings them around her finger again and again until the sight starts making me dizzy and I reach out, snatching them away from her. It's better this way anyway. It's for safe keeping. "Where the fuck do you want to go this late at night anyway?" I ask with a curse.

Her head lolls back on her shoulders and she stares up into the cloudless night sky. "There's a train track bridge not far from here," she says. "Drove by it the other day and wanted to stop, but couldn't. I kinda wanna go there."

I frown. She never leaves her house. The only reason she even has the old piece of shit Buick out back is because the last owner of the house left it behind. She found the keys under the sink, fixed it up, and got it running. It shakes if you go too far past forty-five, but other than that it's alright.

"I don't know," I say.

Micki swings her head my way. "Pussy," she calls out.

"Excuse me?" I glare at her, but she only smiles.

"You fucking heard me," she taunts. "I called you a straight up pussy, bitch."

"You're drunk," I snap. How the hell had she gotten so drunk so fast? Was she doing shots before I even showed up?

She laughs. "Yeah, but you should still take me," she counters.

I roll my eyes, fingering the keys I'd taken from her. My tongue presses to the roof of my mouth as I contemplate my answer. "Why do you want to go?" I ask.

Micki doesn't answer immediately. Instead, she sits up and keeps her gaze on the full, hanging moon in the sky. I look towards it, trying to see what has her so enthralled, but to me, it just looks like a bit tit in the sky. Nothing particularly grand or magical about it.

"I just don't wanna be here tonight," she admits quietly after some time. And just like that, I know I'm going to cave to her ridiculous request. Why? Because I fucking get it. Micki keeps her private life to herself, and no matter how many times I come over and we talk about my shit with Patricia or Roger or whoever the hell my mother's fucking this week, she never includes shit about her life. If she does, it's always in the vaguest of terms. It doesn't take a fucking genius to guess, though; she's just as trapped as I am. Who the hell lives in an empty, barren house all alone at the age of eighteen, after all?

She's got a story, just not one she's willing to share, and I'm not willing to push for it. We're friends for now. Friends by circumstance. Friends by understanding. But no more.

"Fine," I finally say, pushing up from the porch and stabbing out my cigarette against the wood. She doesn't complain. She never does. "Let's go."

Micki smiles and pushes to her feet. She grabs the bottle and heads back inside, appearing minutes later with empty hands. We head around the side of the house, to the half rotted out barn that houses the ancient Buick she uses to get her groceries and disappear to God only knows where. The barn is so old, there's no electricity so we have to figure our way out in the dark. I smack into the front fender with a curse but use my hands to feel along the car until I get to the driver's side door.

As old as this motherfucking car is, it's difficult to open the door even though the locks aren't engaged. I spend a good minute or two fighting with the rusted shut door until it pops open and the light inside flares to life. Dim as it is, it's something and it helps Micki to find her way into the passenger side.

"Turn left on the road," she says as soon as the car is geared up and thrumming to life—albeit a bit too loudly.

I put the old Buick into drive and ease out of the open barn door and then circle the house before heading for the road. For the longest time, we sit there in radio silence—only briefly interrupted every few minutes as she relays directions. The grim yellow headlights wash over the road, but for all I know, they're not working. The rest of the road is pitch black. No cars come towards us and none come behind us. It's almost as if we're all alone out here in the dark.

Two lost girls on a back country road with nowhere to really go back to. For a second, I wonder what she would do if I just kept driving. Past the train track bridge, past Plexton, and beyond. I could take us out of here, out of this piece of shit town, this state, and somewhere far, far away. Where none of our demons could catch up to us. Maybe then, when I sleep the world wouldn't always sound so loud.

"Here!" Micki says quickly as we curve around a bend in the road, interrupting my train of thought and stopping the track my brain had suddenly gone on. Her voice brings me back down to reality, and I realize that I'm just a child like all of my teachers say. Just like she calls me. Because only a child would think they could outrun their past.

The headlights catch on the edge of the darkest entrance to another back road that I've ever seen. I glance at Micki out of the corner of my eye. "You can't see the tracks from here," I say.

She doesn't respond to my comment. Instead, she merely says, "It's further down," as she leans forward in her seat.

She's excited, which is so odd because Micki is rarely excited about anything these days. For the last month or so she's been such a fucking morose cunt. She won't tell me what's wrong, but I keep catching her doing things I don't understand. She's tossing more and more shit away that she should probably keep. Drinking more than I've ever seen her drink before. Smoking like she wants to ruin her lungs as quickly as possible.

I suddenly hate that I've agreed to do this. I don't feel comfortable. Something feels off. My heart starts to pound as I turn onto the road and we head a little ways down. There's nothing around but trees for the longest time and then the road opens up and there it is. An old train track bridge.

It's unused, that much is clear. Even before we park the car and get out, I can see that there's no road beyond it anymore. It's been years, if not decades, since this thing was in use. The big metal beams are orange and red with age and rust. The moonlight that casts down on them makes them appear like long fingers clasped together, weaved into an almost boxlike shape.

"Come on!" Micki hurries towards it.

"Wait!" I call out, moving after her. "How do you know it's safe?"

She stops at the edge, turning back to tilt her head at me. "Nothing is safe, Avalon," she tells me. "Don't worry about whether or not something's safe. Just do it. Take the rush. Give in to the adrenaline."

"I don't know," I say. This doesn't seem right. There's too much she's not saying. I don't mind a few secrets, but this seems dangerous.

My heart kicks up another notch as she turns around and makes it onto the track bridge. I follow behind her, thankful that I left the headlights on so it gives us a little more light to work with. I step across the railroad ties that have all but rotted away and keep to the side of the bridge. Down below there's nothing but darkness. Water rushes nearby, but there's so little light that goes that far, it's hard to tell if it's deep or not, if there are jagged rocks at the bottom waiting to rend our flesh into shreds or not.

The pounding of my heart screams inside of my chest, wailing to get out. It thrums in my ears even as I lift my head and watch as Micki jumps from one impossibly thin board to the next.

"What are you fucking doing?" I scream. I'm angry. I hate my life. I hate where I am. I want out, but I'm not fucking suicidal.

The same can't be said for her. I should've never brought her out here, I realize. This was more than a mistake. This was just me wanting to keep the only fucking friend I had and in order to do so, I had to placate her with things that she wanted even if they weren't good for her.

"I'm having fun," she calls back.

"No, you're not," I scream. "Get your fucking ass back in the car. We're leaving. This was dumb."

Micki laughs and the sound of it sends shivers down my spine. It's the laugh of someone who's completely lost touch with reality. My head turns as if on a pike and I catch sight of her, too far down for me to reach now. Half of her face is illuminated in the light of the moon—the headlights too far away to even touch her. She looks like a mixture of a trailer park princess and a forest beauty who's lost. Her blonde hair kinks and shifts over one shoulder as she lifts her arms above her head, standing on a single slat, and sways to a beat that I can't hear. Her eyes are shut and her face tilted towards the darkened sky.

"Micki?" I take a step towards her, but she doesn't respond. Not right away.

"It's quiet out here," she says finally. I stop to listen. She's right. It is quiet. There's always some noise—even at the trailer park. Even if there's no drunkard outside, yelling and singing old show tunes, there's still the sound of the refrigerator or the electricity that shivers along the walls when a light is on. Everything has sound. And though it's not completely silent—there are still the sounds of small animals hiding in the underbrush yards away scurrying this way and that—it's quieter than I've heard it in a long time.

My heartbeat finally begins to slow. I move along the slats towards her. Her eyes open and she meets my gaze for a brief moment before holding out a hand. I don't know why I take it. It seems risky to do so, but I do it anyway. The risk, I'm finding, isn't something I'm all too scared of.

"It's not dangerous," she tells me. "Not as long as you're in control."

Am I in control? I wonder silently, almost absently. I turn my face up towards the moon and take in the sight. What is she seeing that I can't?

It doesn't feel like I'm in control. If anything, it feels like my whole life is spinning out of my control. What can I grab onto? What can I do that will keep me feeling like I'm on stable ground? Micki lets go of my hand as a wind blows through the metal beams above and around us. The cold air slaps me in the face, shoving my hair back from my face as I squint into the darkness.

Everything around me looks like a cage but feels so open, and I realize I'm not scared anymore. I don't know where the fear went, but it's gone. I'm on this bridge because I want to be. Not because Micki forced me. No one forces me to do shit. I do what I want.

I take another step, my eyes centered past her on the end of the bridge. It's several yards away with several dozen slats in between where I am now and where it opens up into a dark forest. An old gravel road moves beyond it where once, I assume, there had been more tracks, but in the time since this place has become irrelevant to society, nature had retaken that road. Greenery eats into the gravel and even up that side of the bridge.

My feet carry me towards it. I jump towards the next slat and the next and the next, until there's no wind in my face, just the air moving around me the faster I go. Micki calls out to me from behind, the sound growing further and further away as I open my mouth and swallow a fresh breath of air.

I start to run. The faster I go, the more I feel invincible. My feet don't hesitate. I hit slat after slat. The wood shakes underneath me, but I just don't give a fuck. I laugh aloud, spinning as I hit the end and take a look back. Micki stands there, watching me, a frown on her face.

Why the fuck is she frowning? She started this. She led me here.

How the hell had I thought she was so far across when really she's still so close to that other end and I'm standing right on the precipice of nothing. Of the woods. Of completely and utterly erasing my existence to my past. My thoughts come back, full circle. Dying is not the goal. Getting away is. Away from Patricia. Away from that musty old trailer of hers. Away from the feelings of inferiority.

A sinister thought grips me tight. Hate is a powerful emotion. It slips through my veins and curdles in my blood. It's hot and cold in the same instance. My breath slips in and out of my chest, scorching through my lungs. I hate this place. I hate the way it makes me feel—dirty and grimy. As if I'm less than everyone else. As if I'm worthless.

I want to cut it all away. Rip it out of my skin as if it's branded inside of me. Even if I do that, though, I still find myself wondering … will it really change anything. Can I completely leave this place, or will it always travel with me?

"Avalon?" Micki's voice carries across the space between us and I glance at her. "You coming back?" she asks as if she's not sure. The girl who was so vocal about wanting to come here is gone and it's like her normal self is back. I snort. How can she expect me to just go back to normal when she's the one who brought about this change in me? I laugh, and the sound of it carries into the air, echoing off the beams, but Micki is my friend and so, I'll go back. For now, I'll return. Tomorrow, though, is a different story.

"Yeah," I call out to her. "I'm coming."

13

AVALON

"AVALON, WAKE UP."

I grumble and swat the hand in my face away before rolling over. Doing that, however, makes the damaged skin of my back tighten and sting. I curse and sit up in bed. Dean stands there, hovering, already dressed. His shirt gapes open a little as he bends low. He's already wrapped up the wound on his chest.

"Come on, baby," he says. "We've got somewhere to be."

I stretch my arms up and yawn, feeling my back pull at the movement. I glance back. "Got anymore gauze?" I ask, reaching towards my shoulder, trying to see where I can feel Dean's cuts against my spine. It's impossible so I fling the comforter off me and get up, heading for the bathroom.

Dean follows and props himself against the inside of the doorway as I turn and see his handiwork. There, in the plain light of day, is proof of how fucked we are in the head. His name, written in blood and pain right there in my flesh. It does something for me knowing that my name is etched into his as well.

"Like it?" he asks lightly.

I turn towards him. "I fucking love it," I admit. I'm surprised at myself. I never would've thought those words would leave my lips so willingly, but around him, they just practically leap out. All of the dark desires I've got pent up, the monster I've hidden for so long, seem to turn into simpering kittens when it comes to this man.

Dean takes a step towards me, his arm encircling my waist as he pulls me against his chest. The gauze under his shirt crinkles in my ears as he bends down and takes my mouth in a heated kiss. I press upward, into him, feeling the ridge of his hardness against my stomach as I slip my tongue against his. His piercing rubs against it and I moan.

"Not here," he huffs a moment later, pulling back. "We really do have to go."

"Ugh." I turn away, pushing against him. "Fine then," I snap. "Get out so I can get cleaned up and dressed."

Dean backs away, leaving the room while I head into the bathroom to clean myself up and come back to search for a pair of loose pants. Dean returns to help me wrap the wound on my back before helping me into a sports bra and t-shirt. We leave the house much quieter than we came in the night before and I wonder if the guys ever even came home.

My thoughts turn more inward, though, as we hit the SUV, the garage door slides open, and Dean backs out into the daylight. I watch him, staring as if he's an expensive painting in a museum I'll never go to. Never in my life did I think I would give this much of a shit about another person. That I might kill for them or die for them, but I think Dean Carter has changed me in the most basic of ways. I used to be so strong. So independent. So fucking invulnerable.

One touch from him, though, has brought me down. The King of Eastpoint has made me mortal, and I have no clue where to go from here.

I'm going to kill him, I think more seriously several long minutes later as Dean pulls up in front of a building I don't recognize.

It's one thing to deceive me into thinking he's betraying me, it's a completely different thing to rock my shit and then wake my ass up at the asscrack of dawn only to show up at a painfully boring brownstone in downtown with no forewarning and no information. I stare at it for the longest time before I finally see it. My desire to maim and murder increases.

I snap my head towards him as we stand on the sidewalk in front of the SUV. "You brought me to a fucking therapist?"

"Dr. Vikson is a psychologist," Dean says as if that makes it any better.

"I don't give a shit," I say, turning back to the car. The second my hand latches onto the handle of the passenger side door, however, Dean is on me. He rips me away and starts dragging me towards the front of the brown building. It looks more like a damn townhouse than an office, but who am I to judge where therapists choose to conduct their brainwashing, mind-numbing business.

"Dean!" I snap, fighting against him, "I'm not going in there."

"Yes," he states, "you are."

"This isn't happening," I profess. "This can't be happening." Not after last night. I can still feel the ache on the skin of my back. There's fucking white gauze taped in place in case it starts bleeding today. This morning, when I'd been getting ready, I'd seen Dean's handiwork in the bathroom mirror. I'd looked at his name carved into my flesh and felt an answering wetness between my thighs. I'd been tempted to drag him back to bed and fuck him to within an inch of his life again all because the sight of his name etched into the surface of my body reminded me of our pact to one another.

I'd thought to myself—it doesn't matter if it scars like this. It doesn't matter if I live the rest of my life with Dean's name on my back because as far as I’m concerned, I'll be his until the day he dies and vice versa. Now, I'm rethinking my silent confession. I'm rethinking everything.

"Why?" I demand, putting my foot down as we make it to the front stoop. I glare up at him, waiting, hoping like hell he has a good explanation for shit like this, and I just can't find one. That black sign pinned to the side of the building that reads: Dr. Mitchell Vikson, psychologist, is drilling holes in the side of my head as if it has magically grown invisible eyes with which to stare at and judge me. We're not even inside yet, and I can feel it.

"Avalon, a lot of shit has happened to you and I just want to make sure you're going to be okay at the end of this," he says.

"I'm not changing my mind," I tell him. "Whatever happens—whatever anyone else tells me—I'm going to keep to my plan. Corina has to die and so will whoever is behind this."

He nods. "I agree."

"Then what the fuck are we doing here?" It doesn't make any sense.

"Trust me," Dean says. His dark soil rich eyes stare down into my face, silently pleading with me to understand where he's coming from, but I just don't. I don't know if I ever will. "You said you did last night."

"It's one thing to trust you with a knife in your hand and it's another to trust you with this—" I gesture vaguely towards the building.

"Mitch is solid," Dean says.

"Mitch?" I blink at him. "Oh, so you're pals now? Good to know you didn't at least look up the first psychologist that came across your computer screen that had an availability."

"No, I wouldn't do that," Dean replies sharply. "Viks is different. He's got a past—different from yours. Different from mine. You'll understand when you meet him."

"No, I won't," I grit out. "Because I'm not meeting him. I'm leaving. Don't worry, I can find my own way back."

"Or you can stop yelling on my doorstep and at least come in for coffee," an unfamiliar voice suggests.

Dean and I turn towards the brownstone. My eyes widen as I stare at a massive mountain of a man—larger, even, than Dean. He looks like he's been chiseled straight from stone. Scars dot the length of his knuckles as he yawns and crosses his arms over his massive chest—his massive naked chest. I barely stop my jaw from unhinging and falling off. Not only is he built big, but he's covered in ink. He looks like Braxton's back only instead of one place, it's everywhere.

"Viks." Dean nods.

"This is the doctor?" I ask.

“It is,” the man in question responds.

I turn back to him, eyeing him up and down with a deep scowl. “You don’t fucking look like a mental doc to me.”

He shrugs. “Well, I’d say you don’t look like a bitch, but then I’d be lying.”

I snort. “You’re right, you would be.” Because I exude bitch. It’s my best fucking quality.

“Are you two coming in so I can put on a fucking shirt or are you going to yell on my front door step all morning?” he asks. “Gotta tell ya, my wife ain’t gonna be too happy ‘bout that; she was up all night. If she comes down to hear ya yelling, your ass is grass and I’ll let her have ya.”

“We’re coming,” Dean insists. I don’t move. “Avalon?”

I shake my head. “I’m not doing it, Dean.” I can’t. As curious as I am about this Dr. Vikson—who looks more like he belongs on the back of a Harley than in a big chair talking to a crazy patient lying on a couch—I just don’t know if I can do it, let alone if I even want to. Talking to someone about my issues? It’s not that simple.

“Avalon, please, just … try?”

Before I can respond to Dean’s plea, the gold ol’ doc takes a step off his stoop and towards me. I look up, craning my neck until I can actually see his face as he stands over the two of us on the top step. “You ain’t gotta talk shit today,” he says. “Come in. I’m making breakfast. Have an egg or two, Dean and I’ll shoot the shit and then you can go.”

I hesitate. I still don’t know this man. I don’t trust him, but from the sounds of it—he and Dean do have a relationship. Curiosity killed the cat and I’m as catty as they come. I find myself nodding despite my reservations. Dean slowly releases a breath before turning fully to the doc and holding out his hand as if he’s now less concerned that I’ll run back to the SUV and hotwire it to get the fuck out of here before he can reach me. Smart man—he knows me well.

Dean and Dr. Viks shake hands like men—squeezing tight once and then releasing just as quickly before Dr. Viks nods over his shoulder and says, “Come on. You two can hang out in the living room while I run up and grab a shirt.”

I don’t say anything as I follow Dean into the brownstone. Although the outside looks like a proper townhouse, the inside is anything but. The walls are painted in a filmy black-gray color and I don’t realize that it’s actually chalkboard until I reach the first little image. In white, a naked woman is poised over a cliff, just about to fall, her hair flung back by the wind, but a smile on her face. It’s dusty and white against the weird paint, but so life like, it startles me. It’s as if she can fall right off the wall and go crashing into the jagged rocks that someone had added to the bottom below the cliff.

“Looks like you’ve added some stuff since I last came here,” Dean says, pointing out the half set up crib in the corner of the living room as we come to what looks like a split living space. One side is a massive open den area with lounge couches and a flat screen TV that would make any sports jockey weep with envy, and the other is a state of the art, black and chrome kitchen complete with an island bar and double ovens. It even smells like someone’s already been baking and that’s because someone has, I realize when I glance to the top oven and note that the timer is already going, meaning something’s in there. From the smell of it, I’d guess blueberry muffins. I glance, once more, out of the corner of my eye at Dr. Viks. Dean and I are definitely going to have a long talk on the way home.

Dr. Viks grins. “Haley’s pregnant,” he says.

“Shit.” I stiffen at Dean’s voice and glance at him out of the corner of my eye, but I’m relieved he doesn’t look jealous or even particularly interested. The happiness is all for his friend. “Congrats, man.”

Dr. Viks nods and then heads for the staircase we passed on the way here. “You two hang out, I’ll be right back. Grab a drink from the fridge if you want anything.”

After he heads up, I don’t say anything for a long while. I just turn and survey the house. It’s interesting. The chalkboard walls run (?) down the entire length of the front hallway. Everything in the kitchen and living room is more normal—beiges and grays. Monotone and boring. Very unlike the man who lives here. A psychologist doctor with a body full of tattoos. I turn and eye Dean once more.

“So, how do you know him?” I ask.

Dean shrugs, moving past me as he heads into the kitchen. “He’s helped me out before,” is all he offers as he cracks open the refrigerator and pulls out a carton of orange juice. It’s more than that. I can tell from how comfortable he is. He just casually goes looking for the glasses and pours himself a drink before settling in at the bar. I step closer until I’m right next to him.

“With what?” I press.

Dean scrubs a hand down his face before reaching out and fingering the side of his glass. “He used to work for my father before he decided to go back to school and after he did … I don’t know, I just started coming to him for some of my shit.”

“So, he’s your therapist,” I conclude. “Never would’ve called that.”

“I didn’t say he was my therapist, but there ain’t nothing wrong with having somebody to talk to, baby,” he replies quietly.

Tension fills the air between us—once so natural there and now foreign. It hits me what he’s waiting for. Judgment. Though not all of the anger leaves me, a lot of it fades away after I make that realization. I set a hand on his back and lean down, pressing my face against his shoulder. I’m tired as shit, cranky, and my spine aches, but this needs to be said.

“I don’t like being tricked into coming here,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. “But I’m never going to criticize you for doing what needs to be done—even if that means needing to talk to someone.” I’m not that selfish. I know I’m not the only one with scars from my past. They all have them—Dean, Abel, and Braxton—and though some of the scars may be visible, I know more than most that the majority of them are hidden deep down, buried within. Those are the ones that hurt the most.

Dean stretches back on the bar stool, the crinkle of gauze and wrapping sounding from beneath the front of his shirt, making my lips twitch. Footsteps on the staircase have both of us looking back as Viks makes a reappearance. He finishes tugging the fitted gray Henley he's slipped on down his ink stained abdomen, and I'm surprised by just how normal he looks without all of those tattoos clearly visible. If he wasn't such a massive figure as he strides through the hallway towards us and cuts into the kitchen, he might actually pull off a doctor look.

"Eggs?" he asks, reaching beneath one of the cabinets and withdrawing a skillet.

"Whatever you're cooking, I'm game for," Dean says.

"You?" Viks glances at me as he speaks.

I shrug. "Don't really care."

He nods, accepting my answer. "Eggs it is, plus the muffins..." He sets the skillet down on the stove and frowns. "And bacon. Can't go wrong with bacon."

I don't want to like him. He's a doctor, but the second he says bacon, goes to the fridge, and pulls out a huge package of thickly sliced meat, he's my new favorite person. My stomach rumbles at the sight and both Viks and Dean chuckle. I roll my eyes and scoot over to take the seat next to Dean.

Silence descends as Dean and I watch Viks cook. He seems comfortable in the kitchen, no tension in his shoulders even though he's got strangers—or well, one at least since he appears to know Dean well enough—just sitting here watching him. The timer on the oven goes off and he leaves the eggs and bacon alone long enough to move over and take out the muffin pan.

As soon as he's done whipping up scrambled eggs and frying the bacon to a perfect crisp, he dishes up a few plates and slides them to the bar along with a few forks. "Thanks," I mutter absently as I dig in.

Viks smirks at me before reaching back for his coffee and lifting it towards his lips. His eyes shift to Dean. "How's your dad?" he asks. Dean's previously relaxed expression darkens and Viks shakes his head. "Still like that, huh?"

I pause, watching as Dean's fist clenches around his fork until his knuckles turn white. His eyes cut upward. "When was the last time you talked to him?" Dean demands.

Viks arches a brow before contemplating his answer. He drinks deeply from his mug before responding. "Couple months ago now, wasn't anything 'bout work. You know I don't have anything to do with the companies anymore."

Dean nods. "And her?" He nods to me, surprising me. "You know her?"

Viks presses his lips together into a thin line and then sighs. "Yeah, I knew who she was when y'all were coming up my steps."

"What?" I blurt.

"It's nothing against you, Ms. Manning," Viks says. "I'm not really one for giving out information that's not asked for."

"It's your way of lying without lying," Dean says, setting his fork down and leaning back.

"How the fuck do you know me?" I ask.

"My father, who else," Dean answers me instead before directing his next question to the man standing before the both of us. "You knew when I called you and told you we were coming?"

A grimace crosses Viks's face, but he nods. "Yeah, I knew."

"What the fuck, man?" Dean explodes, his bar stool scraping back sharply as he stands and rounds the island.

Viks shifts, changing from a man relaxed to a man with a darkness I distinctly recognize because I've seen it in all of my boys. His face goes cold as he stops Dean with a hand on his chest. Even as tall as Dean is, Viks still towers over him. "Don't fucking raise your voice in my goddamn house," Viks says sharply, his tone even, his volume low. "You forget who the fuck you're talking to, brother."

"Don't 'brother' me," Dean says, but his voice drops anyway. "You knew about her which means he told you about her. What did he tell you?"

Viks's eyes skate towards me and I quietly set my fork down as well and slide off the bar stool. "Dean." There's a warning in my tone, but if he hears it, he doesn't react.

"Dean, if he's not telling you what you want to know then there's a reason," Viks says.

I don't wait to see Dean's reaction to that comment. I march around the island and grab his arm. "We're leaving," I state. "Thanks for the breakfast."

Viks eyes me as I yank Dean back, and by some miracle, he doesn't fight me. The tension in the room ratchets up another notch, though, when Dean lets loose an animalistic growl. Whether Viks knows what Nicholas Carter is keeping from us or not, it's clear that Dean expected this morning's meeting to go far differently than it has. Before I can open my mouth to reaffirm—more to Dean than to Viks—that we need to get the fuck out of here right fucking now—before he loses his shit—a feminine voice pipes up from the hallway.

"Honey? Who's this?"

I turn and face a woman who looks like she just woke up. Big blue eyes are half hidden behind massive round glasses and her mussy brown hair is piled on top of her head in a bun that lists to one side. She moves into the room, one hand on her back and the other on her slightly protruding stomach, rubbing in an unconscious movement.

"We were just leaving," I say as she yawns.

"Oh?" she tilts her head to the side but doesn't appear at all disturbed by the obvious tension in the room, my hand on Dean's shoulder, or the cold looks that are passing between Dean and Viks. In fact, she doesn't seem to care at all, especially not when she spots the food behind us. "Are those blueberry muffins?" she asks excitedly and all of a sudden, her languid sleepy movements burst into speed. She hustles over and shoves Dean out of the way and into me, reaching for one. "Baby, you should've told me you were cooking breakfast, I would've woken up."

Viks pulls his gaze away from Dean and me as I gape at the weird mousy looking woman now scarfing down muffins like they're the cure for cancer and she's got seconds to live. "You were up late," Viks says by way of answer.

"So?" She turns and eyes us as she continues to eat. "Hi, Dean."

"Hi, Haley," Dean says. I glance between him and the new woman, not liking the curdle of irritation in my gut one bit.

"Who's your friend?" she asks, turning her attention to me as she swallows the last of her muffin. She gives me a polite, distant smile.

Viks moves up behind her, sliding his arms around her body and palming her stomach. He's at least a foot taller than her and it's easy for him to rest his chin at the top of her head. "This is Avalon," Dean says as I loosen my grip on his arm. I move to take a step away, but I don't get far as he pulls me back towards him. "My girlfriend."

Haley's eyes widen a fraction before her smile turns more genuine. "It's lovely to meet you, Avalon." She glances up at her husband, but for some reason, neither of them says anything. They just stare at each other for long weird moments, as if relaying invisible, unspoken information until finally, I decide enough is enough.

"Dean?" I nudge him and look back towards the door. "Are we leaving or what?"

"Yeah, we are," he says, slipping his arm from around me. His words don't match his fucking actions, though. Of course not, because that would be far too simple, far too convenient.

Instead, he stands there for another moment, glaring at Viks before he shakes his head and turns away. "Come back anytime, Dean," Viks calls out as I huff out a breath and head for the front door.

"Not likely," Dean calls back. "At least, not until you can actually be honest with me."

"Well, the invitation’s open," Viks says. "For you too, Avalon."

At the door, I stop and turn back, watching as Viks comes to stand at the mouth of the hallway. "Don't count on it, Doc," I say.

14

DEAN

OF ALL THE people in the world, there has rarely been someone that I trust as much as I do Abel and Braxton. Mitchell Vikson is one of those men—was one of those men, I mentally correct.

My hands clench against the steering wheel as I drive Avalon and myself out of downtown. I can feel her gaze on me. Her curiosity. But she doesn't say anything. Or at the very least, she waits until we're on the interstate and I can't as quickly pull off and shove her out—not that I would now. Maybe two months ago, yeah I would've left her ass on the side of the road, but that'd been before everything. Before I became obsessed with one pain in the ass little girl.

"So..." she starts, "that's your … therapist." If I wasn't so upset by Viks's reveal and his betrayal, I might find it amusing the way she says the word like it tastes filthy on her tongue.

"Not now, Avalon," I say, my hands tightening even further on the wheel.

She snorts. "Oh man, if you didn't want me to start shit, then you shouldn't have dragged my ass to see a therapist at the ass crack of dawn," she replies.

"It was nine a.m.," I remind her. Half past ten now, but I don't point that out.

"Yeah? And?" she replies. "Did I fucking stutter? I said the ass crack of dawn."

Releasing the steering wheel with one hand, I reach up and pinch the bridge of my nose. God, I feel a fucking headache coming on and I don't know how to slow it down. Well, I think, glancing at her out of the corner of my eye as I release my nose. I can think of a few ways, but I doubt she'll be so accommodating right now.

"What the fuck were you thinking?" she demands. "I mean, seriously, explain your thought processes to me because I have no fucking clue what's going on in that head of yours. Is it empty? A total mancave? Filled with nothing but boobs and football and killing shit or is there actual, living intelligence in there?"

She's on a fucking roll right now. "I was thinking that you needed someone to help you deal with whatever fallout you've got going on right now," I reply tersely. "Don't worry, though, you're not seeing Viks again." And if I ever do, it'll be because I'm tracking him down to kill him.

There's a pain in my chest I don't feel like looking at too closely. Funny thing is, Viks's voice suddenly fills my head. It sounds less like how he was this morning and more like how he was in the past, all fucking serious and questioning.

You sure you don't want to take a closer look? it asks. Maybe you'll find something there. An answer.

I shake those thoughts off as I hit the blinker and shift lanes. "Well, are you at least going to tell me who he really is? I don't believe he's a fucking doctor of brain fuck ups. He's too..." She drifts off and never starts up again. I don't blame her for her assessment.

Viks doesn't look like a psychologist. Hell, maybe it would make her feel better if I tell her that he earned his certification and degree in prison. It's partially the truth. Viks has always been a contradiction like that. Curious about how other people's minds work, even as he is fully aware that his isn't exactly screwed on straight. Then again, as he tells it, all psychologists need some sort of therapy themselves. They can't just take on other people's problems and act like it doesn't touch them. They're just better equipped at hiding how fucking messed up they are from the world.

Unlike me. Unlike Avalon. We let our crazy hang out for the whole world to see.

"He worked for my father," I finally say on a sigh. "He quit some years back. Had an issue. He left the company and we kept in touch. That's all there is to it."

"That doesn't seem to be all there is to it anymore," she says. "Sounds like he's talking to your dad. He knew who I was."

I grit my teeth, the anger still fresh enough that I can picture myself breaking the windshield in front of me with my bare fists. "I know."

"And those tattoos," she continues. "I mean, I can't fucking judge anyone based on their life choices, but it does seem like there's more you're not telling me. You wouldn't be keeping things from me, would you, Dean?"

Tires shriek as I rip the car to the side, cutting some asshole off, who blares his horn in response. I don't quite give a shit. I take the next exit, slowing down from eighty to fifty miles per hour. Avalon's gaze remains on my face. She doesn't even flinch, the crazy bitch.

I pull off the interstate, cutting through streets until I find an empty parking lot. I whip the wheel and come to a screeching halt as I cut the SUV into park and yank up the emergency parking brake before turning to look at her. I unclip my seatbelt and contemplate how to word this. I couldn't be driving as I said this, I can't concentrate on both the road and her. It's too hard. So, when given the choice, it'd been an easy decision. Just lay it all the fuck out there for her and hope like fuck I don't have to tie her down to get her to stick around. Because I will. Whether she realizes it or not, she's chained to me now. She's mine. I hit the door locks just in case she decides she doesn't like what I have to say and tries to run off.

"Avalon," I stare at her and she meets my gaze without a second's hesitation, "you need to understand that my father's company—all of our companies—though they're all old money and even though most of it is legit, it's not all above grade."

Her stare turns irritated. "Are you shitting me right now?" she demands. "You're telling me that your father is involved with illegal business?" She scoffs and leans away from me, shaking her head with a derision that surprises me.

"Yes," I say. "That's exactly what I'm saying. And for Viks, the capacity in which he worked for us, it was … that side."

"Dean," she says, turning back to me, "do you think I'm a fucking idiot?"

"What?" I gape at her. "Fuck no. What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Then why are you acting like that's not something I can figure out on my own?" she asks. "For fuck's sake, Dean. You watched me kill someone. You buried the body. You, Braxton, and Abel. You didn't exactly act like it was out of the norm for you. Did you think I wouldn't notice?" She shakes her head. "I'm with a fucking idiot," she mutters. "God, are all men this stupid?"

"I..." Why the fuck was I surprised? A laugh moves out of my throat and I turn away, shaking my head as more comes out. It bubbles up and just rumbles from my fucking chest. I can't stop. It burns in my throat and hurts, the laughter. In another way, though, it's kinda freeing. Shit.

"Are you done being dumb?" she asks when it dies away. It's almost enough to set me off again.

"Yeah," I chuckle. "I'm done being dumb."

She eyes me. "I doubt it, but I'll take your word for it. Now, tell me what was up with Viks. The truth."

"I really did just want you to meet him. He's my friend—or was … anyway."

"How old is he?" she asks curiously.

"Twenty-nine, I think," I say.

She hums in her throat. "So not much older than you. Only like eight years."

"Something like that." I rest my head back against the seat. "To be honest, I kinda looked up to him as a kid. He started working for my dad about ten years back. He didn't have the tatts then, got those later. Met his wife later, too. He was wild when he was younger, but a fucking badass."

"You saw him as an older brother, didn't you?" she guesses.

I glance back at her. "How could you tell?"

Her lips press together for a moment before she shrugs and looks away. "I had someone like that too," she admits.

She really does get it, then. How the fuck is that possible? How did the universe drop this woman in my lap? She's perfect. Perfectly psychotic. Strong. Impossible to deal with half of the time. Stubborn and sexy as hell.

"What happened to yours?" I ask, unable to stop myself. I want to know. I want to know everything about her. Every small detail as well as the big ones. I want to know more about her than even she knows about herself. I want to be an expert in all things Avalon.

"She disappeared," Avalon answers through clenched teeth as she stares through the windshield. I get the feeling, though, that whatever she's seeing isn't right in front of us. It's far away. "She lied and said shit was fine and then, one day, she was just … gone."

"Viks did that to me," I tell her. "A while back." Prison. I hadn't known it at the time, but he'd gone under my father's orders. For what, I still don't know. Whatever grip my father had on Viks's life, it is clear that he still has it.

"But at least he came back," Avalon points out.

"Yeah," I agree. "But things aren't the same, as you saw today. He's still loyal to my father." He always would be. I hate the fact that I might be right. That my horrible thoughts might be true.

"He was just supposed to talk to you. I didn't know if you'd actually let him, but I thought, just by meeting him, you'd … I don't fucking know..." I scrub a hand down my face. Now that it’s over, I realize how stupid I'd been. Thinking I could change Avalon—no, I don't want to change her. I just don't want to see her break. There are so many things she's gone through in the last few months. My head tilts and I look back at her, examining her face. She scowls at me.

"What?" she demands. "What's that look for?"

"Nothing," I say on a sigh. "I'm sorry."

Her pretty gray-blue eyes widen. "You're sorry?" She scoffs in disgust. "Shut the fuck up." She doesn't seem that upset anymore. At least she hasn't stormed off.

I laugh again. "You're something else, baby," I mutter more to myself than to her.

Her lips part as she's about to make her reply, but it's interrupted by the shrill call of my cell phone. The bluetooth speakers pick it up and the sound echoes all around us. I glance to the screen on the dash and hit the button to make it a personal call and pull the damn thing from my pocket. I hit the answer button and put it to my ear.

"Dean," I say.

"You need to get your ass down to Spearwood." Troy's voice fills my ears. "We've got a fucking problem.

"What's wrong?" I demand.

"I think the woman is on the move."

"You think or you know?"

"Dean, you know there are no guarantees—not with the information you've given me—or the lack thereof. I've been watching her like you requested. I've stayed back, but I'm telling you now, if you don't get down here—she's going to disappear and I think she's going to cause a whole hell of a lot of trouble before she does."

I glance at a curious Avalon as she shifts in the seat. "Shit," I mutter. "Fine. I'll call you when we're on our way. Do not let her out of your sight."

I hang up and toss the cell phone into the console before lowering the parking brake and shifting the car back into drive. I reach across my shoulder and reclip my seatbelt.

"Dean?" Avalon's voice fills my ears. "What's going on?"

"We need to make a trip," I tell her. I inhale. "And you're not going to like it."

15

AVALON

DEAN WAS RIGHT. I don't like it. Not one bit, but there’s no complaining about it now. I stand at the back of my old dorm room as Rylie's hands fly across her keyboard. Images fly in front of her screen for a fraction of a second only to disappear. It’s impossible to believe she’s actually reading anything, but still, it feels like she’s at least doing something. All while I stand here, feeling useless.

"Anything yet?" Abel asks as he watches from his position on her bed. He knows she hates it when he splays out all over her shit like that, but he just doesn't give a shit. I've been watching the two of them for a while, noting the subtle differences in their attitudes. Something happened. I don't know when and I don't know what, but it's clear that they're keeping it to themselves, and right now, my mind is more focused on finding out what Rylie knows about my mother's movements.

"I know you wanted to go after Corina first," Dean mutters, lowering his voice as he stands at my side.

"It is what it is," I reply. "If we need to take care of Patricia first, fine." I glance up. "Luc still hasn't called?"

Dean's expression darkens. "No."

"He will," I assure him. There's no doubt in my mind. Luc will pull through.

"He better," Abel mutters from the bed.

"Can you stop talking?" Rylie barks at him. "It's hard to concentrate with you there. You want me to get shit done, don't you?"

"It's never bothered you before," Braxton comments from where he stands against the door, his arms crossed over his chest and his spine resting against the wood.

"Yeah, well, he's close enough that he's practically in my lap," Rylie complains. Despite the clear irritation in her tone, her hands never stop moving, her fingers never stop typing.

"If you want me to get in your lap, Ry-Ry," Abel says with a grin, "all you have to do is ask."

For a moment, I think she's finally going to lose it on him. Her hands pause, her knuckles clenching white, and I can just picture what's going through her mind. There are any number of objects within her reach that she can fling at him. I almost expect her to do it, but after another second, she releases a breath and goes back to what she was doing. She doesn't respond, but even more surprising—Abel doesn't keep picking at her. It's very unlike him.

Dean shuffles over to Braxton and the two of them start talking in low whispers. I know it's not to keep me from hearing—it's for Rylie's sake. Despite the fact that Rylie doesn't really care for the Sick Boys and her fear of them has waned, she is still an outsider. We get information from her, but she was right before when she said she didn't need to know what we do with it. In fact, it's probably better this way.

I need to remember that she's not really my friend. Or if she is, it's surface level only. Getting closer can't be good for either of us. Most especially not her. It seems anyone who gets close to me only ends up in danger.

My thoughts are whirling around in my head, but the bubble pops when the door opens and I turn just in time to see Braxton slip through out into the hallway. Dean closes it behind him and flips the lock.

"Where's he going?" I ask.

Dean glances back at me. "He's getting the car packed," he says. "We've got to make a trip to Spearwood after we get what we came for."

I nod, pushing away from the wall as I move up to Rylie's back. "Okay," I say. "What do you have for us?"

Rylie sighs. "Her accounts are a fucking mess," she begins. "There's so much going in and out at once and then nothing for long stints of time, but that, too, at least tells us something."

"It could be because of her drug use," I reply. "She could be spending wildly and then be too drugged up to do anything. My question is, how the hell does she have the kind of money to go on the run?"

"Oh homegirl's got bank," Rylie says, leaning back in her chair as she looks up at me. "Your mom's got years’ worth of income. When she left the rehab center and kept moving until she ran out, then it’s obvious it was just what she had on hand, but she has access to more. Thousands of dollars just in this account, but I'm almost a hundred percent sure that she's got even more stashed away somewhere—or if she doesn't then someone has just been very carefully funneling her the money. Actually, there's no doubt in my mind. Someone has been giving her money."

I scowl even as confusion overtakes me. "Who?"

"That's the thing," she snaps, a growl in her voice as she returns her attention to the screen in front of her. "I can't fucking track it down. Whoever they are, they're fucking good or they've hired someone who is. The money traces back to an unknown company that you can't even Google. It's obviously a front, so I tried connecting the dots to where that company came from. Seeing if it sold anything, but as far as I know—it's a company, an LLC, in name only. There's no proprietor. The only thing this company does is pay Patricia Manning."

"Can you cut it off?" Dean asks, approaching from behind. Before he even touches me, I can sense his heat at my back.

"Yes..." Rylie answers hesitantly. "But you don't really want me to do that."

"Why not?" I ask. "If we cut off her money supply then she can't run anymore."

"That's true," Rylie agrees. "But it doesn’t seem like she’s really using the money to stay on the run. With the money she’s got, she can disappear at least for a little while.”

“Not with her drug habit,” I state. “A woman like her needs the backwoods drug stops. Even if she can afford the good stuff, she can’t quite pull off wealthy enough to afford it. They’d just turn her ass around and boot her out.”

“Yeah, okay, that makes sense.” Rylie bobs her head. “But then what is she using it for? She just seems to be saving it. That’s odd to me.”

“We can figure that out in a minute,” Dean says. “Go back to the accounts. Why can’t you just keep her from accessing it?”

“Just because I can't figure out who's behind the money trail yet doesn't mean I won't figure it out,” Rylie says. “Give me a bit longer, I think I can track this fucker down. It'll take time. I've gotta write a program that'll—"

"I don't care what you have to do to make it happen," Dean interrupts her. "Do it. We'll up your pay."

Rylie's face goes cold, but she nods and turns back to her computer. I have the distinct impression that he just did more harm than good. I cut him a dark look. "Why don't you and Abel take a walk," I say.

"I'm good here," Abel pipes up from the bed.

Without hesitation, I leave Rylie, moving over to him. I lean over, grabbing a chunk of the blond hair at the top of his head and yank. "It wasn't really a suggestion," I state, pulling him up by his hair.

"Ow! Ow! Ava! Come on, man, what the fuck? Dude, are you just going to let your girl manhandle me like this?" Dean looks at me and frowns, but I just shove Abel his way and point to the door.

"Out," I order.

Abel whines, but Dean merely sighs and pushes him towards the door. "Don't leave this fucking room," he says. "We'll help Brax get ready."

"Yeah," I say. "You go do that."

As soon as they're out of the room, I blow out a breath and slump onto the empty bed across from Rylie's. She cuts a look towards me out of the corner of her eye. "Got something to say?" I prompt her.

"Nothing," she smarts, turning back to her computer.

"Rylie."

She doesn't look at me. "What?"

"Don't bullshit me now, what the fuck were you going to say?"

The screen on her computer comes to a standstill on a page full of numbers that I can hardly read from where I sit. She doesn't turn towards me or make any more movement. "You seem … comfortable," she starts.

I wait for her to continue, but when she doesn't, I decide she needs more prompting. "Yeah? How so?"

Her shoulders move up and then down. "I don't know, you just seem a little different. I was worried … after you were taken. I mean, I knew Dean Carter was obsessed with you, but the rest of them were pretty freaked too."

"How can you tell that?" I ask. "Did you see them?"

Her chair moves back at my questions and her head pivots. "Yeah," she admits. "I did." I stiffen. They hadn't told me they'd met up with her. "Before you start thinking anything bad"—it was too late, but I let her keep talking—"it was for you. I was trying to figure out who took you. They went to the police station—"

"Yeah," I cut her off. "I know about that." Everything that happened leading up to Dean coming for me, he told me, but he didn't tell me he'd met with her. "Is that when you and Abel had some sort of thing?"

Her face goes slack with shock right before a cold mask falls over her features. She turns back to her desk. "No," is all she says.

I snort. "Are you upset because I asked or because I know?" I ask.

"I'm surprised he would mention it," she replies through gritted teeth.

"He didn't," I tell her honestly. "You did."

She swivels back, the mask gone and the confused shock back in place. "What?"

"Just now, I took a guess and you reacted. You told me. Not him. He hasn't said a damn thing to me about what's going on between the two of you."

"There's nothing going on between the two of us," she says quickly.

"I don't believe that for a second." I lean back on my hands, circling my neck as I try to stretch out the kinks beneath my skin, burrowed deep in my muscles. It's impossible, but at least the rotation makes it feel better.

"It's the truth," she hisses.

"Doubtful," I say with a chuckle. "I don't think girls like you and me can speak the truth too easily, but that's okay. Whatever happened between the two of you is your business, not mine. I've got nothing to do with it. As long as you can still do your fucking job, it doesn't matter."

"My job?"

I keep my eyes shut. Something tells me if I look at her right now, whatever expression she has on her face will do nothing but serve to piss me the fuck off and I really don't need to go off on her right now. I need the information she can provide, and the fact is, I'm not mad at her. I'm mad at Dean for not telling me that they met up with her when he had the opportunity to.

As if she can hear my thoughts, she starts talking, changing the subject back to what we were originally talking about. "It was at the hospital that I met up with them," she confesses. "I came to visit you, but Dean said you were about to get out. He didn't want me to go back and it's not like I could tell him no. You're pretty much the only one who gets to do that."

I open my eyes and sit up straight. She's not looking at me, but at the dingy floor at our feet. "Why'd you come to the hospital?" I ask.

Her head tips up and she frowns at me. "Do you really have to ask?"

"I just did, didn't I?" I point out.

Her brows furrow. "Avalon … I came because I thought you might need a fucking friend."

That's when it hits me—what she thinks we are and what I think we are, they're two completely separate things. "Is that what we are?" I ask her.

She blinks, her lips parting, but no words come out. "I guess not," she finally says, turning back around. "Give me a few minutes. I'll finish up here and give you a printout to look over on your way out."

Shit. I stand up. "Rylie, I'm not asking to be a dick," I say. "I honestly need to know. You need to spell it out for me. Do you think we're friends?"

Rylie doesn't look back at me. "No, it's fine. We're not friends. I got that. Loud and clear."

Motherfucker. I reach for her, grabbing the back of her chair and shoving it to the side as I reach down, fisting a handful of her shirt. She stops typing but remains relaxed. She doesn't fight back. She doesn't even look at me. It pisses me off.

"Fuck, Rylie," I mutter, "this is twisted, you know. You lied to me. Spied on me. Gave them information about—"

"And?" she cuts me off, turning her glare my way. "You're with them now, so why is that a problem anymore?"

"Friends don't sell other friends out," I hiss.

"We weren't friends in the beginning," she says. "We were roommates—strangers. I tried to warn you, not that it did any good, but I fucking tried."

"Yeah?" Anger bubbles up from within me. "And what about your suspicions about Corina?" I accuse. "You didn't like her from the start, but you didn't say shit to me."

"So, you blame me for that, too, then?" she shoots back. "I didn't know what she would do. I didn't know she'd fucking fall down the rabbit hole with you. I just didn't like her. I thought she was a fake bitch and I was right."

"Well, a friend would've told me!" I yell, my fingers tightening in her shirt. I can practically feel her chest, concave beneath the fabric. Her ribs. She's so goddamn small, it wouldn't take much to break her. I could probably break her neck with one hand.

"We're not friends. Not even close. I was wrong. My bad. I won't make the mistake again," she says.

Her words are like tiny pinpricks against my chest. Each one striking deep, the pain fusing to my already overwhelmed irritation and making it swell. When I don't release her, Rylie shifts. "I don't know what more you fucking want from me," she says.

"How about the fucking truth for once!" I snap. "Just fucking come right out and say what you mean. Stop mincing your words in front of the others. Stop acting like a scared little mouse. You've been slipping, saying shit that you would've never said in front of them. Cursing. Being disrespectful. Showing how irritated you get. I see it, I see the you underneath and whenever you put on this fake mask—that girl I can't fucking stand. That's who I'm not friends with. You want to really be my friend, Rylie, then you can start by telling me everything. No more secrets. No more lies. No more betrayals. I swear to fuck, I will give you my trust, but if you break it." I lean forward, getting in her face. "If you try to break me, no one will ever find your fucking body. So, make your choice. Are you my friend, Rylie? Or are you an outsider?”

16

AVALON

WE SIT THERE like that for another moment before she sighs, reaching up and pushing my hand away. I release her shirt without resistance. "Well?" I prompt. "What's your decision?"

"You never ask for much, do you, Avalon?" she replies. "Just the fucking world. Fucking fine. Yeah, I'm your friend. For the record, though, I didn't sell them anything they couldn't have hired someone else to do. I didn't tell them everything about you."

"Oh?" I arch a brow. "Want to tell me what you mean?"

"I didn't tell them about your friend, does the name Mikayla ring any bells?"

I frown at her. "Not really, no."

Her lips purse. "She might've gone by a different name," she tells me. "Something shorter then, but similar?"

Micki, I realize. She's talking about Micki. I leap forward, leeching onto her shoulders. "Micki?" I demand. "You found her?"

Rylie's eyes widen and she raises her hands as if to ward me off. "No, Jesus, calm down, no," she says quickly. "I didn't find her, but I did find a connection to you. They asked about any friends you might've had at your old school. I did some digging. Heard about a girl that lived near you that you hung out with from some of your old classmates. Said you two were pretty close, I didn't think they would care if I kept it secret, so I didn't tell them."

I consider the information she's told me. "Do you think you could find her?" I ask. "If I asked you to?"

She raises a brow. "Possibly, why?"

"She's..." I trail off. Do I really want to find Micki? She left for a reason. She disappeared and didn't even fucking tell me. There are so many more important things to worry about right now, but the desire to see her, to know what the hell fucking happened is strong within me. "Just … can you do it, Rylie?"

Rylie eyes me for a moment before nodding slowly. "Yeah, I take it you want me to keep quiet about it, too?" she asks.

I shrug. "I doubt they'll ask, so no, you don't need to keep quiet about it, but I wouldn't offer it up either."

She sighs and leans back in her chair. "Alright, now that that's out of the way, can I tell you what I've found out about your mom?"

My eyes shoot to the computer screen. "Are you done then?" I ask.

She turns back in her seat. "Just about," she replies. "Like I was saying before, I didn't cut the money off because we can use it to track her. She's been withdrawing a lot from this account, though." She points to something on the screen and I move my eyes up and down, crossing over the numbers that seem to grow the further up I go.

"Fuck..." I can't help but say. That's a lot of fucking money. Where the hell had that money been when I was a kid? She didn't need to fuck with Roger to get drugs. Hell, she could've bought more than enough to keep herself stocked and even OD more times than I care to count.

"Yeah," Rylie agrees absently.

"As far as I know, though, she doesn't have a debit card—at least she didn't when she left the rehab facility she was in," I tell her.

"Well, she doesn't really need it," Rylie says and then goes on to explain about identification and social security numbers and bank processes and it's a lot that I don't really understand. All I know by the end of it is that she's got access and that's all that matters.

"This came in a few minutes ago, but it's from yesterday," Rylie says, clicking a button that pulls up a small black box. She hits the button again and then a video starts playing. From the grainy black and white image, I can tell it's security footage of a bank lobby. We watch for several long moments as people move in and out and then a familiar figure appears.

My mouth nearly drops. I've never seen my mother so well put together. Her longer, slightly shaggy blonde hair is pulled up into a ponytail. She's got wire-rimmed glasses on as well as a baggy sweater that covers her entire upper half. She's never looked so inconspicuous, so fucking normal. The glasses, though, have to be some sort of disguise because as far as I can remember, she never wore them. It might have worked too, I might not have even noticed the woman in the video if Rylie wasn't staring straight at her.

"How the hell did you know that was her?" I ask, shocked.

"She looks like her pictures," Rylie explains. "Her older ones, that is. I haven't found any images of her recently; I assume she's changed?" She glances back at me.

"You could say that," I mutter. "I hardly fucking recognize her all covered up looking like a normal fucking person."

"This isn't the first video I've gotten," Rylie says, stopping the video as my mother approaches one of the tellers, a black purse clutched close to her chest. "Each of them I've managed to correlate with a withdrawal on her part."

The doorknob behind us jiggles and then a hard knock sounds. "Avalon?" Dean's voice comes through the wood.

"Hold on," I tell Rylie. "I'm going to let him in and you can tell us both."

As soon as I've got the door open, Dean comes in and pushes it closed behind him. "Are you two almost finished?" he asks.

I grab his arm and yank him behind me until we're both standing behind Rylie's chair. "Keep going," I tell her.

She nods. "I was just telling Avalon about her mom going to the bank several days in a row. I've been tracking the money she's been pulling out, but I think I've finally figured it out."

Dean's eyes sharpen on the screen, where the video is frozen over my mother's face as she turns her head to the side—scanning as if she expects someone to be following her. Little does she know we are. Only we're not there in person.

"She’s been withdrawing the same amount every day for the last ten days or so," Rylie says, clicking a few buttons until a series of bank statements pop up. "Nine thousand, nine hundred, and ninety-nine dollars."

"Why that amount?" I ask.

It's Dean who answers, though. "Because after ten thousand, it gets reported," he tells me. "Also, not all banks will have that much on hand, especially not smaller banks in rural areas."

"She could be using it to get ready to go on the run," Rylie says.

Dean's quiet. Something sizzles along my spine and I turn only to realize he's staring at me. "It’s a lot of money for someone like her," he says. “She could be doing it for another reason.”

I frown. "What are you thinking?"

His jaw tightens as if he doesn't want to say it, but with a sigh, he looks from me back to the screen again. "She could be trying to hire someone to take you out after the failed attempt last time. She could be trying to hire a hitman.”

"A hitman?" Rylie's voice sounds stunned.

I should be shocked, too, but somehow, deep down, I'm not. Not really. Am I irritated? Fuck yes. Without a goddamn doubt. But I'm not even surprised anymore by anything that Patricia Manning does. What I don't understand, still, though, is why? Why the fuck does she seem to hate me so much? And why is she trying to kill me now? What's changed?

I turn back to the computer screen and Rylie, contemplating. "If that's true," I start, voicing my thoughts aloud. "Then we need to figure out why and how we're going to use that to our advantage."

"Wait," Rylie says. "Are you serious? You really think she's trying to hire someone to kill you?"

I turn to Rylie, dropping my hands away from her chair. "Stay here," I tell her. "You don't want to get involved with this part."

"Wait, no." She shakes her head. "Avalon, even if she's a shit person—she's your mom. She wouldn't—"

"She's not a mother in any true sense of the word," I inform her with a low voice. It's so damn quiet that it's almost a whisper. It makes her shut up though. She just sits there and gapes at me. "When I was still living with her, she invited men over and told them to use me," I tell her. "I always fought back and it never happened—not then—but Patricia Manning is no one's mother. Least of all mine. She's a problem and if you want any more plausible deniability, then you're not going to ask me any more questions, Rylie. If you're my friend, you're going to keep your mouth shut and let us walk out that door. Thank you for the information, but this is as far as you go."

I don't wait for a reply; I turn towards Dean and he nods, backing up towards the door with me not far behind. I reach it, latching onto the edge as he steps into the hallway, but just as I'm about to pull it shut behind me, a small, pale hand so much more fragile than my own latches on to the doorknob and yanks it back open. Rylie steps out into the hallway and throws her arms around me.

I freeze, not sure how to respond. "Hug me back, dumbass," she mutters.

A snort escapes my nose, but I do as she demands and I close my arms around her body. Shit, she's even smaller than she looks. Like a bony doll, all slender limbs and sharp angles. "Call me if you guys get into trouble," she whispers. "I don't give a shit about plausible deniability. Call. I'll get you out and no one will know."

"Got it," I whisper back, squeezing harder than I really mean to.

When she releases me, she pushes me towards Dean and then steps back into the dorm room. "Later," she mutters, shutting it in my face. Cheeky bitch.

I pivot back to face Dean who looks even more shocked than me. "What the fuck was that about?" he asks, frowning towards the door.

"Girlfriends," I tell him. "Got a problem with that?"

He shakes his head at me. "Just as long as you know she's not fucking moving in with us," he tells me, holding his hand out. I take it without a second thought.

"I'll think about it," I reply.

"The answer is no."

I laugh. "Sure it is," I agree readily enough, making his shoulders relax before I tack on for good measure a sweet, "for now."

17

DEAN

PATRICIA MANNING IS LIVING on borrowed time. She just doesn't know it yet. My girl is all packed and ready to move out, but as I watch her with the others, strapping a knife to the inside of her boot as Braxton hands her another, I start to wonder if maybe I'm leading her too far into the dark.

I'm used to it here and she thrives in it, but shouldn't I want better for her? Shouldn't I want to lead her into a place where she can flourish and find normalcy?

"I don't know what you're thinking man, but from the look on your face, I feel like it's dumb shit." Abel's voice draws me out of my thoughts and makes me scowl. I turn and shove a hand into his face, pushing him away from me.

He curses and swings at me, punching my arm as I pass him on my way to the table we've pushed up against the side of the hotel room Troy's been using as his base of operations in Spearwood for the last few days. It's directly across from the motel Avalon's mother is in right now, with a clear line of sight to her door.

I grab a shoulder holster and slide my arms through the straps, pulling it so that it sits in place comfortably before I start picking through the arms we've got spread out on the table. Abel doesn't take me walking away, though, as evidence that I don't want to fucking talk and the asshole just approaches once more.

"You want to tell me what has that nasty, pinched look on your face?" he prompts.

"No." Clear. Succinct. No fucking way he doesn't understand my meaning. Except he's a fucking persistent bastard who knows I wouldn't kill him—at least not right away.

"Really?" he wheedles. "'Cause I think you do."

"I don't," I inform him again, picking up a gun and pulling out the clip. Thankfully, Troy does a good job in gear loading and it's all ready to go.

"Dean." Abel props himself against the table and looks across the room. I know who he's looking at. Avalon. She's dressed to kill—and I mean that quite literally. Black clothes don't show blood and that's all she's wearing. Black jeans. Black tank top. Black holster. Probably shouldn't have given her a fucking gun knowing how angry she gets and how quickly I can piss her off, but there's no fucking way she's going with us tonight without a weapon, and a puny little knife or two isn't going to cut it. "She'll be fine."

"I know she will," I state, double checking the safety on my gun before I put it into one side of the holster before reaching for a second and doing the same.

"Then what are you worried about?" he asks.

"I'm not worried about anything," I lie.

Abel arches a brow at me. "Don't be a bastard," he says. "If you don't want her to go—"

I set my hands down on the table, curling my fingers around the edge. "It's not that," I say, cutting him off.

"Then what is it?"

"I just..." My head lowers and I close my eyes.

"You just what?" he presses. God, Abel doesn't fucking stop.

"Can't I just fucking think for a second without you crawling up my ass?" I growl.

"No, you can't," he snaps back. "Because anytime you get like this, you start thinking shit that you have no business thinking. We're about to go across the street, kidnap the woman who paid some fucker to torture your girlfriend, and then we're probably going to stand back and watch as she gets some revenge. If you've got a problem with any of that, maybe you need to stay behind."

I lift my head and turn it to glare at him. "Do you really think I'd stop her from getting her revenge?" I demand.

"Then what's your fucking problem?" he bites back.

"My problem is that I think she'd be happier if none of us were like this," I hiss, keeping my voice down even as my rage bubbles over. I cast a glance back to make sure that Avalon is still preoccupied with whatever she and Braxton are talking about. When I know she's got her focus elsewhere, I return my gaze to Abel. "We're fucked up," I tell him.

He snorts and shrugs. "Yeah? So? That's nothing new." He leverages up and turns to face the table, eyeing the contents that are still strewn over its surface. Abel keeps his gaze down as he lifts a Glock and checks the clip. "What are you really worried about?" he demands. "That she's going to wake up one day and want to be someone's soccer mom? That's not Avalon."

"It could be, though," I say. "Someday."

Abel puts the gun down with a sharp movement, bending over the table as his shoulders shake. I know what he's doing, and I punch him in the arm for it. When his head comes back up, it's clear from how red his face is that I was right. He wipes the tears of mirth from under his eyes and lets out a breath. "Fuck man, look at her." We both turn around and I do. I look at her and I see how fucking sexy she is without even trying. Her long, dark hair pulled back into a tight ponytail at the back of her head. Her nape makes me want to march over to her, grab her around the hips and pull her against my cock as I bite down into her flesh. I can see the traces of the lines I'd drawn in her skin a few nights ago. My name is etched down her spine. I wanna rip the tank top she's wearing up and bare it for all to see, but this really isn't the time.

"Look at her," Abel repeats. "And tell me she doesn't look like she's right where she fucking belongs."

I do look at her. All I ever do is look at her. I watch her when she's awake. I watch her when she sleeps. Avalon has become the center of my world.

"Remember what Braxton called her when she first took us on?" Abel prompts. "A savage. That's what she is, but more than that, she's just like us. She's a survivor, Dean. It's who she is; don't get all fucking angsty on us now thinking that she could be something different. She isn't and she can't be. At the end of the day, we can only be who we truly are."

I blow out a breath, and with it goes my fucking dumbass thoughts. "Yeah," I say. "You're right."

He slaps my back. "Shit yeah, I am," he replies. "I always am."

I roll my eyes. "I don't know about always, but this time, you are," I concede.

Abel sobers. "Just remember to appreciate that savage in her, Dean," he says. "Because without it, she never would've made it to us. She would've been broken and dead a long ass time ago."

There's no response worthy of that statement. Nothing that could fit in this moment, so I just simply stare down at him and give him a firm nod. Abel goes back to what he was doing before he decided to get on my case, and together, the four of us suit up and prepare for the night ahead.

An hour or so later, there's a brief knock on the door followed by a key turning in the lock. The door creaks open and Troy steps inside, letting it shut at his back. He lifts his head and meets my eyes. "We're ready to go, Boss," he says.

"She took the bait?" I clarify.

He nods.

"Good."

"So, what's the official plan?" Abel asks.

"Simple," Avalon states as she tightens the straps on her own shoulder holster. "We meet her at the warehouse Troy set up and then we kill her." She shoots him a look. "Did you get what I asked for?"

A smirk raises the corner of my mouth. Only a few hours of knowing him and she's already barking orders like she's in charge, but then again, she is. This is her operation. Her vengeance. And I'll do anything to make sure she can see it through if that's what she really needs.

Troy nods. "It's all set up at the warehouse." He hesitates and glances at me. "Before we head out, though, I was wondering if I could speak to you for a moment?" He tilts his head towards the door. "Alone," he tacks on.

"Finish getting ready," I tell the others. "We're rolling out soon."

Troy leads me back to the door and outside. We step out onto the second-floor balcony hallway and my eyes automatically shift across the street. Patricia Manning's curtains are drawn shut, but I can glimpse a sliver of light peeking out from the other side. I wonder what the woman must be thinking—does she regret hiring someone to kill her own daughter? Would it matter to me if she did?

"What did you want to say?" I ask, turning and leaning against the worn metal railing.

"I wanted to know if you've completely lost your mind or are you only feeling a temporary lack of sanity at this point," Troy hisses.

I stiffen. "Watch how the fuck you speak to me, Rodriguez," I snap. "Explain."

"Do you have any clue what your girl asked me to get for her?" he demands.

"I'm sure you're going to tell me," I state, though I already know.

"You're damn right I am," he says. "You can be vicious, but I've got a bad idea on what she's got planned when she gets ahold of that woman tonight."

"Was it difficult to get?" I ask curiously.

"No, it wasn't difficult to get, but is there any reason she needs so much gasoline? Pliers? Ice cream scoops? What the fuck is she going to do with an ice cream scoop?" I open my mouth to reply only to have him shove a hand in my face. "Never mind. Stop. I don't want to know."

I release a chuckle. "We've killed people before, Troy," I remind him. "You've worked for my father and you've worked for me long enough to know that. What we're doing tonight is no different. Actually, it is in the fact that once you've accomplished your part of the job, you can leave. You're out. You don't need to hang around."

Troy scrubs a hand down his face. His beard has grown in the last few weeks since he's been working Patricia's tail. He looks older and tired. "When Abel let on that you were involved with a chick, I kinda hoped she'd be normal, but she's..." He trails off as if unsure how to describe her.

Abel's words from earlier come back to me. "A savage?" I supply, unable to stop myself from smiling.

"A psycho," he says instead, making me laugh out loud. He watches me for a moment as I let the laughter take over. Avalon? I think. A psycho? Yeah, but if that's true for her then that's true for all of us. Each and every single one of us—Braxton. Abel. Her. Me—we're all a bit unhinged. Hell, she puts the hot in psychotic.

Once I come back down from the insanity, I take a breath and shake my head. "Air your fucking grievances, Troy," I say. "Get it over with so we can go finish this thing tonight."

Troy is quiet for a moment, watching me, contemplating his next words I assume. Then finally, he speaks. "I just want you to be careful, Dean." His eyes move across the street and he takes a step forward, facing it as he folds his arms over the railing at my side. "This world is as dark and deep and twisted as you are. As you all are. Your choices and actions, they can't always be taken back."

"I'm well aware of that," I tell him. It's the truth. I've known that since I learned what it meant to be a Carter, to be an Eastpoint heir. To excel and survive in our environment, one had to be lethal. Ruthless. Untamable. Unstoppable. That was what had been expected of me and that was what I'd become. That is what I am now.

I turn and look at him. "Thanks for worrying about me," I tell him. "But I'll be fine. I'm more worried about her."

"Yeah?" Troy shakes his head and then cups a hand around the back of his neck, rubbing absently. "I don't know if you need to worry about her; she seems even stronger than you are."

I know she does, but that only makes me worry more. The strongest on the outside are usually the most damaged on the inside and that is very much true for Avalon Manning.

I don't reply to Troy's comment; I don't feel the need to. The two of us remain outside, taking in the air—even as rotten as it smells coming from the dumpster sitting in the hotel parking lot—until the door to the room opens and Avalon pokes her head out.

"Ready to go?" she asks, standing in the doorway with her hip propped on the frame. She glances from me to Troy.

I nod his way and he grunts as he leverages away from the railing and starts to make his way back down the balcony towards the stairs. "Yeah," I say, holding a hand out for her.

She frowns but takes it anyway and lets me pull her into my body. She's decked out for war. Knives strapped to her ankles underneath her jeans where I saw her put them earlier. I can feel the ones under her shirt. Her holster is empty, but it's tight across her back and chest. She looks like an avenging demon and a badass spy at the same time. It turns me on.

I rub against her as I lay my head on her shoulder and turn my lips so that they brush her throat. Her heartrate picks up, making me grin. "I'm sorry," I tell her. "About having to take care of her before Corina."

Avalon's hands find my waist and she tucks her thumbs through the loops of my pants. "It's fine," she says. "I knew I'd have to deal with her sooner or later." Her body sinks against mine and the smell of her hair makes me want to drag her back into the hotel room, kick Abel and Brax out, and just strip her down naked. "I'd hoped," she continues a moment later, "that after she was transferred to the rehab facility you put her in, that would be the end of it."

I lift my head. "Are you angry that it's not?"

She bites her lower lip and glares across the road. She knows exactly which room is her mother's and the hatred in her gaze blazes brightly. Along with something else, something else I'm not sure she's ready to recognize.

"In a way," she admits after a long stint of silence. "She's like a cockroach that keeps coming back. It's time for her to die. It's time for me to move on."

Even if it's painful, I think, squeezing her tighter. She leans down and her cheek touches my chest as she continues to stare across the street. She can move on all she likes, I decide. She can kill, maim, and torture to her heart's content, as long as she realizes that there's no moving past me.

18

AVALON

WAITING IS a secret agony that not many people understand. As I sit in the back of Dean's SUV, watching the rural town of Spearwood pass by outside of the blacked-out windows, I think I've been waiting for this moment for a long time. I can feel the long strips of metal attached to my skin beneath my clothes. I'm overloaded, I know. I had just needed something to do, something to keep my mind occupied as the minutes to tonight's endeavor counted down.

Now it's here. Now it's time.

"Ava?" Abel's voice sounds from the front. "You good?" he asks, his blond head popping around the side of the front passenger seat to looks back at me.

"Peachy," I lie.

He stares at me, and for a moment I think he's going to call me on my bullshit, but he surprises me instead. He gives me a soft smile and then turns back around and doesn't say another word for the rest of the drive.

The warehouse Dean's friend—or employee, I assume—Troy had set up for us is very unlike the ones in Eastpoint. Where those warehouses were obviously well kept and maintained, this one appears to be abandoned. In fact, it looks more like a barn than a warehouse and as we pull around to the backside and I roll down my window, the faint whiff of rain and sawdust touches my nose, making me want to sneeze. I roll the window up once more and sit back.

"Troy's already inside," Dean says looking down at his phone. "Pull farther around so she doesn't see us."

"You don't think she'll check the area?" Abel asks.

Instead of Dean answering, though, I do. "No," I tell him. "She won't." I don't give further explanation even when Abel eyes me, but after a few seconds, he takes it and sits forward again.

"How long do we have to wait?" Brax asks as he parks the car and kills the lights.

"Not long now," Dean says.

The seconds tick into minutes. The clock on the dashboard glows in the dim interior of the SUV. I unbuckle my seatbelt and pull my knees up to my chest, setting my boots on the edge of the backseat as I curl up and watch the empty field behind the warehouse barn. The subtle vibration of Dean's cell nearly a half hour later sounds more like a blaring alarm in the silence of the cab.

No one says a word as he cracks the backdoor and gets out. The rest of us follow to do the same. It's time.

I glance up at the building as we circle towards the back door we'd passed earlier. It's already dark since the sun has gone down, but even still, clouds hover overhead. It looks like it's going to rain soon.

Braxton draws his gun and moves towards the backdoor, checking the handle before lifting it and peeking inside. He doesn't say anything, just nods that we're clear to move ahead and Dean touches the small of my back as Abel takes the front and moves into the building.

Sweat collects at the top of my spine. My breath slides in and out of my chest. The cold air from the outside swirls around my skin before I step into the scorching repressing heat of the warehouse. The second the door shuts behind us, it feels more like an oven door closing.

I hear their voices before I see them. Troy's is deep, rumbling. He's saying something, his words muffled, but whatever he's saying, he sounds very matter of fact. It isn't until he pauses and receives a response, though, that my body locks up and I stop walking.

Unlike Troy's, her voice comes around the corner clear as day. Pristine. Unshaken. Unwavering. There's no doubt in her tone. No hesitation. "I've got the money," she says. "Here." Something hits the floor; it sounds like fabric—heavy fabric.

"Ava?" I suck in a breath as Abel's voice reaches me a split second before Dean's hand hardens on my back. I jerk my head up, seeking out his gaze.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

I nod. I am. I have to be. At least I know this will be the last time I'll ever see my mother. There's no coming back from this. It's a small comfort.

"Are you sure?" Dean presses, and this time his hands become restraining when I move forward. His other arm encircles my waist and holds me still.

"I'm fine, Dean," I whisper. "Let go."

He waits a moment more as if trying to gauge if I mean it. I tilt my head back and let him see the truth in my expression. There's no more softness in me for the woman in that room. She's my mother in name only. I don't feel sad about this. Hell, I don't even know if I can feel sad when it comes to this. All I can sense inside of me in this moment is a bone deep rage and a desire to exact revenge.

Eye for an eye. Life for a life. Pain for pain.

Dean's arms loosen and I push them away, taking the lead as I stride past Abel and turn the corner of the long hallway until I come to the opening of the main part of the warehouse.

I step inside and turn my head as Dean, Abel, and Braxton follow behind, spreading out. From one end of the room to the next, the space spans a massive distance. Large enough to hold a dozen cars or more. The air is stale from disuse. That sawdust scent is stronger here. The heat, however, has dispersed somewhat and goosebumps rise along my arms.

"What the hell?" Patricia's voice makes my head pivot towards her.

Like the image of her in the bank's security footage, she's dressed in baggy clothes that hide her frame. Her face looks haggard and even skinnier than when I last saw her. There are shadows under her eyes. Her lips are pale and cracked, but it's clear that she still hasn't given up her bad habits if the dilation of her eyes and the smidge of white powder still lingering under her nose are anything to go by.

I know the second she sees me because her already pale face goes even paler and she jerks several steps back from Troy, turning as if to make a run for it. Braxton doesn't even hesitate, he takes off across the space and tackles her to the ground before she even makes it a few feet. I watch with disinterest as her face hits the concrete floor and skids a bit before Braxton's able to leverage back up to his feet, bringing her with him.

Abel moves towards them as Dean and I head for Troy. Abel passes Braxton a pair of handcuffs. Dean says something quietly to Troy. He glances my way once before nodding and then leaving the same way we came.

All the while, Patricia is cursing and screaming as Braxton and Abel drag her back to where we're standing. Braxton shoves her back to the floor, her knees hitting the unrelenting stone, making her wince and cry out in pain. I glance to the side and see what it was that I'd heard earlier. A duffle bag.

Without looking her way, I stride over and bend down, unzipping the bag. I freeze. Green. Lots of fucking green. It's hundreds and hundreds of dollars worth of bills. Thousands. Money I'd never seen in my entire life. I stare at it for a moment before pulling out a handful of the packets they're so neatly tied in and thumbing through it.

Patricia finds her voice. "Should've known that's what you'd be here for," she sneers.

I lift my head, but I still don't turn towards her or reply. Instead, I reach down into my left boot and withdraw a knife. Using it, I cut through the paper tying the money together and then fan it out with my fingers.

I look back to Dean. "Do you have a lighter?" I ask.

He grins and reaches into his back pocket to produce one. I take it without another word and then I stride back over to where my mother kneels on the concrete, her lip leaking blood down the side of her chin. I hold up the money in front of her face and then flick the light, watching as the flame flares to life. I hold it under the green paper until it catches fire.

"Money is the last thing I'm here for," I finally say, throwing down the bills in front of her. "I'm here for fucking justice."

"Justice?" she repeats, scowling at me. "Justice would see that you were already dead."

"Yeah?" I reply. "And why do you think that? Is it because you knew someone was going to try to kill me? Because you took advantage of it to pay the asshole who kidnapped me to torture me before he finished the job?"

"Not that he could manage it," she snarls. "Obviously, you're tougher to kill than I expected."

"And you're too desperate to be rid of me," I snap back. "Otherwise, we wouldn't be here, now, would we?"

"Just do it and get it over with," she says. "I know you want to kill me for what I've done."

"Kill you?" I repeat, shaking my head. "No, mother, I don't want to kill you—well, I do—but I want you to feel what I went through first."

Her eyes widen as Braxton catches my meaning and grips the back of her head, yanking it up so that her face is tilting up, facing the lights at the top of the arching ceiling. The orange yellow bulbs sway back and forth over us, throwing shadows all along the sides of the room as I bend over her face and touch the side of it with my knife. I dig it in, watching as tears pop up in her eyes and slide down her cheeks to mix with her blood. I slowly draw the edge of it down her jawline—the same way Ace had done to me.

She gasps when I finish and Braxton releases her again. "There," I state. "Now we match." I point to the pink line along the side of my own face, barely noticeable until I turn it into the light. It's almost healed, but hers never will. Corpses can't heal.

"You little bitch," she hisses, cursing as she spits at my feet.

I don't resist the urge that hits me. I drop the knife to the dirty floor, ball my hand into a fist and then let it fly. My knuckles slam across her cheek and skid up into her eye socket, sending her flying to the side.

A laugh bubbles up out of me as I stare down at my knuckles where the skin has split over the third one. That felt a lot better than I expected it would. Dean bends down beside me and picks up my knife, closing it, and pocketing it.

"Avalon?" he asks. "What do you want to do?"

Abel moves to grab Patricia by her shoulders and resituate her in front of me. "I have a few questions before we finish what we came to do," I say. There's no point in dragging this out. A part of me wants to. A part of me wants to slice through her lower calves and watch her drag herself across the concrete as I douse her body with gasoline—the cans I see Troy has set to the side of the warehouse for me for just the occasion—maybe it was too much to ask for. Too much to really consider. I want to do any number of unimaginable things to this woman.

Mothers are supposed to love their children. They’re supposed to protect them. Not hurt them. Not trade them for drugs. Not hate them.

Patricia begins laughing. The sound is hollow and dry, but it shakes her shoulders and echoes up to the rafters. All eyes land on her. When her head tips back and her eyes open, tears leak out of them. They're a dark rimmed, watery mess. Red and empty. So fucking empty. Like they've been ever since I can remember. They've always been empty. And I realize just how true my feelings towards her have been. I've always said she was already dead, just a walking corpse that didn't know how to just lay down and stop moving.

I'm more than willing to let her finish her laughing spree. It doesn't bother me one bit, but Dean has other plans. "What the fuck are you laughing about?" he growls, stepping forward. It's almost amusing how he takes a half step to the side as he moves. It's unintentional, but it's protective because that half step brings him in front of me—as if I need him to save me from the woman on the floor when the truth is I haven't needed to be saved from her for a long time. And now it's she, if anything, that needs to be saved from me.

"Answers," Patricia chuckles. "You want answers and you think I have them?"

"Yes," I say simply. I cross my arms over my chest and step out from behind Dean, watching her as one might watch a snake slithering on the ground. It's interesting to see the way she lists from side to side with her mirth as tears and blood rain down her face.

"You'll get no answers from me," she cackles. "None. Even if you torture me. Even if you kill me—you'll be doing me a favor. You killed me a long time ago, Avalon, my darling daughter and you just don't know it yet."

"What do you mean by that?" I demand.

She shakes her head and laughs again. My curiosity has grown as stale as the air and when I get no answer from her, I push Dean to the side and go down on my knees in front of her, grabbing her by the throat to make her look at me.

"What," I snap, "do you mean by that?"

Patricia spits in my face. "It was all because of you!" she screams. "You are the reason for every fucking misfortune in my life! If you'd never been born..." Her chest pumps up and down as I reach up with my free hand and wipe her spit away without blinking and then without a second's hesitation, I reach for my other boot and withdraw my second blade. I take it, flip it open and then slam it into her stomach before she can react to the metal as it flashes before her eyes.

She still doesn't get it. The rage boils back to life. It's there—it's always been there. Through every dig, every insult, every curse, slap, and push. She's been pushing me towards the darkness for a long time, but I'm starting to wonder if maybe I wasn't already born there. Whatever it is that's driven her to her hate, it's fueled mine too.

I twist the handle of the blade and watch as she gasps. Blood flows out over my fingers as I yank the knife back out. She cries out as the end of it leaves her skin. I know exactly how it feels. I know exactly how much it hurts.

"This is over," I tell her with meaning. "It has been since the day you decided you hated me." What fucking parent—what mother—truly hates their own child?

This one, I realize. My mother. We've been building towards this moment, she and I.

"Decided?" She gasps out another laugh and then coughs. Blood appears on her tongue, at her lips, and when she coughs, droplets land on my cheek. "You think I decided anything?" she asks. "I didn't. You were a fucking accident. A mistake! I didn't even want you." I can't say I'm surprised by her statement. A part of me expects it to hurt, but I've known it for so long that hearing it straight from her lips doesn't even faze me. Still, her lips keep flapping. She keeps talking.

"He was the one that wanted you," she hisses. "He begged me to keep you. To not get an abortion, even though it was safer for him. He promised me everything would be okay. He said he'd protect me, but he failed. He failed because they—" She cuts herself off, turning away.

"They?" I prompt. "They who?" And what the hell did she mean ‘safer for him?’

"It doesn't matter," she says.

Oh, but it does. If she's unwilling to say it, then that must mean it's important. Using the hand I have on her throat, I shake her. "Who the fuck are you talking about?"

Her head swivels back to me and leans to one side, her eyes unfocused. "You'll never know," she says. "Not until it's too late. Not until they kill you. They won't stop until they do, Avalon. Your very existence is a threat to them. They fucked up, but they'll try again."

"Did you think you could use me against them?" I ask. "Is that why you kept me?"

This time as tears leak from her face, they seem different. They feel fresher. Cleaner. How is that possible? I wonder absently.

"No," she sobs. Tears streak down her face as she coughs again. More blood leaks out from the corner of her lips. "At first, I kept you because it was what he would've wanted. I went back home pregnant and alone and fucking broken. I wavered between wanting to destroy you before you could even take your first breath and needing something of his so fucking badly—something that had his blood and his looks and his everything. And then you came and you looked so much like him." Her body shakes in my grip. Trembling. She doesn't even acknowledge the wound in her stomach. It's like she doesn't even feel the pain.

"But as you grew older, I just … couldn't stand to look at you anymore. It hurt." Glassy eyes stare back at me. "It wasn't fair!" she rages. "Why did he have to die so you could live? Why? It should've been you—you should've died!"

Her words echo up to the rafters and another sob leaves her. My hand releases her throat and she slumps back down onto the concrete. The pool of blood beneath her widens as she coughs and hacks. Spots of red appear before my eyes in front of my shoes.

Someone behind me moves closer and then Dean's voice fills my ears. "Avalon," he says, "are you going to finish this?"

I tilt my head back and look up without answering him. I let the stale, stagnant air surround us for several long, quiet moments. The only interruption is the subtle shuffling of feet behind me and Patricia's blood-soaked breaths.

“Do you know what it’s like being trapped in a barrel?” I suddenly ask.

"What?" Patricia asks, sounding annoyed.

I lower my head and stare across the massive space before us, but I don’t see the warehouse. “It’s dark and cramped and it makes your limbs ache," I tell her. "When you realize you’re trapped, you try to climb out. You scratch and claw at the lid, but it’s sealed shut. Slowly, you stop trying to find a way out. You settle back into the small space, but every time you move, every time you try to find a more comfortable position, you just smack into the surrounding wood. Over time, however, your muscles get used to it. They hurt less. They go numb. The second you get used to it, though, the barrel begins to fill with water.”

I can picture the image I’ve drawn up for her. I’m not sure if she sees it, but in my mind’s eye, it’s crystal clear. “At first, you panic,” I continue. “You do what you did the first time you realized you were trapped. You scratch and claw and kick at the walls surrounding you. Then, once again, you get comfortable with your new situation. It's painful and it's scary and it hurts, but you're still breathing and so you learn to live with it."

"But things are ever changing. It can always get worse, and gradually it does. The water starts out around your toes, but it doesn’t stay there for long. It starts to rise until it’s covering your feet. And then your ankles. Your legs. Your waist. Your stomach. Your chest. Your neck. Each new realization brings about the panic once more, but there’s nothing you can do. You can't break free of your prison. You're trapped and every day something new and equally as awful is added to your horrible life inside that fucking barrel."

Silence. No one says anything. I can tell the guys are confused. I can feel their eyes burrowing into me. Finally, Patricia breaks the stillness. “What the fuck are you rambling on about?” she asks.

“I’m not rambling,” I tell her, pulling my gaze from across the room and looking down at her. “I’m describing how it was to live with you. I’m describing what it’s like to be your fucking kid.”

My hand reaches out once more. This time, I don't reach for her throat, but for her hair, I gather it in my fist, yanking her head back so that I'm staring down into her upturned face. It's a fucking disgusting blotchy mess. Using my hold on her hair, I drag her closer until my face is less than an inch away. Here, she sees me. Here, she has to see me. She has no other choice.

“Living with you was slow and painful suffocation. Each day brought about new obstacles that I had to overcome. Food. Water. Survival. Protection. I learned all of those things. How to provide for myself. How to fight for myself. How to fucking live and breathe for myself!” The more I speak, the harder my grasp gets. She winces as several strands get yanked out as I pull hard, dragging her up to her feet even with her hands bound behind her back.

“It was impossible to learn any of them from you—you can’t learn how to live from a corpse,” I state.

She glares at me, saying nothing. Her lips are twisted into a scowl. There's no remorse in her face. And shockingly, there are no empty promises on her lips. She doesn't beg me to release her. She doesn't plead with me not to hurt her. Patricia just stands there on shaking legs with a bleeding hole in the side of her stomach, glaring at me. Almost as if she's daring me to do it. To go that extra mile and do what I've always known I would.

My hand loses its grip and she sags, but she doesn't fall. Her knees shake and threaten to buckle under her slight weight, but she locks them and manages to stay standing. I know I shouldn't do this yet. She has information we need, that I need. She all but admitted it. She knows who my father is and maybe that has something to do with it all. Letting her live, though, isn't something I can do. She's done so much. Hated me. Hurt me. Betrayed me. I don't want to live another second in this world with her sharing the same air.

So, I won't, I decide, taking a step back as I withdraw my gun.

My arm swings forward, and I watch it as if it's detached from my body. My brain recognizes the movement, but I don't. It looks like someone else's limb even as I feel the heaviness of the weapon against my palm.

Patricia smiles when she hears the safety click off. This isn't even murder anymore, I think to myself as I lift the barrel of the gun and point it downward, it's assisted suicide. I pull the trigger once, shift, and pull it again.

She cries out, crying as her knees shatter from the impact and she tumbles to the concrete. Even though she does want this—for me to kill her and end her miserable existence—I still deserve my vengeance.

Patricia screams, loud and long as the agony of having both of her knee caps shot to hell ricochets up her body. None of the guys say a word, but suddenly there's a hand there, taking the gun from me and replacing it with something else, a container.

I look up as Braxton hands the gun off to Abel and says, "Do it,"

There's no judgment in his stare, no pity, and no blame. He hands me the gasoline and takes a step back. Abel curses quietly under his breath, but he doesn't try and stop me. Dean just watches on. Silent and ever present as I tip the plastic, red can up and let it pour out over Patricia's head. Her screams grow higher in pitch as the gas lands on her open wounds. I don't stop until the can is empty. Braxton hands me another and I do it all over again. Realizing that I'm not going to stop, Patricia sobs and clings to the concrete floor as she attempts to drag herself away. I just follow her, quietly continuing to pour. I keep doing it until her screams are hoarse and we've made it several feet from where we started. I toss the third or fourth can I've used to the side and hold my hand out, face up, waiting expectantly.

This time, it isn't Braxton who steps up and hands me a box of matches, it's Dean. He places it in my palm. The cheap cardboard crinkles in my fist as I close my fingers around it for a brief moment before sliding it open and removing a single match. It flares to life against the side of the box it came in with little effort. I hold it up, watching the flame dance and sway in front of my eyes as Patricia's weakening whimpers fill my ears and then, without another moment of hesitation, I look down and toss it at her.

Dean yanks me away, out of the path of gasoline that drips all over the floor as it eats through the pool that has collected on and around her. The fire burns hot and her screams begin again. Growing louder and louder. I watch as her burning body attempts to get up, to run, to roll and put it all out, but there's too much gas. She's soaked and burning. The scent of burning flesh eats away at my nostrils. Foul. Disgusting. Just like the woman it consumes.

And still, I regret nothing.

19

AVALON

IT DOES RAIN, but nothing can stop the fire now. It needs to burn out on its own. Dean and I stand outside of the warehouse watching it rage when a double set of cars turn down the path behind us, kicking up mud under their tires. After I killed my mother, Abel and Braxton had gone back to the hotel to grab Abel's Mustang. They hadn't expected I'd kill her quite like this. Honestly, I'm wondering if I had either. I'd asked Troy to grab the gas cans, but I wasn't quite sure what I was planning to do with them until she was before me.

I thought about making her drink them. About rotting out her insides the way she'd rotted out mine. As I'd stood over her, however, I realized I couldn't blame her for everything that I now was. Sure, some people believe that environment and hereditary predispositions make up who a person becomes. I know I can't blame Patricia for all of it. I accepted the darkness inside of me. I welcomed it even. Opened my arms and said, "come the fuck on in and make yourself comfortable." I'd given it a home inside of me and I liked it.

Why? I don't know.

Perhaps, even if Patricia had been the model parent and kind and loving and had given me everything I'd ever needed, I'd still be this way. A cold, unremorseful killer. Regardless of what I've done, of what I've yet to do, I know I'm not alone.

We're all killers here. Braxton. Abel. Dean. Me.

We're fucked up. Irrevocably dark. Separate from the rest of society because by their standards, we're sick, foul, disgusting creatures. Hell, are we even human? Do I even care if we are? Does it matter?

The answer is no. I don't and it doesn't. Even if they—our parents—are the ones who made us this way, in the end, the result is the same. I'm a killer. They are killers. We're all killers—whether we were made that way by the shit we've had to deal with in life or whether it's just natural instinct on our parts doesn't matter. Not anymore.

Maybe we were all born like this. Maybe this is our natural state of being. Natural born killers, each and every one of us.

Rain pours down even harder, but it's already soaked through mine and Dean's clothes. I doubt he feels it anymore. I know I don't. The cars come to a halt several feet away and the first door pops open—the SUV. Braxton jogs forward as the rest of the doors open. Men I don't recognize get out. The only one holding an umbrella is Brax and he moves to bring it above Dean's head and mine.

"Is everything ready to go?" Dean asks.

Braxton nods before looking at me. "Go get in the Mustang," he tells me. "Abel's taking you home."

"What about the hotel?" I ask.

"Don't worry about it," Dean says, turning towards me. He leans down, cupping my cold cheeks between his palms. His wet lips meet mine and I sink into his kiss, letting my body drift towards him. I'm freezing; even the fire in front of us isn't enough to warm me. He is, though. He always is.

Dean pulls back, his thumb stroking once down my cheek before he leaves me completely, heading out from underneath the umbrella Braxton holds over us and into the deluge. I watch him stride across the open field towards the men waiting for his command. I know what they’re here to do. When the fire is done, they’ll go inside and get rid of the body. Patricia won’t have a gravesite I can visit later, and I’m okay with that.

“Good job tonight,” Brax says, making me laugh.

I shake my head. “Only you would say something like that now,” I reply.

He blinks at me and tilts his head. “Would you rather I tell you that you’re a horrible person?”

I arch a brow at him. “Do you think I am?”

“Not really,” he says. “You did what needed doing. She made her choices. Fuck what anyone else thinks.”

I smile. “Yeah,” I agree. “Fuck what anyone else thinks.”

Braxton follows me over to where Abel is waiting in the Mustang. He props open the door and holds the umbrella over my head as I look down into the interior of the car. I roll my eyes at what I see and plop my wet ass down on the towel covered passenger seat.

“See you in a few hours,” Brax says. “Drive safe.”

He shuts the door and Abel leans forward to crank up the heat. “There’s a blanket in the back,” he offers.

“I don’t need it,” I reply.

“You’re gonna get sick,” he shoots back. I don’t have the energy to tell him I already am. Sick of this shit. Sick of the lies and betrayals and sick of fighting, of surviving.

I groan and shuffle around, reaching behind my seat and fumbling for the damn blanket. If I refuse it again, I’m going to have to listen to him whine about it the entire drive back to the house. Thankfully, it seems to do the trick and he doesn’t say anything more as we drive the rest of the way home.

Spearwood passes out of view as we hit the highway. Abel turns on the music and switches it over to some 90s rap radio station. Beat heavy spitfire words are slung around the inner cab. All the while, I can’t seem to get the image of Patricia’s face out of my mind. It switches back and forth between how she was when I was a kid—not quite as dead as she was an hour ago—and how she appeared when she screamed at me that it was all my fault my father had died.

I chew on my lips, staring at the scenery outside, but seeing none of it. The water dries from my skin, but my clothes remain clinging to me all the way to the house. Song after song comes on. Abel switches the station a few times, but almost always goes back to the first.

What if it’s my fault my father died? It’s not like I asked him to sacrifice himself for me. It’s not like I even asked to be born. No one does.

By the time the headlights of Abel’s Mustang flash over the front of the house, I’m more than ready to get the fuck out. The scent of gasoline, smoke, and decay linger on my skin. He doesn’t bother pulling into the garage. Instead, he stops in front of the door and cuts the engine. I get out and look up. Though the rain has stopped, the clouds holding their tears still swirl above.

“Ava?” Abel calls to me from the front door. I tear my eyes away and move towards him as he holds the door open for me. I drop the blanket I carried with me in the front hall, leaving it on the floor for someone else to pick up. I could take it with me, but I just don’t have the energy. In fact, staring at the stairs, I’m not even sure if I have the energy to climb them.

“Here,” Abel’s hand touches my back as he guides me through the lower floors. I’ve lived here for weeks now, and yet, it feels so foreign in this moment. “There’s a guest bathroom down here. You shower. Get warm. I’ll go upstairs and grab you some clothes.”

I don’t argue or resist and when he pushes open a door revealing a large interior bathroom, I go straight to the shower stall and strip. The door clicks shut behind me, and I’m left alone.

My head bows under the onslaught of the water. It drips from my hair into my eyes, falling from my lashes to the tile below until that tile begins to blur in my vision. I feel empty inside. Numb. As if everything that makes me me has withered away and died.

I stand under the shower spray until the water goes from burning hot to freezing cold. Only then do I reach for the handles and turn it off to step out into the bathroom. There’s a set of clothes sitting on the sink. I hadn’t even heard Abel come back. Without touching them or the towel waiting for me, I stride across the room, dripping wet and naked, until I’m standing in front of the mirror. Pressing my palm flat to the surface, I swipe it across the glass once, twice, three times until my face is revealed along with my upper body. Black mascara runs down my cheeks, bleeding into my skin, making it look like I’ve cried tears of darkness.

Even though my body is dripping wet, when I take my hand away from the mirror, I notice there’s still some dried blood crusted under my nails from where I stabbed Patricia. Dirt. Grime. Blood. Death. This is what I am.

Turning away from the image I present, I grab the towel set next to my clothes and quickly dry myself before slipping into the oversized t-shirt, underwear, and loose pajama shorts that had been left behind for me. The skin of my back tightens and pulls as I move, but it doesn’t hurt. The wounds from before have closed up rather well.

Am I supposed to feel like this? I wonder. What disturbs me most is the complete and utter lack of emotion. I’m not sad. I’m not regretful. I’m not even all that worried. I just killed a second person—my own mother—and I don’t feel bad about it at all. That’s not normal. At least, that’s not what we’re taught is normal. Killing should make a person feel bad, should make them crazy, but is it crazy if killing makes me feel more stable than I’ve ever felt in my life?

There’s a brief knock on the door and then Abel’s voice drifts through. “Ava?” He sounds worried. “It’s been over an hour. Are you okay?”

I open the door and look up at his creased brows and frown. “I’m fine,” I say, pushing past him. He follows me as I head down the hall. I pull up short halfway through the living room and turn around to glare at him. “There’s no need to follow me,” I tell him.

His lips press together and he looks like he wants to say something, but whatever it is, he knows I won’t like it. He’s holding his tongue and I already hate that, so there’s no point in keeping what he’s thinking from me. I turn towards him fully and take several steps until I’m standing right in front of him.

“Say it,” I order.

Crystal blue eyes widen and he takes a step back before looking to the side. “We don’t have to talk about this tonight, Ava. Let’s just go get some rest. Dean and Brax’ll be back in a few hours.”

“No.” I follow him, reaching up and gripping his chin—turning his head so that he has to look at me again. “I want to hear what you have to say.”

His lips part and he speaks through bared and gritted teeth. “It’s … well, I just wanted you to know that it’s okay,” he says. “If you’re upset. If you want to cry or if you need … peace.”

“Peace?” I repeat, releasing him. “I got my peace. I don’t need anything anymore.”

His eyes trail me as I move backwards. His expression doesn’t change. “Okay,” he replies. “If you say so.”

A growl leaves my chest. “Don’t do that,” I snap.

“I’m not doing anything.”

“Yes, you are,” I accuse. “I told you I’m fine and I am. Just because I’m not falling down and sobbing over a mother who never gave a shit about me dying doesn’t mean anything.”

To that, he doesn’t say a damn word. Instead, he continues to stare at me with those hollow eyes of his. Irritation flares, the first true emotion since I pulled the trigger and lit the flame that burned away my past and the last connection I had to the girl I was in Plexton, Georgia.

“I’m not going to apologize for the monster I’ve become,” I tell him. “No one’s ever fucking apologized for turning me into one—so why should I have to?

“I never said you were a monster,” he says. “And I never said you had to apologize for shit.”

I shake my head. “But you were thinking it.”

“No, I wasn’t,” he argues.

I can’t look at him so I spin away, staring down at my hands balling into fists in front of me. The blood is still there. I should’ve dug it out while I was in the shower. Let the flakes rinse down the drain and take away the last vestiges of the earlier version of Avalon Manning that is no more.

That’s when I realize what this emotion filling me up is. I’d assumed it was numbness—an emptiness—but it’s not. It’s anger. I’m so fucking angry and it’s impossible to control it. I don’t want to be angry. It has no meaning because there’s no one to unleash it on. I thought taking Patricia out of the picture would help, but it hasn’t. All tonight had done was shine a light into a dark corner of myself that I hadn’t noticed before.

I’ve been angry for a long time. It’s what caused me to go running to Micki. It’s what started me down the path of loving adrenaline rushes. Control. I was so out of fucking control, I was speeding down a dark road with no end in sight.

"What's wrong with me?" I stand there and the question just falls out of my mouth. What the fuck is wrong with me?

Abel sighs. "Nothing's wrong with you, Ava."

"Bullshit," I shoot back. He's wrong. He's not just wrong, he's so far off base, he's in outer space. "I wanted to kill her," I say. “It felt right.” Her blood on my hands. Her screams in my head. Even walking away, after the deed had been done—it still felt right.

When I’d warned her that I would kill her, it hadn’t been a threat, but a promise. It wasn’t something said in a heated moment of passion. It was serious. And when I’d done it, when I’d pulled the trigger—shot out her legs, watched as she crawled towards me, coughing and wheezing in pain—I couldn’t even bear to look at the piece of shit that had brought me into this world.

Some people were never meant to be parents.

My body burns at the reminder. I wanted to see the light go out of her eyes and know that nothing will ever bring her back into my life again, and now I have.

“I didn’t need her,” I find myself saying. “I’ve never needed her.”

“I know.” Abel’s voice reminds me that he’s there, that I’m not alone in the room even when it feels like it’s not a room at all anymore. Everything is spinning, tipping over and over on itself. I’ve stumbled into a new dimension and the whole world doesn’t make sense anymore. Up is down and down is up and right is left and left is right and I can’t fucking think without the goddamn image of Patricia’s face in my head. Her stupid, fugly, dumb face. Beautiful—yes, even she had been beautiful once. I’d seen old pictures. But by the time I’d come along she was nothing more than a withered husk. A dead woman in a skeletal body that just wouldn’t stop moving.

“I don’t need her.” This time when I say the words, they’re in the present tense and that, somehow, makes what I’ve done even more real. I killed her. I killed my mother. There’s no going back from that. What scares me, though, isn’t the horrible action I’ve committed … it’s the fact that I’m not sorry. I’m not sorry at all, and if given the chance, I would do it all over again. Maybe I’d be less cruel. Maybe I wouldn’t. In the end, the result would still be the same.

She would be in the ground, and I would be the person who put her there. I pick up something off of a nearby surface—the wet bar—and I chuck it at the wall. Glass shatters and that seems to set me off. I swipe everything off the little countertop until it all crashes to the ground. Then, I spin and punch a picture frame, cracking the glass and causing the damn thing to fall off the wall. I pick up something else—not even seeing what it is—and I throw that, too, as hard as I fucking can until the sound of its crash rings in my ears. I lose my shit and the world fades away. I don’t remember everything I destroy, but it isn’t until I’m standing in the middle of the room with a mess all around that I realize what I’ve done.

“Avalon, it’s okay.” Abel approaches me slowly like I’m some sort of wild animal. I spin, taking a step away from him as I raise my fists. Before I can do anything, however, he presses me back into a wall and encircles me with his arms. He hugs me against him and holds on even when I struggle.

"Stop it," I snap, fighting him. "Get off me!" I punch his ribs until he grunts. I try to shift and break his hold, but he merely moves with me.

"Stop it, Ava," he says. "I'm not letting go. Just fucking let me hug you."

"I don't need a fucking hug!" I scream.

“Why not?” he has the gall to ask.

“Why not?” I repeat. Why? “Because killers don’t need hugs,” I tell him.

“You’re not just a killer, though, are you?” Abel asks. “You can be a killer, but that doesn’t have to be all that you are. It’s not all that Dean is. Not all that I am or Braxton for that matter.”

I freeze. Half of the time I forget that they’re not just regular college students—albeit rich ones. They have—Abel has—already seen me kill before this. They’ve even helped bury the body. At least, I assumed they did. I’d forgotten all about Roger Murphy’s body until I realized, somewhere along the road back to Eastpoint, it had disappeared and no one had come asking questions. “You…” I whisper. It’s not a question, not a realization of something I already knew—it’s just an acknowledgment that slips out.

“Yes, Ava,” Abel says. “Me.” He squeezes me even tighter. “And I need a hug right now just as much as you do.”

I cover my face with my hands, but the words spill out. “I needed to kill her,” I admit. “I wanted her dead. I wanted her to scream. I wanted her to beg and cry and plead.” My voice chokes even as I get louder. She hadn’t done any of that, though. She didn’t cry or beg for her life. Pain echoes up from somewhere deep inside of me. Horrible and gnawing, like a wild beast left out in the dark, starving, and now it’s woken up to consume me with its wrathful hunger. “I wanted her to fucking hurt the way I hurt!" My voice cracks and strangles in my throat.

"I know," Abel says. He squeezes me tighter and suddenly, his arms don't feel constraining anymore. They feel like glue, like tape, like any fucking thing in the world that's capable of holding me together. And they're the only things keeping me from shattering across the floor.

“Why?” I demand. “Why—if she loved him, if she loved my dad—why did she hate me? Why couldn’t she be any fucking stronger?” It’s not fair.

My voice finally breaks and I go silent. I can't even hold myself up anymore, but I don't have to worry because when my legs give out, I don't go crashing down. Abel simply reaches down and lifts me up against his chest and then carries me over to the couch. He sits me down and then crawls behind me, holding me against his chest as he rocks me back and forth.

I’m not angry that she’s dead. I’m not even angry that I killed her. I’m angry that she couldn’t have been better and now there will be no more chances for her. She lost her potential to be a good mother a long time ago. Now, it’s just solidified and there’s no going back.

Before, my heart was calm. Now, it's a fucking race horse galloping against my ribcage, banging around and making everything hurt as it threatens to crack me in half. A single tear escapes one eye and slides down my cheek. I wipe it away without a second thought and am thankful when no more follow. Abel mumbles something, pressing his face into my shoulder as he tightens his grasp on me until it twinges. It takes me several long minutes to realize he's muttering the same thing under his breath over and over again.

"You're okay," he says. "You're going to be okay. Nothing's going to hurt you. You're not alone. I'm here." Over and over again.

You're okay. You're going to be okay. Nothing's going to hurt you. You're not alone. I'm here.

Like a mantra. He repeats it like it’s something he’s told himself over and over again. It hurts to hear because I start to wonder if anyone has ever done this for him. I reach up and wrap my arms around him, holding on for dear life. I don’t say anything and I don’t stop him from squeezing as hard as he wants to, not even when it starts to ache.

Dean finds the two of us like that, the wreckage of my outburst scattered across the floor. Vases are broken. Books are strewn about. Some of the cushions on the chairs are ripped up and tipped over onto the floor. He takes one look at me, staring at nothing on the floor and Abel at my back, clutching onto me—holding me as if he’s terrified I’ll float away. Hell, I’m half terrified he’s right. Maybe I will. Maybe that would be better.

When Dean bends down in front of us, there’s no accusation in his face. No hostility or judgment or jealousy. Just sadness. He carefully pries Abel’s arms away and picks me up. I don’t want to leave Abel. Something tells me that my tantrum had brought things back for him that he wasn’t sure yet how to deal with. It’s why he said those words; You're okay. You're going to be okay. Nothing's going to hurt you. You're not alone. I'm here.

It’s why he’s still saying them, quietly whispering them under his breath. I turn back, glancing over Dean’s shoulder. “No, baby,” Dean says, stopping me before I speak. “Let him be. He’s not alone.”

And a moment later, I realize Dean’s right. Braxton passes us and heads straight for Abel. I watch as he leans down and says something I can’t hear in Abel’s ear and. finally, Abel stops talking. He stops repeating those words over and over and the silence that follows feels peaceful. It feels fucking freeing.

20

DEAN

AVALON DOESN'T CRY like anyone else in the world. Some people, usually children, cry without restraint. Loud and obnoxious. Other people are more stoic. They cry silently, away from others, and always alone. Avalon doesn’t cry at all. It’s a bit disturbing, if I’m being honest. This seems like one of those times she should cry, but still, she doesn’t. She does, however, hold onto me. Her hands dig into me, nails sharp and biting as if she’s afraid she’ll be ripped away at any moment.

When I first walked in and saw her with Abel, I was worried that she’d finally broken, but the dryness of her face, the crease of worry not for herself but for my best friend, told me that was far from true. And I realized just how fucking strong she actually is.

Strength should be something people acquire at their own pace. It should happen naturally. But her kind of strength—and mine—was born out of necessity. I pity anyone that has been forced to be strong. If I could give up all of the strength I have to go back and not need to be, I would. For both of us.

Abel had clung to her the way she clings to me now. The words, "It's going to be okay," repeating over and over, falling out of his lips. I doubt he even realized that he was doing it.

Avalon doesn't say a word now as she presses her forehead against my chest. She doesn't tremble or sniffle or sob or make any sort of noise. In fact, she doesn't move at all. I'd think she was asleep if it wasn't for the rapid beat of her heart pounding against her ribcage, fluttering faster and faster as her breaths puff over my skin.

Maybe it makes me fucking twisted inside, but I kind of wish she would cry. I think I'd like her crying. That's fucked up. What fucking guy wants to see his girl cry? The answer: I do. Her tears, when she finally chooses to shed them, will be evidence of her realness to me. They'll tell me that she's here. She's real. She exists and I'm not alone. They'll prove that she's changing, too, and I'm okay with that as well, as long as we change together.

Besides, I think she'd look just as beautiful as she does when she's ranting and threatening to unman me, but I wouldn't mind fucking her until she's got more of these dark streaks under her eyes. I could make her come so many times, she'd stop screaming and just sob as I fucked her straight into oblivion, where the two of us could just stay forever. Her and me. No one else to find us, to use us, to betray us, to hurt us.

I reach up and brush a thumb over her cheek, smearing what's left of her mascara and eyeliner to the side until she looks more like one of my teammates just before a big game than a half-drowned raccoon.

"Ugh." She pushes me back and climbs out of bed.

"Where are you going?" I ask.

She doesn't respond as she disappears into the bathroom and I roll to my back, moving one arm up behind my head as I listen to her move around in the bathroom. I guess touching her face reminded her of what she looked like because when she next comes back out, her face is wiped clean of all make-up. She looks younger without it, fresh and so full of innocence. It's hilarious and makes me crack a smile.

"Ava?"

"Don't," she says immediately as she yanks back the covers and crawls back in bed. "I don't want to fucking talk." Despite her harsh tone, she moves up along my side and lets me rest my arm against her upper back.

"You don't have to," I tell her. "But I am curious—what happened while Braxton and I were gone?"

"You mean while you were out burying my mother's body?" she hisses.

Hmmmm. Interesting response. "Yes," I say.

"Nothing happened," she snaps back.

"Nothing doesn't usually make a woman like you cry," I tease.

She punches my side. "I'm not fucking crying, asshole."

I press my lips together and try not to smile. "Of course not."

She pushes herself up against me and glares down into my face. I had hoped to hide my growing amusement, but when she looks at me, there's no use. "You're such a fucking dick," she mutters, pulling back and wiping a hand down her face as she rolls over and scoots up until her back is pressed to the headboard. I watch as she brings her legs up, one foot on the mattress as she sets an elbow on her knee and the other slightly bent and laying at an odd angle.

My hand itches to reach for the bedside drawer, to the small box that rests there. She’s gonna be pissed when I finally pull it out. I wonder if it wouldn’t be worth it just to see what happens sooner rather than later. Perhaps…

"I don't normally agree with you," I point out. "I thought that would make me less of a dick."

"A dick can't change its spots," Avalon replies.

I blink, picturing some sort of grotesque monstrous monkey cock with aging spots. "That's disgusting," I say with a grimace. "I'm pretty sure the saying is 'a leopard can't change its spots.’"

She shrugs. I scoot up alongside her, my shoulder against hers. I half expect her to shift away, but she doesn't. Instead, she presses harder against me, even as she glares at the comforter in front of us.

"I killed my mom today," she says.

"Yeah," I reply, "you did. Congratulations."

A startled laugh escapes her. It's quick and loud and then gone in the next instant, and I think it surprises us both. She clamps a hand over her mouth as she turns to look at me wildly. I can tell there's still a smile there. "Braxton said damn near the same thing," she says.

I nod. "I'm not surprised."

"You're not worried it'll change me?" she asks after a while.

"Do you feel changed?"

She's quiet for some time and then she shakes her head. "Not really, but that doesn't mean I'm not."

I relax back against the headboard. I know what this is about now. "When I killed for the first time, I was pretty detached about it. Both in front of my father and the guys." I can feel her eyes on me, curiosity in their depths, and something else. Something I'm not even sure she recognizes yet, but I'm okay with that. I can wait until she does. "I shot him at point blank range," I say, lifting an arm and pointing across the room with my thumb up. "One second, there was life in his body..." I jerk my arm up, mimicking pulling the trigger. "And the next, there wasn't."

"Did that bother you?" she asks.

"Not really," I admit, my arm lowering back to my side. "Lots of people have their own experiences with murder, with death. Soldiers and survivors. Some say it gets easier. Some say it never does. I think it's different for everyone. I think it helped that I didn't see this person as an actual man."

I glance at her out of the corner of my eye and watch as her brows furrow. "What do you mean?" she asks.

"I just didn't see him as human," I tell her.

"How can that be?" She doesn't sound accusatory or even upset, merely curious, as if she just wants to figure out what makes me tick. I like that. It's too bad I don't have a long, drawn out, clear answer for her.

"I don't know," I say honestly. "Sure, he looked human. He had eyes and a face and a voice. Even had a family, I assume. Most people do. But I didn't see any of that when I killed him. I just saw his wrongs. That he was a liar and a traitor. He admitted as much in the hopes of being spared. Now that I think about it, maybe that was a lie. Maybe he thought by giving us what we wanted—a confession—we would show mercy." But Eastpoint never showed any mercy. Not my father, not Abel's, or Braxton's. No one.

"Braxton's like that, too, though," I confess. "He doesn't really see people as human. Not in the way the majority of society does. He's a little more jaded than I am, though. He's a little more removed. That's what gets certain people when they kill. They get all bent out of shape about taking a life. They relate to their victims. They realize it could've been them on the other end of that gun or knife or whatever method they used to kill, and then they lose their shit. Like their weak minds can't handle the correlation. I don't see it, though. Neither does Braxton. There's a difference between us and them."

"I think we call those people psychopaths," Avalon points out, her voice full of sardonic amusement.

I smirk. "Yeah, I guess we are that, but not completely. I see you as human. I see Abel as human. His mom was human. Braxton, too. There are a limited number of human lives I care about, connections and people that make me give a shit. I wasn't connected to the man I killed. In my eyes, he was a traitor to our family. That's what I'd been told. I beat him to a bloody pulp and then I killed him when they said pull the trigger. Killing him didn't really bug me, not even at that age. What got me later was the fact that the choice had been taken from me."

"The choice?" she repeats.

I nod. "Yeah. I didn't decide his death. My father did. The other Eastpoint heads did. I wasn't supposed to ask questions. I was just supposed to point and shoot. I was a tool for their use. Nothing more."

Silence descends and for a long moment, for several long moments—seconds stretching into minutes—neither of us says anything. Then, she takes a breath and I feel her hair shift against my shoulder as she lays her head against my arm.

"I hated my mother," she says.

It's not new information, but it feels like something she needs to say to start whatever the hell is going on in her head. So, I just remain silent and hope she keeps going.

"I didn't at first—no kid does. One moment, we're floating in this dark cocoon of warmth, and the next, we're being shoved, carelessly, frighteningly out into a loud, bright world. We latch onto the only thing we recognize."

Our mothers, I supply silently when she doesn't.

"Only instead of love and a gentle hand to teach me about the world, I learned what a scream felt like as it rung in my ears, what a slap felt like against my face, and then what disgusting expectations she had for me. I looked around me, and I was fucking confused. No one else was living the same life as me. Some had it worse. Some had it better. Some cried and sank into themselves and gave up, others were..." She pauses, her voice drifting and growing tense right before she keeps going. "Others bottled it all up and pretended like everything was fine."

"You didn't," I remind her.

Her head shakes, turning back and forth against me as she agrees. "No," she says. "I didn't. I couldn't. I was too angry. Angry at the unfairness of the world. Angry because people tried to tell me that everything had meaning when nothing fucking does. Patricia was born and she lived. I may have killed her, but she died with my father—whoever the fuck he was."

I can hear her teeth grinding together from here. "And whoever he was—he was a fucking moron. So, I hate him too."

She lets that hang in the air between us and I can't help but want to ask the question that's sliding around inside my skull. "Do you regret killing her?" I ask.

Avalon snorts and lifts her head. I turn to meet her eyes. "No," she says. There's no hesitation in her answer. "I don't regret doing it. I'd do it again. I'm going to do it again. I'll kill and kill until blood soaks everything that I have, everything that I am. And I'll keep killing until I get answers. About who she was. Who I am. To you. To Eastpoint. I wasn't born just to suffer, and the people who did this to me think that they can play games with my life. I'm not like the traitor you killed, though."

"No," I agree. "You're not."

"I'm human to you," she says. "To Braxton. But more than that, I'm human regardless. Maybe no one else is. That's because they haven't made themselves be human to you. I did."

She forced her way into our world, dominated it without even trying. Earned respect—ours as well as that of our fellow classmates. Maybe she earned it with fear, but it was earned nonetheless. The fact stands, now, that she's at the top. She clawed her way up from the gutter and she sits on a throne made of bones and blood.

If anything proves Brax and me right, it's Avalon Manning. There is a difference between them and us. They stop when they meet resistance. They don't last. They don't fight back.

I reach for her, cupping the back of her head, and drag her close, pressing a kiss to her lips—fast and hard.

We always have, I think. We always will.

And that box is coming out tonight.

21

AVALON

THE NEXT MORNING, when I crack my eyes open, the sunlight pouring in through the slitted curtains across the room makes me want to burrow under the covers once more and pray that someone shoots me through the skull before the pain in my head can fully settle in. Morning headaches are the worst. I huff, reaching up to push my hair out of my face, when something clunky knocks me in the chin. I pause.

"Dean..."

His arm tightens around my middle and he groans, the sound deep and far more sexual than it should be. I shake my head. Focus, Avalon. Focus on the dumbassery at hand. As in, quite literally, on my goddamn hand. "Dean,” I say again, louder this time.

“What?” he grumbles.

“What the fuck is sitting on my finger?" I demand, shoving his arm off and turning around to face him.

The second my eyes land on him, however, my brain short circuits. The irritation that had been building dissipates in the wake of the image he presents. A naked Dean is sinful, a half-naked, barely awake Dean is temptation itself. Slow breaths, I urge myself. Calm your pussy.

His long brown lashes lift. Dean peeks over at me before stretching his arms up and yawning. "What does it look like?" he prompts.

"It looks like a goddamn engagement ring," I snap.

"Then that's what it is." His arm comes back around my middle.

"Dean, I'm not marrying you."

Scratchy beard scruff touches my shoulder, and I shove down a shiver as he presses an open-mouthed kiss to my skin. Fuck him. Fuck this. No. I'm not doing this. "Dean." I hate the way my voice trembles. "I—"

"It's okay, baby," Dean interrupts. "It's nothing to be scared of. It's an insurance policy, that's it."

"An insurance policy?" I repeat, confused.

Dean looks over my shoulder as he sits further up on the bed and drags me into the cradle he's made between his legs. One of his hands catches mine and holds it up and suddenly my eyes are right back on the rock sitting on my ring finger. It's huge. At least, huge to me. For rich bitches, it's probably a moderately sized diamond. To me, it feels like a heavy weight that I want to rip off and throw in the ocean.

"This is your ticket to freedom, baby," Dean says.

I settle against his chest, absorbing his warmth, and stare down my arm the same way he is. His fingers play in mine. I never thought I'd be one of these girls—the ones that just completely lose themselves in a man, but I can't help it. Dean isn't a normal man. He's all consuming. A monster that swallows me up.

"How so?" I ask sardonically.

"It showcases that you're mine, Ava," he says.

I snort. "As if you don't showcase it enough," I mutter.

"Well," he chuckles, "it's either this or perhaps I can tattoo my name on your ass. Would you prefer that?"

"Actually," I say, "I think I might." It isn’t like I don’t still have light pink scratches down my spine that spell out his fucking name.

"The ring is less permanent," he points out.

He's right, but for some reason—despite the fact that getting his name etched into my skin is about as intimate as you can get—this feels heavier. Not just physically, but emotionally. Mentally. Spiritually. This ring is like a promise, one that I'm not sure if I can keep.

Dean's head dips down and he snuggles against my back, his face turning into my throat as he breathes out. "Please," he says.

Fuck. Dean's not the kind of guy who asks for shit. When he says the word ‘please’ in that tone, it makes me want to give him anything and everything because I know all I have to do is ask and he’ll do that for me.

“Can I think about it?” I counter.

“Yeah, so long as you keep the ring,” he says.

I grimace. Not exactly what I was hoping to hear. “Do I have to wear it?”

His mouth opens and in answer, I feel the harsh sting of his teeth in my flesh. I hiss as he clenches down, leaving a mark. “What do you think?” he finally says when he pulls away. I look down and frown at the double half-circled red lines that mark the outline of his bite.

"Dean, I'm not ready," I admit.

His arms tighten around me. "Do you think that'll scare me?" he asks. "You not being ready?"

No, I don't. I shake my head.

"I'm committed, baby," he says. "As committed as a man can be. I'm just as tied to you as I am to life and death. So, sure, you can think about it—you don't even have to wear the damn ring, but you do have to keep it. You do have to recognize that all of the roads you will take from here on will only lead you back to one place." He pauses as if to let it sink in and then he parts his lips and breathes out one last word. "Me."

The world turns as he flips me over and presses my back into the mattress, coming down hard over me. His body rolls like a fucking dancer’s might as he moves down, his chest touching mine, his hips grinding down. Dean's arms come up and cage my head and I'm left with no other view but that of his expression. Hard. Excited. Intense. Impossible to ignore.

"Whatever comes next," he breathes. "There is only one answer to my question and you know that."

I do, but it fucking scares me. It terrifies the living shit out of me. Loving someone—wanting them—needing them is like giving over a part of myself that I'm not ready to surrender. I don’t dare because once it's given, it can't be taken back. How am I to know if he's the right person? How am I to know if I'm the right one for him?

The result of my thoughts hits me a split second later—as if my brain is lagging.

I need him, I realize. I need Dean Carter. I need him like I’ve never needed anything in my fucking life. More than adrenaline. More than survival. More than my breath itself. I would be willing to walk off the face of the Earth—throw myself into a volcano—for him. That’s how deep my need for him is. That's what truly scares the shit out of me.

Micki’s warning—spoken years ago—returns to me. Needing shit is what lets people get a hold of you. Anything you need, they’ll take as a sign of weakness and no matter who the person is, they’ll exploit that weakness. My desire for Dean makes me weak.

I shake my head. "Not now," I tell him, my voice hoarse. "Don't ask me now." He won't like my answer.

Dean's head dips and he presses a kiss to my cold lips. "Okay," he promises. "I won't ask now, but you know you can't hide from it forever and you can only run for so long."

I arch up and lock my legs around his waist, pushing against the bed with my shoulders as I feel the hard ridge of his cock press between my legs. "We'll see," I reply. “But for now you’re taking the ring back.”

As if he doesn’t want to hear anything else from me, his mouth crashes into mine, harsh and violent—a lot like the man behind it. We roll, the sheets catch and tie us up, but with little effort, we free ourselves again. My hands come down as I toss a leg over him and find my position on top. I cup his face and lean down, kissing him again. Our tongues tangle and duel and the pleasure he gives me eats away at my insecurities, making them evaporate and disappear as if they were never there to begin with.

If given the choice, I would let this man swallow me, I realize. I would let him consume me and take me into himself and I would never have to worry about being a separate entity again. I want him. I need him. I crave him.

There is a reason why people love villains so much. No one wants a hero. A hero will choose the world over their lover. A villain will burn it down for insulting them.

Dean's hands cup my breasts, he pinches my nipples, making me whine and cry out as he rolls them between the pads of his fingers. My head dips back, hair falling down my naked spine as I circle my hips, grinding into his lap, and relish the responding grunt of arousal.

"Tease," he accuses, tightening his hold. The pain flares to life, making me gasp, but then it quickly dissolves as he releases me and sits up, shifting upward until my pussy aligns with his cock and he presses into me. I slide down, taking the hot, hard length of him to the hilt and gripping him for all I'm worth.

Fate has a fucking funny way of taking people down wild pathways. I've never felt so insane as I do right now with Dean's cock inside of me. His hands wrap up in my hair. His lips devour me.

For the first time in my life, I want to cry. I want to scream. I want to hurl insults into the wind for how unfair the world is. Why? I think. Why did I have to come to him like this? So fucking broken and damaged and in pieces? And why the hell did he have to help me pick those pieces up and put them back together, using himself as the glue?

I rock my hips forward, sliding the ridge of his cock in and out of my pussy as I contract the walls, squeezing him and relishing in the sound of his groans. Fingers press against my back, digging into the healing cuts there. It's almost as if he's making sure that his name is still there. That his mark hasn't left me yet. What he doesn't seem to realize, though, is that his mark is far deeper than the surface level of my skin.

Even if he disappears, his fucking name is branded into my soul.

The scrape of his piercing sends me to fucking heights that don't exist without him. I gasp as he thrusts his hips upward, grabbing onto my waist and jerking me down into his lap. Harsh movements. Violent tendencies. There's no escaping it. My nails sink into his shoulders as I hold on for dear life.

It hurts. It feels good. It makes me want more.

"Dean..."

"That's right, baby," he pants. "Say my fucking name."

At the sound of his name on my lips, something else overtakes him. He shoots up and shoves me back until my spine meets the mattress once more. His hand grabs one of my legs and pulls it up, making my thigh ache as he anchors it over one shoulder before he repeats the motion with the other. His hips slap my asscheeks as he fucks into me with demanding thrusts.

"Fucking. Say. My. Name." Each word is punctuated by yet more slaps as he sinks into me, only to yank himself back out and do it all over again.

I'm out of breath. The world is hazy. My lips part and I follow his command as I go over the edge. I scream out his name as he stills inside of me and the world goes from hazy to all fucking white.

22

AVALON

“TWO?” I stand behind Rylie’s desk as she hunches over her computer like a gremlin out of some fairytale. Dark circles cling to the skin under her eyes, a bag of half-eaten potato chips lies open on one side of her keyboard, and a Monster energy drink can sits on the other side.

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?” she snaps, fingers clicking away. “This motherfucker was good, too, but I found it. She had multiple accounts—remember, I told you. Didn’t I? Well, I’ve been tracing several of the transactions back from their source since you last came by.”

“Clearly.” The word comes out on a dry note as I take a step to the side and glance into the mini trash can stuffed under her desk. The neon green of several more energy drink cans as well as plastic wrapping from various candies—no doubt grabbed from the convenience store and gas station down the road—peek out. “When was the last time you slept?” I ask.

“Sleep?” she mutters as if the word is disgusting. “Who cares? What matters is I fucking found one of the bastards!”

“Avalon…” Dean stands back, watching the proceedings with a grimace of confusion and a slightly horrified look. The rest of the room looks like it’s faring about as well as Rylie and her desk. Her sheets are peeled back, but it hardly looks like she’s even laid down since we last left her.

“Just…” I don’t know what to tell him. All I can think right now is that it’s probably a good thing we told Abel and Brax to wait out in the hallway. “Give us a moment?”

Dean frowns, his brows drawing down low before flicking his eyes from the back of Rylie’s head to my face. I gesture towards the door, mouthing, “Just go.” He looks at me like I’m fucking crazy, and who the hell knows anymore? Maybe I am. But he doesn’t argue any more. Dean huffs out a breath and turns, pulling open the door and then shutting it behind him while blocking his two curious best friends from the interior.

The clicking of Rylie’s fingers against the keyboard and the soft whirr of her computer are the only sounds left in the room. Dragging in an exhausted breath, I turn back to her and step towards the desk, gripping the top of her laptop. Before I can shut it, however, her hand whips out with a speedy reflex I hadn’t expected.

“Don’t touch!” she snaps.

“Rylie,” I state, pulling my hand away without shutting it like I intended, “you’ve gotta get some rest.”

“No, no, I swear, I’m almost done,” she says, eyes pinned to the screen. “You have no clue how hard this has been—he must’ve hired someone fucking good because I’ve tracked this damn computer from America to Sweden to Albania—who the hell sends money through Albania?”

“Don’t know…” It’s clear she’s unhinged and I don’t know what to do. The last we spoke, we decided to be friends and as her friend, I feel like I gotta lay down some serious truths she’s not about to like. “Listen, Rylie, when was the last time you showered?”

Her hands pause and she slowly rotates her head towards me like some creepy doll from an old horror movie. “Did you just ask me when the last time I showered was?”

I nod. “Yes,” I say. “I did.”

“Avalon.” Is that a twitch in her eyeball? I think that’s a fucking twitch. Maybe sending Dean off wasn’t the best plan. Being a friend is fucking hard.

“Rylie,” I say back.

“There are more important things to worry about right now! I’ve almost tracked down the motherfucker that sent your mom all that money—well, one of them anyway.” Her gaze slants to the side as something pings on her laptop.

“Honestly, I’m more interested in you getting a shower and some sleep,” I reply. “No offense, but this room smells a little rank.”

“I haven’t taken out the trash,” she says with a little hand gesture as she refocuses on her computer. Her brows pinch and she bites her lip.

Shit. I’m gonna have to do it. Rylie is small and I can knock her ass out no problem, but I might actually feel bad about this one. I glance around the room. Should I go with a choke hold or should I use something? She’s muttering to herself, shaking her head as I step up behind her. Might as well just go with the old and known—choke hold, cut off the airways, and let her pass out. Sleep first and maybe afterwards, I can convince her to take a shower. A nasty thought perks its little head up inside my mind. I could just ask Abel to help me wash her up. She’d fucking hate me for that, but it’d be funny to see her reaction.

Before I can lock my arm around her throat, however, Rylie lets out a half shout and jerks back away from her desk. I stumble back as she shoots up from her chair, the thing skidding across the floor and falling on its side.

“No!” she screams in horror, but it’s too late. She stands there and watches as the screen of her laptop darkens and green letters appear typing out from left to right in the upper corner. “Oh my god.”

“What happened?” I ask, peeking around her.

The door knob jiggles and then bursts open, Dean, Abel, and Braxton all spilling into the room in a heap. “What’s wrong?” Dean snaps. “I heard her scream.”

“My fucking computer!” Rylie wails, pointing towards it. “It’s fucking toast. They left a virus. I didn’t catch it and all of the fucking information…” She trails off as literal tears begin to well in her eyes. I take a hefty step back.

“You can just get it back, though, right?” Abel asks, looking from her to the computer.

“No.” She shakes her head. “I set it up so that if anyone tried to back hack me, it’d wipe the hard drive. I was too focused … I wasn’t paying attention—there’s always a chance when you go in through a backdoor and I had to because I was tracing the bank’s movements and the money. Everything’s gone. I can’t prove anything.”

“Prove anything?” Dean replies. “Did you find out who was sending the money or not?”

Rylie lifts a hand and pushes back a tendril of lavender colored hair. “I … did, sorta. I saw the name right before the screen went black, but I can’t prove it to you. I’ll have to re-hack everything and even then, if they caught onto me and it was actually a person behind that virus and not an automatic failsafe, the information will be gone anyway.”

“Don’t worry about proving it,” Dean says. “Just tell me who it was.”

Rylie chews on her lower lip, her eyes scanning her desk before returning to Dean. “There were two original locations that the money was coming from,” she says, her voice dipping, growing quieter. “I was only able to track down one of them—the one who’s been sending her money for several years. The other one has only been doing so for a few months.”

“Tell me,” Dean orders.

She inhales sharply and blows out her next breath while taking a step away from him as if afraid of his volatile reaction which can only mean one thing. I grit my teeth. She doesn’t want Dean to get mad, but I already know he’s going to be. Her reaction can only mean one thing.

“It’s Nicholas Carter, isn’t it?” I say.

Purple hair flies around her face as she jerks her gaze towards me. Across the room, Braxton’s face darkens and Abel’s goes slack. Dean freezes. When Rylie doesn’t say anything, Dean takes a step closer. “Rylie,” he snaps, “is she right?”

Closing her eyes, Rylie’s shoulders sink low and make her appear even smaller than she already is—a feat within itself—but she answers nonetheless. “Yes,” she says. “Nicholas Carter is behind one of the money trails leading to Patricia Manning’s accounts.”

At first, there’s no reaction on Dean’s part and I think maybe he’ll be rational about this. Almost as soon as that thought has entered my brain, however, he proves me wrong. Rylie jumps and screams when he smashes his hand into the dresser propped against the wall. The face of the wooden boards covering the drawers cracks and breaks in half under the blow, and without another word, he turns and storms out of the room.

23

DEAN

THAT MOTHERFUCKER. I punch my way through the front doors of the Havers Dorm. I'm so fucking pissed, my limbs are shaking. At the same time, however, the bite of panic rears its ugly head and burrows into my mind, swirling in a mass around my thoughts and sinking its fangs deep.

I can't keep still. So, I do the only thing that makes sense to me in this moment. I start walking—fast-paced steps. Stomping down the sidewalk, through the deserted campus. With my mind racing, I reach into my pocket and yank out my cell, punching the number I know by heart—but until now so rarely had a reason to use.

It rings once, twice, three times, and then goes to voicemail. I punch the green button again and again, voicemail. It doesn't matter. I keep hitting the recall button until I'm halfway to my destination, damn near there, and finally—shockingly—he picks up.

"Dean? I didn't expect you to call me after our last encounter. Is this about Avalon? Is she okay?"

The sound of my father's voice, so fucking serious and at the same time the sound of all of my insecurities, slams into my brain. "Where are you?" I demand without answering his questions. "Are you in your office at Eastpoint?"

"Right now?" he replies. "Yes, I am, but I won't be staying long. What did you call for?"

Good. The fact that he's already close will make things easier. My feet automatically pick up the pace. "Is it true?"

He sighs, sounding frustrated. "Is what true, Dean?"

"Patricia. Fucking. Manning," I grit the name out, and even knowing the woman is dead now—that she'll never fucking hurt Avalon ever again—it still tastes like rotten shit on my tongue. "You've been fucking paying her for years. How long have you known about Avalon? How many other fucking lies have you told us? Where—"

"Do you truly think you deserve these answers more than she does?" my father has the audacity to ask.

The shaking in my arms and legs intensifies until I have to press the outline of my phone to my cheek so hard I can feel the edges of the glass screen cutting into the side of my face. "She is not your fucking concern," I growl. "She's mine. Do you fucking understand me? Mine."

I hear footsteps behind me. Panting. Stopping at the next crosswalk, directly across from his office building, I whip around only to pause when I see who it is. Avalon sees me at the corner and picks up her pace until she's right alongside me. There's no sign of the others, however. I can only assume they stayed behind with the girl.

Her eyes meet mine and then she turns, gazing across the street at where I'm heading. Realization dawns on her face and she no longer has to ask what I'm planning. Her expression darkens. For some reason, just having her nearby makes my trembling dissipate until I feel almost as if I've regained control of my own body.

"If you value your life," I start again as we turn back towards the building and cross the street, "you'll explain why the fuck you've been funneling money to that junkie for years."

My father remains quiet, and it isn't until we reach the front steps that he finally replies. "Tell me something, Dean, this information that you received—did your little hacker friend happen to mention that I wasn't the only one sending money? Or did her computer crash before she could get that far?"

The rage flares brighter. My hand locks on the door, yanking it open. It crashes into the wall, causing a small rainfall of red and gray brick dust to scatter across the pavement beneath our feet. Avalon arches a brow at me but says nothing as I continue to hold the door open for her. She walks inside and heads for the elevators.

"So, you're telling me you knew about that as well? Who was it?"

"I'll take that as a no, she didn't get that information." He sighs. "Who it is isn't your concern. I'm taking care of that as I've told you before."

Avalon hits the button on the elevator and steps back as I follow her. "Give me a straight answer," I snap. "I'm tired of your games."

When my father chuckles into the phone, it's a dry sound. "You truly are a fucking child, Dean, if you think I'm playing games." Avalon’s head turns just as the elevator doors beep and we enter. Her lips curve down and she scowls at the wall as she hits the button that'll take us up to the correct floor much harder than necessary. Unable to stand it a second longer, I reach down and snatch her hand up in mine. She doesn't try to wrest it away. Instead, her fingers curve through mine and squeeze. She tightens her grip until her knuckles are white and it's then that I know—she's just as angry as I am. I close my eyes even as my father keeps talking. I'm not alone.

"I assure you, Son, Avalon is my top priority. I'll be leaving my office now. Perhaps the two of you should take some time away from Eastpoint. I'd hoped that giving you the girl—Miss Harrison, I believe—would keep you occupied, but let me warn you once more—stay away from this investigation, Dean. Let Avalon take her revenge on who she's seen. Nothing good will come from her hunting for the one responsible."

Leaving his office? I almost laugh. The elevator dings as we arrive and the doors open. With Avalon's hand still gripped tightly in mine and the phone pressed to my ear, I storm down the long Eastpoint heir hallway. The conniving eyes of past generations follow us. The second Nicholas Carter is dead, I think, they're all coming down. Hell, I want this whole building to come down even if that means I have to raze it to the ground myself. Nothing will remain.

"It's too late," I tell him as we come to a stop in front of his office. The door to his office flies open, the movement sending a gust of wind past my face as it nearly clips me. I don't blink as I lift my eyes and meet my father's somewhat startled expression. "We're here."

I hang up and release Avalon's hand as I drop the phone and shove him back inside. She follows, the door swinging shut behind us and the lock clicking into place as I stare at the man I've hated for the majority of my life. My father.

His game is over.

24

AVALON

THE STARE down between Dean and his father leaves me an outsider in the room. The idea isn't unwarranted. I am an outsider. Except to Dean. I’m someone to him. When he pulls his hand away from mine—even though it's only to shove Nicholas Carter back into the office—I want to snatch it back. I have to bite down on my tongue to keep from saying so or reaching for him as I follow the two of them inside the room and shut the door.

"This is ridiculous, Dean," Nicholas Carter snaps. "You cannot just barge into my office—"

"You were leaving because you knew we were on our way, so yeah, I think I can fucking barge into your office, especially when you're avoiding answering my goddamn questions," Dean shoots back, cutting him off as he releases the front of his shirt.

Nicholas drops his briefcase on the top of his desk and huffs out a breath. He looks a little less well put together than the last few times I'd met him. His normally pressed suit is a bit wrinkled and it makes me wonder how long he's been in this office. How long has he been wearing it? Did he sleep here?

Dean, however, isn't too concerned with my internal questions and it's clear he's only got one thing on his mind. Violence. Dean's arm snaps forward and he regrips his father's shirt, his knuckles whiten and the veins in his arms begin to pop as he gets right up in the other man's face.

"It's time to explain yourself, Dad," he spits. "Why the fuck have you been funneling money to Patricia Manning?"

I'm just as curious as Dean, but something is keeping me from his level of reaction. Maybe killing Patricia had chilled me out somewhat, fed the beast inside so to speak, but I don't think Nicholas Carter is our enemy. Sure, he's keeping things from us. We know he is, but he's never been cruel to me. He's never threatened me. In fact, he was outright kind upon our first meeting and in a roundabout way, he was partially the reason I met Dean.

"I swear to God if you don't stop fucking with us," Dean says, "I will make you regret it."

Nicholas Carter reaches up and grips his son's arm, turning to the side and jerking it down so that Dean's forced to release him or risk breaking his wrist. The movement is so fast, I almost miss it before it's over. Then in a burst of speed, he pushes Dean back several steps and stands straight before he grabs the lapels of his suit coat and adjusts it casually. As if there hadn’t been two-hundred plus pounds of angry Dean Carter barreling down on him not seconds before, as if Dean’s words hold no true threat. My eyes widen and then sharpen on him.

When he turns, Nicholas's gaze lands on me. "I do apologize, Avalon," he begins.

"I don't want your fucking apologies," I say before he can keep going. "I want answers."

When he meets my gaze with those eyes of his—the same eyes that I love in Dean's face—I get the same feeling I had before. This man doesn't seem like an enemy. If he was, things would be very different now. That doesn't erase the fact that he knows who the enemy is and he's keeping it from us.

To keep us safe? I dart a look to Dean, who stands there, fuming and practically dripping in the hunger to fight. To keep Dean safe? He is his son, after all, and even though my mother had no maternal or protective bone in her body, that doesn't mean the same must be true for Dean's father.

"The money," Dean snaps. "What was it for?"

Nicholas sighs and glances at him. "What do you think it was for?" he replies. "Use your head, son. It was for Avalon."

I frown, but when Nicholas turns his head back to me, his gaze skates up and slightly to the side—behind me—before returning to my face. It was a brief moment. Perhaps an accident, but I don't think so. Without waiting, I turn and scan the interior of the office, spotting a row of pictures on the wall alongside several plaques and awards and degrees.

I go to it.

"Avalon—"

"Don't." Dean steps in front of Nicholas when he moves to stop me.

What is it? What am I looking for? His eyes had gone up and slightly to the right. I forgo the left side and the bottom pictures.

"Which one is it?" I ask aloud.

There's a beat of silence and then a slow release of breath and the rough scratch of footsteps on the office floor. "Stop—"

"Let him," I order when Dean moves to keep him from moving towards me again. Dean throws me a slightly confused and a most certainly unhappy scowl, but he releases his father's arm and lets Nicholas step towards the wall I now stand before.

With slow, incremental movements, Nicholas reaches up to one of the pictures at the top, well out of my reach. "This one," he says, holding up a photograph of two men. One of the men has dark brown hair and matching dark brown eyes—a younger version of Nicholas Carter, and a very real looking replica of Dean. The other, however, is a slightly shorter man with a bright smile and even darker hair. There's a shadow of beard growth on his face that contrasts with the paleness of his features.

"He's the reason why I sent your mother money," Nicholas admits, and that's when it hits me. This man in the photograph … he's my father. I take the photo from him and Nicholas releases it without protest. Now that I know, I can see the similarities. Patricia said I look like my father. I'd always wondered why I never resembled her at all. As a child, I'd hoped that maybe she wasn't my real mother. Regardless of that now, though, I know for a fact that this man is my biological father. We have the same hair color, the same skin tone, and the same eyes. Blue mixed with gray.

"You knew him..." I hear my words as if they're coming from someone else. I can't pull my eyes away from the image in my hands.

"I did," Nicholas says. Then, "It's a long and complicated story, Avalon."

I don't look away from the photo. "I'm not going anywhere until I hear it," I tell him, skimming my thumb down the side of the frame. My nail hits the bottom corner where there's calligraphy etched into the wood. Two names: Nicholas Carter and Chaz Mason.

"Chaz was my best friend," Nicholas says. "We grew up together. Went to school together. We trusted each other with our lives and our secrets. He would've been so proud of you—of how far you've come."

"Don't..." I don't like this feeling burning at the inside of my chest. "Just tell me what I need to know to understand your part in all of this."

I sense more than see Nicholas nod his understanding. Behind me, Dean is quiet. Quieter than he's ever been, but his presence isn't gone. He wouldn't leave me now. Not like this. He's still in the room, keeping his distance and offering his strength in the only way he knows now—by being there.

"I didn't discover your existence until a few years ago," Nicholas tells me. "After everything that happened, Chaz's death, your mother leaving—I assumed she had aborted you before I could stop her. She … told me she had."

Discovering that my mother had lied about my existence after her death feels predictable. Even after her life has ended, the results of all of her deceit lingers behind like a cavity from too many sweets. The sweets in this case being all of her fucking lies.

"It was coincidence, really, that I found you. We were researching students in need that might do well in our programs when they came of age. When your picture came across my desk, I was stunned. You looked so much like him even then. I had my people run background checks and research and discovered that Patricia Manning had in fact, given birth to a daughter five months after she left Eastpoint—"

"Eastpoint?" I turn and look up at him. "She came here?" I'd always assumed she'd never left Plexton.

Nicholas takes a step back from me and then pivots towards the windows of his office overlooking the rest of the campus. He moves towards them and stops with his hands fisted at the small of his back, one gripping his wrist tight. "There were a lot of complicated matters that led to your father's death, Avalon, and your mother was one of them. Yes, she came to Eastpoint. Before her departure, she was actually a promising student. Back then, program students didn't need to be as … skilled as we require them to be now.” I’m not completely sure what he means by that, but from what I guess, he means that back then scholarship students were just normal students who had good grades and the luck to get into Eastpoint. Whereas today, they’re recruited—like Rylie. “She was on a scholarship when she met your father and the two of them fell in love."

I lower my hand, but the photo remains gripped between my fingers. I'm almost afraid to let it go as if letting it go will somehow make it disappear from existence. I never took myself for being sentimental, but right now, I'd kill to know more—to understand why the hell this had all happened.

"You have to understand, what's happening today," Nicholas continues, "is the direct result of your father and mother's actions nearly nineteen years ago. As well as mine and others..." He drifts off for a moment, his voice deepening as his fingers squeeze his wrist even tighter.

Suddenly he turns around and faces me. “When I realized who you were, I approached your mother. To provide for you, I offered to send her money regularly and she agreed on the condition that I not approach either of you. At the time, I assumed she was just as she had been when she was here. I didn’t realize how much she’d changed or how dependent she’d become on losing herself by any means necessary.”

“That’s a nice way of saying you didn’t know she’d become an addict,” I reply dryly.

His lips quirk and amusement crosses his expression for a fleeting second before it’s gone again. He releases his hands until they fall at his sides. “It was my hope that you would be taken care of, Avalon,” he says. “I want you to know that. When I realized that she wasn’t doing her job, I sent Delilah to retrieve you. You were eighteen and she couldn’t keep you if you truly wanted to go.”

“I didn’t really have a choice in coming,” I point out. “But that still doesn’t explain why you were still sending her money even after I’d come here.”

“That,” he says, “was to keep her away, to keep her from contacting you. I’d received some disturbing reports about your childhood and I thought it would be easier for you to make a fresh start without her attempting to get in touch.”

“A clean break from my old life,” I say. Not that it matters now.

“Yes,” Nicholas agrees. “I also asked the boys to look after you—though, it appears that has turned out far better than I expected.”

“Is this why you had all that information on her?” Dean finally speaks up. “You’ve never asked us to look after any other program student.”

“Correct.” Nicholas nods. “And there won’t be another. Avalon was—is—a special case.” He refocuses on me, his face tightening with an uncomfortable sadness that makes me want to take a step away. When he moves forward and lifts his arm as if he means to touch me, I automatically bring my hands up and he stops. Lips thinning, he sighs and drops his arms again. “I’m sorry you never got to speak with him. He was a good man. I’m truly sorry for everything that you’ve gone through because of this.” He gestures to the picture in my hand, reminding me that I’m still digging my fingers into the sides of it, likely ruining the pretty wood frame.

“There’s no reason to be sorry,” I say. “It’s not like I need to know him to know who I am.” And yet, why is there a hole in my chest that burns at the thought that the man in this photograph is a piece of me? Biologically, yes, but more than that. He was the one that wanted me. According to Patricia, he’d begged for my fucking existence. I can’t help but wonder how different things might have been had he survived to raise me. Had he survived long enough for me to meet him.

I look down at the photograph once more, touching the glass. This was the man my mother had loved. The one who’d changed everything. It’s a tragedy that he was the one who died so young. Even as fucked up as I am, I can recognize that much.

“Do you know who else was giving her money?” Dean asks, moving so that he’s closer than before. When he steps up to my back, I don’t hesitate to lean into him. I sigh and turn my head when his hand comes up and touches my side, gripping tightly. Then my eyes are back on the man across from us, watching and waiting for an answer.

Nicholas stiffens at Dean’s inquiry. “I’m fixing the situation, Dean, and I recommend you keep your nose out of it while I do so. You have your targets and I have mine.”

“So, you know and you just won’t tell us,” Dean says. “Which means it’s the same person we’re after.”

“You are not going after them,” Nicholas barks, his head tilting forward. He and Dean lock eyes, and against my spine, I can feel the vibration of Dean’s anger. I know, it’s only the fact that I’m here, standing between the two of them, that keeps him from losing the tight grip he has on his control. “Focus on finding the girl,” he orders.

“We are,” I tell him, dragging his attention back to me. “And make no mistake, we will find her and she will pay for her part in this. They all will. I’m not going to be satisfied with just her. I want everyone who had a hand in my kidnapping, my torture, my rape”—he flinches, but doesn’t look particularly surprised—“everything that happened to me to suffer for it.”

“They will,” Dean swears it too, his chest bumping my back.

“I’m choosing to focus on Corina right now, Mr. Carter,” I tell the man in front of us. “But you should be warned, if you don’t have a handle on this by the time I’m done, you’re going to fall right along with them. You said that what happened nineteen years ago was the result of my parents’ actions—as well as yours. If the result of what happened all those years ago was everything that’s happened to me in the last four months, then I can assure you—whoever is behind this will pay.” I pause a beat and look him dead in the eyes. “With their lives.”

Nicholas doesn’t say anything for several long moments and then a small glimmer of amusement crosses his face and he smiles. “Even when you’re threatening to kill people, you’re so much like him,” he says. “He was just as volatile and dangerous, though he didn’t look it.” I frown, but before I can respond, he turns his attention to Dean.

“I doubt you’ll listen to me, but I should say it anyway,” he begins. “I know I suggested that finding the girl was a priority, but perhaps the two of you should take some time away from Eastpoint. It might feel like your summer has just started, but the new semester will be here before you know it. Perhaps you should try being kids for a little while longer. Trust that I will handle things. You can pick up your search when you get back. Go and play and maybe when the school year starts back up again, this will all be a horrible memory in your rearview mirror.

A scowl overtakes my face. Though he doesn’t sound condescending, the words he spouts are enough to have my blood boiling. Reaching down, I grab Dean’s hand and pull on it as I head for the door. Dean, with his long legs, however, reaches it ahead of me. It seems as though we’ve traded places now. He’s no longer a rioting ball of rage, and I am. He takes the photo frame from my hand and I turn back to face Nicholas Carter.

“Why would we trust you to take care of things when we’ve always had to take care of it ourselves?” I ask him. Before he can answer, however, I hold up a hand. He may look at me and see his best friend’s daughter, but what he should look at me and see is someone who is just as deadly and capable as his son.

Dean puts a restraining hand on my shoulder and pulls me back against him. I look up, but his eyes aren’t focused on me; they’re on his father. “Don’t worry,” he says. “This will be over before the new semester begins. How it ends, though, depends on you.” My earlier thoughts cross my mind, and I already know the answer. “It depends on whether we find you as our ally or our enemy, Dad. I suggest you tread lightly.”

25

AVALON

WHEN WE GET BACK to Havers Dorm, Brax is sitting in the SUV with an arm hanging out the window and a lit cigarette between his fingers. Dean and I stop by the car.

"Where's Abel?" I ask as Dean pops open the passenger door and leans in, shoving his phone into the console.

Brax blows out a long breath of smoke and then nods towards the dorm. "Having a fit with the chick," he says.

I groan and turn towards the building. "Tell Abel we're leaving," Dean calls out.

"Will do," I call over my shoulder. I'm only a few steps away, though, when the sound of Brax’s tone reaches my ears.

Braxton asks in a low voice, "What the hell happened, man?"

I keep walking but turn my head as Dean's response flows back. "We'll talk about it at home."

I've got the drive there to decide if I should tell the guys what Nicholas Carter revealed today. My parents had both gone to Eastpoint. More than that, my dad had been his best friend. There's no real reason to hide the fact from them other than it'll remind me that I'm an orphan now and the one parent that had actually wanted me has been long since six feet under, pushing daisies.

I pinch my lips together and head into the building, taking the stairs two at a time until I reach the second floor. I'm halfway down the hall when I hear cursing.

"—such a fucking prude!" Abel snaps.

"Well, you don't need to be such a fucking dick," Rylie replies. I stop a few feet in front of the door. My eyebrows rise. Well, damn. Little miss 'stay away from the Sick Boys for your own good' has certainly found her voice, and she's apparently using it to let Abel know exactly what she thinks of him.

Abel's voice rumbles through the wood, but whatever he says is muffled as Rylie raises hers once more. "Did I ask for your opinion?" she demands. "I don't even know why we're having this conversation. It was a goddamn mistake. Just … get out. Get out and go get me a new computer. You want me to work for you, I need equipment."

I take that as my cue to help a poor bitch out. I knock loudly on the door and then twist the handle, noting that they've been so involved in whatever they were talking about that neither of them had bothered to flip the door lock. It opens into the same dorm room I left nearly an hour before, only this time, Rylie and Abel are much closer than they were before and far more tense.

Abel blows out a breath and turns towards me. Anger flashes in Rylie's expression, along with something else I'm sure she doesn't want me to notice. I don't say anything as Abel grabs something off the spare desk and storms past me into the hallway.

He doesn't ask me any questions. He doesn't wait for me to follow, he just starts walking. Recalling what Dean told me before I came up here, I lean out the door and call down the hall. "Dean says we're leaving so get your ass in the car!"

He flips me off over his shoulder, making me chuckle. "I'll see your ass down there, Ava!" he yells back.

Shaking my head, I move back into the room and shut the door behind me. Rylie doesn't say anything and, instead, jumps into cleaning—really, she's just trying to look busy. I let her do so for several moments, though, because the room could use a cleaning. When she's managed to clear off her bed and develop a sizable pile of trash in the already stacked can under her desk, I decide enough is enough.

"So," I begin, crossing my arms and leaning against the door, "want to tell me what that was about?"

She snorts. "It was nothing," she replies. "Just telling a rich boy that he can't always have everything he wants."

I hum in my throat. "Is that a fact?"

Rylie's purple hair flies to the side as she jerks her head my way and gives me a dark glare. "Yes," she snaps, "it is." She moves across the room and tosses some candy wrappers under her desk. They hit the rim of the trash can and fall to the floor but she doesn't notice. She goes back to straighten the sheets on her bed. "It's nothing," she says.

Lifting my arms in an acknowledgment of surrender, I shrug. "Okay, if you say so. Don't take off my head." I wait a beat and then, "It just seems a little more than nothing to me."

Rylie's head rolls back on her shoulders and she covers her face with her hands, groaning. "What do you want, Ava?" she asks. "You know you could just command me to tell you what's going on and if I deny you, you can go to your boyfriend and he'll make me."

"Yeah, I could," I agree, "but we both know I don't roll like that. I want to know because we decided to be friends … or are you regretting that decision now?"

Her hands come down and another glare is thrown my way. This is what I need, I realize. Something to take my mind off of all of the seriousness that's plagued my life in the last several weeks.

“It’s times like these that I really wish I knew how to fight,” she admits. “I really wish I could punch you.”

I laugh. “Any time you want to learn, I’d be happy to give you a beating.”

“Yeah.” She rolls her eyes. “I just bet you would.” Despite her words, she laughs too. Rylie shuffles across the room and slumps onto the side of her twin-sized bed. “It’s nothing you need to worry about,” she finally says after a long quiet moment. “It’s not going to affect whoever you’re tracking down.”

“I’m not asking because of that,” I tell her.

Her thin arms hang down between her legs and her toes barely skim the floor. She sighs. “I know,” is all she says.

That’s it. That’s all I get. And that’s all I’m going to get for now, I acknowledge. Discomfort shoots through me as I take a step towards her, but I shove it down and keep moving until I’m next to her. I turn and lean into the side of the bed, reaching over and nudging her arm until she huffs out a breath and curses.

“I’m fucked up, Ava,” she whispers. “A lot more fucked up than you could possibly know. Possibly even more than you.”

A snort escapes me. “Doubtful, but I’ll let you keep thinking that,” I say. It makes sense in a way. For each and every person, their problems seem like the end of the world. Because for every individual, there’s no getting away. You can’t ever just stop being who you are. There’s no leaving the body you’re born in. You can alter it. Change it. Fuck it up. Fix it up. But there’s no leaving … the only way to do that is a path that once crossed can never be recrossed. We each have to live with the sins we create.

“Go,” Rylie says, “the guys are waiting for you.”

“You gonna be okay up here?” I ask.

“Yeah.”

I push off the bed and look around. “Finish cleaning,” I tell her, “then eat something.”

“I’ve got some Twizzlers in the desk,” Rylie offers as if to let me know she’ll consume something, but her words only irritate me.

“Actual fucking food, Rylie,” I snap, making her head jerk up at my tone.

“I’ll take care of it,” she says, frowning.

“If I find out you’re not eating,” I warn her, “I’ll send Abel back, and this time, I’ll make sure he can’t leave.”

She rolls her eyes again. “What’re you gonna do, tough chick?” she challenges. “Handcuff us together?”

I shrug. “I’ll do what I need to—and that’s not such a bad idea.”

Her face blanches and she nods. “Fine. I’ll go get something to eat. Just … don’t send him back. Not tonight.”

“Done.” I turn to go. I’m across the room with my hand on the doorknob when she says something that makes me pause.

“Thanks, Ava…” Her voice sounds hoarse and I resist the urge to look back especially when she croaks out a, “for caring.”

I twist the knob but don’t immediately pull it open. “Someone has to, Rylie,” I tell her. “If you’re not going to give a shit about yourself, how can you expect someone else to?” It’s a harsh statement and possibly the wrong fucking thing to say, but I’m no therapist. I don’t know her background. I don’t know her story. But those words are the very ones I told myself growing up. So, in some messed up circle of life kinda way, I hope they help her. I really do.

26

DEAN

"YOU'RE FUCKING CRAZY." Yeah, maybe I am, but I can't help but wonder—despite my anger and irritation and hatred for the man—if my father hadn't been the least bit right. For the last several weeks, the four of us had holed ourselves up in Eastpoint. I might’ve lost my mind because I think I'm going to actually take my old man's advice. Getting out of Eastpoint actually doesn't sound like such a shit idea. We'd been so fucking focused on tracking down Corina, on helping Avalon, that we hadn't taken a breather.

Abel and Brax can go do whatever the fuck it is they do these days—find some girl to fuck between the two of them, and Avalon and I can lock ourselves up in some suite and disappear for a few days.

In the grand scheme of things, two or three days isn't a long time, but maybe it's what we need. She's on edge. I'm on edge. Hell, we're all on edge. I just want to get back to where we were—her and me.

At times like this, I'd call Viks, but that asshole is dead to me. At least, I wish I could say that. He's been texting me regularly since I took Avalon to meet him. Asking me how things are going, asking me about her. He knows what I want to talk about. He always was good at guessing, but now I don't want to talk to him. Not anymore.

And that too is a lie.

"Think about it," I say as Abel crosses in front of me for what feels like the hundredth time. I've got no fucking clue what's going on in his head, but he's been acting like a shit since we got back from campus. It's unlike him to not want to take a trip. He's the party fucking king. "Even the party we held for Avalon's graduation was really just a front to get Luc alone," I argue.

"It is summer break," Braxton points out. "We're gonna need to start gearing up for the next football season. Training isn't far off. Early starters and a new influx of program students will be arriving after that."

"We've got people for that. What's Bairns for if she can't handle the program students?" Abel barks.

"Of course, but we need to make sure that no more surprises are coming our way," I say.

"Surprises like me?" Avalon pipes up as she comes around the corner from the kitchen with a soda in hand. She pops the tab, the hiss of carbonation releasing the only sound as she takes a big drink and walks across the room before taking a seat on the couch and crossing her legs.

"Take it as a compliment, savage girl," Brax suggests with a wink.

She rolls her eyes, and I reach up to pinch the bridge of my nose. A dull thudding headache is beginning to blossom inside my skull. I want nothing more than to just lay down the fucking law, tell Abel what we're doing and that if he doesn't like it then he can shove it up his ass, and then grab my girl and go to bed, but that's not how we do things. Carters may lead Eastpoint, but I am determined to not end up like my father.

He doesn't even talk to Brax’s and Abel's dads unless absolutely necessary. They're nothing like us and we're nothing like them. We're a fucking team. That means I need to convince them, not order them.

"Abel, I want to take Avalon out of town for a bit," I continue. "Not just because I think she needs the break, but I think we all need it."

"I agree," Brax says. "It can't hurt, man. I don't know why you're being so stubborn about this."

"What about the chick?" Abel demands, stopping his pacing and turning on me.

I blink. "What chick?" I ask. "You can find one when we get to the city." Hell, he's never been hard up for companionship. Neither him nor Brax. What the hell is his problem now? Does he have a girl I don't know about?

Before he can respond, however, Ava snorts into her soda. "He means Rylie," she answers for him.

Abel whirls on her and narrows his eyes.

Realization hits me and I turn my gaze to Abel as I drop my hand. "Are you fucking her?" I demand.

Abel turns back. "No." It's all the explanation he gives and from the cold hard look in his eyes, I won't be getting any more.

A frustrated sigh works its way up my chest. "If you are—"

"I said I’m not," he snaps, interrupting me.

"But you want to," Brax says casually.

Tension fills the room as Abel's shoulders tighten and his fingers curl into fists at his sides. There's a wild look in his eyes. Something full of both rage and pain. Yeah, Brax is right. He does want the girl. Doesn't take a genius to figure out what his issue is. He wants her and if it was just for a hard fuck, he'd do it and be done. Rylie, though, is the most promising recruit we've had—aside from Ava.

The girl is smart and versatile. She's also got a past that allows us to use her to full capacity because as long as she lives on Eastpoint campus, as long as she remains under our thumb, she remains safe. I have to wonder if he's taken a look into her file. He wouldn't be asking to bring her with us if he knew. Then again, it's not like she can't leave campus. She can. She has. Since coming here, though, she for sure hasn't left the town, and that's another matter entirely.

"Enough," I finally say, cutting through the growing silence with one word and a shake of my head. I shoot a glare at Brax. "You're not helping."

"I'm not going to fuck her," Abel says again.

"Fine, I believe you," I reply. "But that still doesn't solve the issue of why you don't want to go to the city with us. You want us to bring her?"

"I don't think she'd like that, Frontman," Avalon says from her position on the couch.

Abel blows out a breath and from the look on his face, he knows she's right. That doesn't make him any happier though. He runs a hand up through the messy hair sticking up at the top of his head and scrubs it back down his face before cursing. "Fuck," he breathes. "Fine. Just … do whatever. I'll go to the city with you."

I watch him for a moment before making a decision. "I'll ask Marcus to keep an eye out for her," I tell him.

All at once, the tension drains from him. He slowly exhales and nods. "Yeah, that'll be good. Thanks."

I clap him on the shoulder. "Any time, man," I assure him. "You forgot she's important to us as well.”

Avalon watches this from over the rim of her soda can, curiosity shining in her eyes. Without a doubt, I know she'll be asking me questions as soon as doors close behind us tonight.

"Great," I continue. "Now that it's settled, we should leave here tomorrow morning. Brax—"

"I'll call and get our regular suite," Brax cuts me off before I can even ask.

"Good."

"Abel?"

"Got it," he says.

He takes a step away and then another and another until he's closer to the wet bar than anything else in the room. Then I watch as he reaches for a bottle and a glass. He doesn't even look at what he's pouring when he downs the first drink and starts on another. I sigh and give a nod to Brax to keep watch over him tonight. He'll go, at least, but there's no way he'll be in any condition to drive in the morning. Whatever is going on between him and the girl, I have no doubt that it, combined with whatever happened between him and Ava after she killed her mother, is something he'll have to work through on his own.

Avalon doesn't say anything. She doesn't appear happy, but neither does she seem angry. She just looks … contemplative. Honestly, that scares me more than any of her other moods.

"Baby?" I move towards her and hold my hand out. She looks at it with lifted brows before reaching forward and taking it. She lets me pull her off the couch. "Let’s get packed," I suggest. "And get some rest."

"You never asked me if I wanted to leave," she comments lightly as she leaves her soda on the coffee table and pushes forward, heading for the staircase ahead of me.

I freeze at the bottom landing, my eyes trailing her ass as she takes the first couple of steps. "Don't need to," I reply. "You're going."

She laughs, the sound low and husky. It sends an immediate pulse straight to my dick. The damn thing jumps in my pants, raring and ready to go. Halfway up the stairs, she pauses and looks back. "You're fucking lucky I let you boss me around sometimes," she says. "If I didn't feel like it, you wouldn't be taking me anywhere."

I know. Avalon isn't the type to let anyone tell her what to do, but she lets me. Sometimes. Because to this girl, I'm special. I'm more important than anyone in her fucking life and never before has anything made me feel as powerful as she does. What man can truly say they've claimed their alpha queen and made her bow? Any man who claims to have made a bitch submit isn't a man at all. She doesn't bow for anyone, but I'll be damned if I don't bow to her.

27

AVALON

ROUGH FINGERS GRAB at the back of my head. My face presses into the dirty vinyl tile floor. My vision blurs in front of me as confusion swims through my mind. What's happening? What's going on? Where am I?

I'm flipped over onto my back and a dark figure hovers over of me and I realize what’s happening.

I’m dreaming. A nightmare, by the looks of it.

The face of Roger Murphy leans in close and the stench of rotten breath hits me full on. The smell is so overwhelming that on instinct, I gag. Vomit comes up my esophagus, threatening to drown me. Roger just grins as it burns and I have to turn my head and release it or let it choke me to death.

Panting, shaking, I try to lift my limbs when Roger moves forward again, digging his grimy fingers beneath the neckline of my shirt. He rips it straight down the middle. My hands fail to stop him. In fact, my entire body is failing to stop him because I can't seem to move.

The rest of the room is a blur. All I can see is him, the floor, and the stupid chipped kitchen table that's quite literally held together by duct tape and prayers.

This isn't happening, I think to myself. This can't be happening because this already happened. This is a memory—a distorted one. This isn't exactly how it happened, but it's like my mind is reliving it regardless of the fact that it's fucked up. Despite the fact that it's wrong, it still feels like everything is being redone in excruciating horrible detail. Some things are familiar—the smell of his breath. The feel of his body hard over mine. My pants are gone—were they completely off when it actually happened? I can't recall. But I do know that this happened. That he did this. That I suffered this.

No! I scream at myself. I already survived this. Not again. Tears burn at the inside of my eyelids.

Violent anger curdles in my bloodstream. Why again? Why must I fucking go through this again? I'm over it. It doesn't matter. Nothing he did can hurt me now. Roger's dead.

"If that's true," the ghost of Roger Murphy says. "Then why am I here now?"

My eyes widen but before I can ask him how the fuck he can hear my thoughts, he grips my hips, turns me over, and props up my ass. I'm going to be sick again. I want to scream, lash out, punch, kick, anything! Where is Dean?

"Dean..." I try to scream his name, but when my lips part, it only comes out as a quiet croak. The dream swallows the rest of the noise and lets it drift around—like lights sparkling over our heads.

Harsh fingers grip my hips and the sound of a belt buckle undoing comes through clear as a bell. I begin to shake. Trembling. More bile burns up my throat. No. No. No!

The press of hard flesh touches my pussy, and I almost fucking lose it right then and there. My eyes dart behind me to the door of my mother's trailer. Dean is there. He's on the other side of that door. He's coming through any moment.

Roger slams himself into me and I feel ripped open—like some disgusting pike has been shoved into my internal organs and it's tearing through my stomach. My lips part again, but no sound erupts this time. Not even the broken hoarse whisper from earlier emits. There's nothing. Just silence from me and the chilling sounds of Roger's grunts as he fucks me.

A hard hand presses into the back of my head, keeping it down as he humps against my ass, his cock driving in and out. Sickness gathers inside. No, not just sickness—something else.

Evil.

Wickedness.

Hate.

Droplets of his sweat fall onto the skin of my back. How the hell can this feel so real? I wonder. When it's just a nightmare? Is it because this nightmare comes from my reality? Is it because I lived through this once before?

My entire focus zeroes in on that fucking door, and for the first time in my life, I pray. I pray that this nightmare will follow reality and that Dean will come shooting through that door at any fucking second. Him and Abel and Braxton. Almost … almost …

"Almost..." Roger laughs, the sound breathless as he continues behind me. I shake under him, my body shoved up the vinyl as he gasps and groans. Each thrust drives something home inside of me. Not just his cock, but the monster—the thing I am inside. The sick, twisted girl created from this act. "I'm almost there, li'l runt," he says. "Gonna fucking cum inside you so good."

His words float in one ear and out of the other. I hear them, but I don't respond.

Where is Dean? Why isn’t he here yet?

Roger’s lips lock down on my shoulder and bite through the fabric still clinging to my muscles. He bites harder until a sharp pain seizes me and wetness trickles from the wound he's opened.

Murder.

Maim.

Hurt.

Kill.

My back is fucking killing me. His cock is so fucking small, it hardly feels there, and yet, just knowing that it is—that it's thrusting into me—is the worst insult. If he was going to rape me, why the fuck couldn't he have a real cock instead of this pathetic excuse dangling between his saggy fucking thighs?

The blow to the back of my head takes me by surprise. "The fuck did you say, bitch?" he snarls.

Shit … I forgot. He can hear these thoughts. A laugh bubbles up out past my lips. "What?" I reply. "Don't like the truth being shoved in your face like that?" Another punch lands against the side of my head and another laugh escapes.

He fucks me. I laugh. He punches. I laugh. It's really too fucking funny.

"Stop." Punch. "Fucking." Punch. "Laughing." Punch. "Bitch." But I don't. I don't stop laughing. Even when he pulls out and turns me over and hovers between my legs. Roger reaches behind him and then comes back, a needle filled with liquid in his hand. "This'll teach you to fucking laugh at me. Let's see how you like my cock with a little bit more of this in yo system. Bet yer just like yer Momma."

My brain screams at me. None of this is real anymore. Roger Murphy is dead!

My stomach cramps as Roger looms above me, grinning down as his sweat drips onto my face, making me blink away the tears of agony. My hands ball into fists as I imagine what I'll do to him when this is all over. Even if Dean doesn't come for me in this dream the end will be the same. I'm going to kill this fucker and this time, I'll make it last.

I'm going to cut him open and drag out his entrails and then make him eat his own dick. Hearing that oath makes Roger laugh, though. He roars with hilarity as he continues pumping his dick into me. Blood runs down under me, sticking to the small of my back. The needle presses into my skin and he presses the plunger down, letting the vile liquid fill me up before he removes it and tosses it away. The ping of the syringe hitting the floor next to our bodies hits my ears, an odd detail for a dream to have.

"You think you can?" he asks me. This time, when he smiles, his teeth turn gray with decay. An eye falls out and lands on my chest. "Tell me something, li'l runt..." His other eye falls out and rolls down my stomach. I can feel them—the gross, squishy flesh of them on my skin. His flesh peels down over his chest and arms and shoulders until he's a half-mutilated corpse of a man. His lips are gone, but he keeps talking, his voice resounding in my head. "How can you kill a dead man?"

I jerk my head to the side and catch a glimpse of a shadowy figure approaching. Pain rips through me. Anger. Fury. And something else ... another emotion that I can't seem to name.

That shadowy figure moves forward until it becomes clear, and I stare up into deadened eyes and a hollowed out face. My mother strides across the vinyl until she's right next to where I lay underneath Roger. Then, slowly—as if she's got all the time in the world—she crouches down and reaches for my face. I try to jerk away. I don't want her touch. It's too fucking maternal for a moment like this. If she's going to be here, the least she can do is help me. The least she can do is stop this horrible madness.

"Oh, Ava..." Her fingers brush against my cheek. My asshole hurts. Roger doesn't even flinch. He keeps moving. "You deserve this; you know that right?" she asks.

A knife stabs into my chest, making me cry out in shock. Tears pop up in my eyes.

"No!" I scream. I don't. I never did. I was a child. I was her child. Why? Why are two dead people showing up here? Now? Everything is over for them!

"But it isn't for you, is it, Avalon?" Patricia asks.

I clench my teeth as another wave of agony assails me. I feel like I'm being ripped apart. The blood is drying against my skin. My face feels dry—drier than it's ever been—and yet my eyes feel wet. Like the tears are filling me up inside and can't be released.

Don't cry, I tell myself. Don't you fucking cry. Not in front of her. Not in front of him. Don't give them that satisfaction.

"You always were strong," Patricia continues. "It's such a pity that it's all a façade. You'll break before too long. This is just the start."

"I won't," I hiss out between thrusts. "I won't fucking break. I'm not you."

"No, you're not," she says, and suddenly her gentle hands become cold and talon-like. Her nails dig into my cheeks, cutting my flesh to ribbons. More blood drips down my chin. "You're worse. You're the reason my love died. You're the reason this happened in the first place. You're getting what you deserve!"

On the last word, she screams into my ear, making my head ring. Roger fucks me hard, his cock ramming in and out of my pussy until I feel something inside me break. Until I feel like I'm just a broken doll, lying underneath him. Strong only on the inside because the body on the outside is shattered into a million pieces. So small and tiny that no one will ever be able to put me back together.

There's no stopping this. No helping it. I open my mouth and scream. I scream as he fucks me. I scream as he digs into my body and fills me with his fucking disgusting self. I scream until my throat is hoarse and numb and only then do I realize that it's no use. All while Patricia watches and smiles.

She and Roger may be dead, but what they did will always remain with me. Inside of me. Slithering around like an immortal snake. The only thing I can do now is live with it and feed it so that it can't consume me like this ever again.

THE BED IS empty when I wake up. Panting. Sweating. I feel disgusting.

I crawl out from between the sheets and practically sprint for the bathroom, cranking the hot water up and diving underneath with my clothes still half on.

When I finally manage to get my clothes off and shove them outside of the shower, they fall to the tiled floor with wet sounds. Even those sounds are too similar to the sound of thighs slapping into my flesh. I scrub my hands down over my body. Reaching for the soap, I lather up and start to rub it over every inch of my flesh.

It doesn't feel like enough. It'll never be enough.

I scrub and I scratch and I clean until my skin turns pink and then red. I hate this feeling. It makes me feel … weak.

I stop scrubbing and just press my hands into the wall beneath the showerhead, feeling how cold the stone feels against my hands versus the burning heat of the water falling down over my face and head.

Why? I think to myself. Why the fuck would I dream about Roger Murphy now? He's dead. He's been dead. And her … why did she have to be there, too? Spewing her fucking lies.

I slip a hand down over my face and eyes, wiping away the water. Then, without thinking, I slam my fist into the stone wall in front of me. It hurts, but I do it again. I do it again and again until a fissure forms. My breath shudders in and out of my chest. It squeezes into my lungs until there's no room for anything else. My knees buckle and I fall, hitting the bottom of the tub with a resounding thwack!

No. No. No. I can't think. She's not right. I'm not weak.

I start rubbing my arms, not realizing I'm scratching my skin until my nails come away with blood. This body feels ... wrong. All of it is wrong.

"I dealt with this," I whisper.

Did you deal with it? Another voice responds. Or did you just shove it down and pretend like you were stronger than what happened to you?

"I am stronger than what happened to me," I grit out.

Dead eyes. Dead bodies. The smell of blood, of something catching fire—each of these things drift through my mind like cuts from a broken glass. They slash and cut and burn, causing internal wounds. No, not causing them—reopening the old ones that I hadn't paid any attention to.

Slowly, I get back to my feet and stare down at the drain as the water runs pink from the cuts on my arms where I'd dug my nails into my own flesh.

"I am stronger," I repeat to myself. I always have been. I always will be. In the end, I was alive and they were dead. I survived. I got my revenge.

The dream was nothing. It meant nothing. The only thing it'd done was remind me what I was doing and why.

I finish washing my body and this time, when I get out of the shower, I don't feel quite so unsettled. I move into the bedroom and grab some clothes and get dressed. The suitcase I'd packed the night before is missing, and in the distance, I can hear Dean yelling something and Abel responding.

My hand lands on the doorknob, and just before I turn it and push the door open, I look to the side and catch a glimpse of my expression in the mirror hanging on the wall.

My cuts and scratches are covered by fabric, but there's still the lingering of truth in my eyes. I hadn't known when I started this journey—the one that led me to Dean and the guys, the one that led me to that shitty trailer and Roger Murphy, the one that led me to the warehouse where I'd killed my mother—just how much each of these actions would affect me.

I'd thought myself invincible. Still did, on some level. I look down at my hand, noting the bruises on my knuckles. Maybe I am human after all. Can one be a monster and a human? Guess I'll find out soon enough.

28

DEAN

AVALON IS silent as she sits next to me in the SUV. In the back, Abel is passed out—hungover and lightly snoring as Brax fucks around on his phone, playing some sort of video game with his headphones plugged in.

With one hand steering the wheel, I reach for Avalon's hand with my free one. Immediately she pulls away and turns towards the window, but not before I noticed the bruises on her knuckles. Bruises that for fucking sure hadn't been there last night.

"Hey," I say, "you okay?"

"Fine," she snaps, and then as if realizing how off her tone is, she starts talking again. "Where'd you say we’re going?"

She's lying. I pull my hand back and replace it on the wheel. "The city," I answer. "Are you—"

"Yeah," she cuts me off, "but where in the city? Will it be like the last hotel we stayed at?"

"It's a hotel that Braxton's family owns. So, yes. This is actually a nicer one. We usually have one of the penthouses reserved for whenever we feel like getting out of town. We don't always stay there, though, because it's attached to another hotel and restaurant chain." I grimace and grip the wheel a bit tighter.

She casts me a look. "Didn't know it could get nicer," she responds lightly. "What's wrong with the other hotel it's attached to?"

"It's owned by the Kincaids," I tell her.

She nods and doesn't say any more. She doesn't even ask when the last time Kincaid messaged me was. Something's definitely not right. The rest of the drive goes like that. Brax and Abel doing whatever they do on their own and Ava staring out the window, not talking.

The second we pull into the hotel parking lot, I direct the SUV to the valet. "Abel," I snap.

He snorts and jerks awake at the same time that Brax leans up and removes his headphones.

Avalon says not a damn word as I cut the vehicle into park and push open the driver's door, taking the valet's ticket. I don't waste any time circling the front of the SUV, but I'm already a step behind Ava as she steps out of the passenger side and moves onto the sidewalk. She starts towards the back of the car.

"Don't," I tell her, stepping in front of her and making sure to keep my hands to myself. "They'll get the luggage, let's just go inside."

She nods but doesn't look up. Something sinister curdles in my gut. That's not like her at fucking all. For a moment, I watch as she turns around and starts towards the double glass doors that lead into the reception lobby.

"What's up with her?" Brax asks as he hits the sidewalk and stretches.

"I don't know," I admit honestly, "but I'm gonna find out."

Braxton glances between Ava and me and then nods. "I'll take Abel out for some food and see if we can't get a fuck in before we come back. Will a few hours be good enough?"

I'd never been more grateful in my fucking life to love this motherfucker. I nod. "Yeah," I say. "Thanks." I blow out a breath. "I'll return the favor.”

"Don't worry 'bout it. Make sure our li’l savage girl is alright. That's all you need to do to return the favor," he says, and then without missing a beat, he flips around and hooks an arm around Abel's neck the second he steps from the vehicle and starts to drag him away, down the street.

I sigh and follow Avalon into the hotel.

"Mr. Carter!" The second I enter the lobby, the manager is on me. Although he eyes Avalon—in her ripped jeans and beat up sneakers—like she's a conundrum, he's professional enough to keep it at that. Avalon doesn't say a word as he fawns over me. "It's been so long since we've had the pleasure of your presence. Will Mr. Smalls and Mr. Frazier be joining you?"

"Yes, Maurice," I say, eyeing Avalon out of the corner of my eye. "They'll be in later. Is the penthouse ready?"

"Of course, sir," he nods jovially. "I've already arranged everything to your specifications. Will you require anything else?" He hands me a black key card.

"No," I say, gently moving an arm towards Avalon's back. She jumps when my fingers brush her nape but otherwise makes no movement. "That'll be all. We don't want to be disturbed."

"Understood." Maurice steps to the side and politely bows ever so lightly as I gesture Ava towards the elevators. The longer she goes with her silence, the more anxious I grow. My heart pounds. Sweat coats the back of my neck.

When we reach the top floor, I slam out of the elevator and turn, dragging her out with me. I shove her against the first surface I see and push my hands into the wall alongside her head.

"Alright," I say, my voice low and hard, "what the hell is going on with you?" I demand.

"Nothing." She looks to the ground.

"Bullshit." Reaching down, I lift her chin and bring it up so that those blue-gray eyes of hers have to meet mine. "Baby … this silence … you're fucking killing me." I close my eyes and inhale a breath, and when I reopen them, I do the only I can think of. I lean forward until her scent is in my lungs, until I can’t see a damn thing else but this crazy, addictive woman in front of me. "Tell me what's going on, Ava … please."

29

AVALON

"TELL me what's going on, Ava … please."

I stare up into Dean's face, seeing the torment there. It gives me pause, confuses me. "What?" I blink up at him. "What are you talking about?"

"There's something wrong with you," he presses. "You've been quiet since this morning when we got in the car. You were fine last night, what happened?"

I release a sigh and push away one of his arms. He doesn't try to keep me pinned. "Nothing," I say again and take a step further into the penthouse, stopping and looking around.

It's everything I'd expected it would be. Large. Open. Expensive looking. There are no shadows and yet, I feel uneasy just standing here. Like I don't belong.

"Ava..."

"Fuck, Dean," I snap, whirling around as he comes up behind me. "I'm fine. I said I was, so just take me at my word."

He glares at me. "Fine," he snaps. "Then you can explain your knuckles."

Immediately, I turn my hands so that my knuckles are pressed into my thighs. "I don't have to tell you fucking everything that's going on with me," I snap back.

"Why not?" he asks. "I tell you everything."

At that, I roll my eyes. "Yeah, sure you do, asshole." I cross my arms.

"Ava..." He stares at me for a moment and I can't fucking stand it. I hate that fucking look. I turn and start to walk away. Seconds don't even pass before his footsteps follow me. I make it all the way to the row of windows overlooking the city in the living room before his hand lands on my arm and stops me. "For fuck's sake," he growls. "What the hell is going on with you?"

"It was a nightmare!" I yell. "It was fucking nothing. I had a fucking dream and I just want to be left alone to deal with it. What can't you get about that? I don't want to fucking talk about it, Dean, so leave it alone."

"No," he replies. "I won't leave it the fuck alone."

I gape at him. "Did you just tell me no?" I ask, shocked. "Why? It's just a dumb fucking dream. It's nothing to be upset about."

"Then why are you acting like this?" he demands, gesturing wildly at me.

"Like what?"

He shoves a hand through his hair, grabbing a chunk of those dark brown locks of his and tugging hard. "Fuck—I don't know," he snaps. "Like you're scared of something. You wouldn't even let me fucking touch you in the car. Obviously, it's something strong enough to upset you. Do I..." He pauses, gritting his teeth and I raise my eyebrows.

"Do you?" I repeat, waiting.

"Do I—should I call Viks?" he grits out. "I don't fucking want to, but Ava, if you can't fucking talk to me about—"

I shake my head, cutting him off. "No, don't call him, I told you—"

"If you say you're fine one more goddamn time when I damn well know you're not, you're not going to like my response," he warns.

I narrow my eyes on him, daring him with a glare. "I am fine," I snap, tilting my chin up in challenge.

He doesn't fucking miss a beat. Of course he doesn't. Dean bends down and locks an arm around my legs, swinging me up and over. The breath in my chest releases abruptly as I'm thrown over his shoulder. My hands slap his back and indignation raises its ugly head.

"Dean!" I shriek, punching his back. "Put me the fuck down!"

He ignores my command and starts walking. His strides are strong and sure, as if he knows exactly where he's going. I continue to curse and beat at his back, every once in a while, throwing myself off-center and trying to unsettle him. Unfortunately, however, it seems he's gotten used to this. Has this become routine for us? It fucking feels like it.

"If you don't stop," he tells me as he passes through a doorway of a room full of windows. "You're going to hurt yourself." This new room is warmer than the rest and the smell of chlorine is strong.

No, I think. He wouldn't—but the second the thought enters my brain, I'm being upended from his shoulder and flying through the air. The water hits my back first and I sink like a fucking rock.

It closes over my face and for some fucking reason ... it helps. Being submerged, staring up at the murky outline of Dean's angry face as he stands close to the edge, with his arms crossed, staring down at me, gives me perspective.

The nightmare about Roger and then my mother … It'd made me feel like I was drowning. Like I'd been adrift and there'd been nothing and no one to hold onto. No anchor to ground me back to the real world.

My head pops up above the surface and I cough, sputtering as I wipe the water out of my eyes. My clothes stick to my skin, giving me more resistance to fight against as I swim back to the edge of the pool.

"Are you fucking done being a closed off bitch?" Dean demands.

I huff out a breath and glare up at him. "Yeah," I snap. "But I can guarantee you're not done being a fucking asshole."

"You're damn right I'm not," he replies without a second's hesitation. All at once, the anger and disgust I'd felt with myself disperse and I shake my head. This fucking man. How can I hate him and l—I stop that thought before it can fully take root. My eyes find the stone underneath Dean's feet and then move up to his ankles and then his legs. Dean, unaware of my budding revenge plans, squats down and cups my face. Even though his expression remains hard, his hand is gentle, almost reverent.

I'm not alone, I remind myself. Dean's here.

"Are you going to tell me about your nightmare?" he asks.

I blow out a breath and close my eyes, leaning into the touch of his palm. "I don't want to," I admit.

"Is it bad?" he asks.

"As bad as it gets," I warn him.

"I don't care," he whispers. "I want to hear it all. When it comes to you, Avalon, I want everything."

Shit, I think. Why does he have to be so fucking hard to deny? It's not goddamn fair. I know if I were to say that aloud, though, he'd just chuckle and tell me that life isn't fair. As if I'm not already well fucking aware of how unfair life can be.

"Then fine," I finally say. "I'll tell you ... just help me out of this damn pool first."

He reaches down, offering a hand as they slip from my face. "I hope you're not too mad," he says with a chuckle. "You needed the cool down."

"I don't really get mad," I tell him with a sweet smile as I take his hand and lock my feet against the side of the pool. "I get even," I finish just before I shove off and yank him forward.

The shocked look on his face when he realizes my plan—fucking priceless. I grin as soon as the water closes over my head once more. I release him quickly and shoot for the surface, but not quick enough because a split second later, a strong grip attaches to my ankle and yanks me back down.

Back and forth, the two of us fight until we can't stand not breathing a second longer. Together, we reach the surface, bursting through and gasping for air even as laughter overtakes us. With Dean at my back, I swim back to the side of the pool and anchor my hands up on the ledge before dragging myself up and out of the water.

My back hits the stone floor as my chest pumps up and down. "You have a fucking private pool in your penthouse hotel room."

A shadow falls over my face a split second before little droplets of water hit my cheek as Dean leans over me. "Of course," he replies.

"Fucking rich people," I mutter.

A laugh rumbles out of his chest as he leans closer and more water droplets splash onto my cheeks. "You could be one of those fucking rich people, too," he reminds me, his face hovering just above mine. His lips close. "All you have to do is say yes."

Dean doesn't give me an opportunity to say no, though, because as soon as the last word leaves his mouth his head dips and kisses me, burning away all other thoughts, taking me and swallowing me up until I can't think of anything but his body on top of mine.

I kiss him back. Frantic. Hard. Impassioned. I kiss him as if doing so will erase the horrible memory of the nightmare from my mind. It won't, but it's worth a fucking try.

30

AVALON

"TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT, BABY." Dean's voice is gruff and oh, so sexual. The stone floor against my back is cold compared to the heat of him as he leans down over me, spreading my legs to move between them. The friction of my clothes is restrictive. I want them off. I need them off.

"Dean..." I gasp, panting for breath when he finally pulls away, our lips separating for an instant. He seems to guess what I'm thinking because in the next moment, his hands are going to the hem of my t-shirt and he's ripping it up and off of me. I do the same with his, grabbing the fabric and tugging until we're a tangle of limbs, flipping over one another until we're naked from the waist up. It's still not enough. Even with my breasts freed and rubbing insistently against his pecs, the need inside of me is not lessening.

I grab him by the belt and yank him down, grinding up into him as he returns my brutal kiss. Everything about us is fire—burning away all rational thought. I'm okay with that. I don't need it around him. All I need is him.

"Fuck, baby..."

"That's what I want," I reply. "I want you to fuck me, Dean. Fuck me like you did the first time. Like I want you to do until the day I die."

His eyes glimmer with a dangerous glint. They threaten. They promise. They heat me up from the inside. He pulls back for a moment and simply looks down at me. I know I'm red faced and turned on. The burn underneath my skin grows hotter, the crawling warmth of lust. It feels like an eternity that he just sits there staring at me. It's almost long enough to make me shove him off and finish the job myself—that's how badly I need to come.

Just before it reaches that pivotal point, however, Dean finally breaks. He moves like a snake, lithe and fast, standing and then reaching down for me. He hoists me up into his arms and begins to walk. I wrap my still cloth covered legs around his waist as we leave the rest of our clothes behind. He strides through the penthouse in fast movements, but every single step he takes makes my pussy brush against the hard cock pulsating between us.

I bite down on my lip to keep a whimper at bay. I've never needed anything the way I need him now. My chest is tight, like a wire is cutting across my throat, refusing to let air pass through. I lean down and press my forehead into his shoulder. It's too much. It's not enough.

"Almost there..." His words are barely audible, almost below a whisper, but I hear them. They make my pulse jump and my skin tingle. I clench my arms around him even harder.

Dean kicks a door open and shoves inside what looks to be a bedroom and then suddenly, my back is pressed against a wall and his mouth is on mine once more. His hands move against my back, stroking, tightening, moving. All over me, I feel him. But I need more; I need him inside of me too. As far and as deep as he can go.

We fall sideways across the bed, our fingers gripping onto each other’s pants, wrangling those off until they fall over the side of the mattress in wet heaps. My hair fans out across the white sheets and the comforter beneath us grows wet as we roll around. I can't seem to find it in me to give a shit. In fact, I don't give a shit about anything but throwing one leg over Dean's hips and sitting up as I reach down, gripping his cock by the base and carefully adjusting it so that his head is pressed up into the entrance of my pussy.

"Fuck yes," he breathes, hands finding my waist as he helps me to sink down on him. My head rolls back on my shoulders as that piercing of his hits the right fucking spot and makes stars dance behind my closed eyelids. I groan, loud and long, and then, with exacting movements, I start to ride.

Up and down and forward and backwards, I slide onto his length, letting it fill me up and take me even higher. Fuck drugs. Fuck alcohol. Fuck adrenaline. The only thing I need is this right here. The only thing I need is Dean.

Dean's hands skate up my ribcage, cupping the undersides of my breasts as he arches up and takes one into his mouth. Teeth bite down, viciously tugging in a way that makes something else inside of me fight to break free. The pain makes me gasp and sink my hands into his hair, holding him to me as he laves the little hurt he gave me with his tongue to make it feel better. I don't want it to feel better.

"Don't be gentle," I warn him, pulling back as I open my eyes and stare down into his. "I don't fucking need gentle."

"What do you need, then?" he asks. His face is serious, devoid of any teasing glint. I have the feeling that if I tell him I need the world, he'll go out and get it for me. What he doesn't realize, yet, though, is that he is my world in this moment. He is my everything, and that fact scares the shit out of me. That's the reason I said no. Why I gave the ring back.

"I need to come," I tell him instead.

In a flash, he flips me over until my back hits the bed and he looms above me. "Then I'll make you come," he promises, and proceeds to do just that.

He fucks into me in long, hard, irrefutable strokes. His cock thrusts in and out, sending me to heights I didn't even fucking know existed. My nails sink into his shoulders, drag down his arms, and scrape up his sides. Everywhere my fingers brush against him feels hot to the touch.

Our mouths open, lips and teeth clashing in jerky, ineffectual movements. It's not a seduction so much as it's a battle, a war we rage on each other's bodies. There are no winners in this, however. Or perhaps, we're both winners.

My spine stiffens and I pull away as he rams into me with several shallow thrusts and skates against that magical fucking place inside of my pussy. I cry out and lock onto him. Tears cascade down my cheeks. My vision turns blurry. My heart races, screaming to get out. I'm afraid it'll find its way, that it'll burst from me and run far, far away. I wouldn't blame it. I'm not kind to the damn thing at all, not like he is.

And just before he comes, Dean drags in a gasp of air and leans down so that his lips are right next to my ear. "Avalon..." He groans my name in that wicked, low baritone of his. The sound of it vibrates through me and makes me clench down as he comes apart above me, his cock jerking as he fills me up, the warmth of his cum sliding through me and making me shiver.

Seconds later, he collapses to the side, rolling me with him with an arm around my waist. Panting, sweating, and tired out of my mind, I close my eyes and just try to get my breathing back under control.

I've fucked a few guys before—lonely people who were just looking for a body to lose themselves in—but I've never had with anyone what I have with Dean Carter.

Half dried, his hair sticks up at odd angles, curling at the ends. With his eyes closed and his skin flushed, I stare at the outline of his face, frowning at the long, dark lashes that cast shadows down his cheeks. For such a badass, he's too fucking pretty.

Dean's arm tenses, and without opening his eyes, he drags me closer until our skin is flush against one another. My heart starts to race again. How the fuck can he do this? Is there some sort of control he has that I don't know about? It doesn't seem fair.

His eyes open and two pools of dark brown stare at me as his lips quirk up to one side. "I'm not done," he warns me. "Not by a long shot."

Minutes later, with my face pressed into a pillow, I come for a second time as Dean rides me from behind. With my legs pressed together between both of his thighs, I scream as my orgasm slams into me, and without warning, Dean pulls out of my pussy. His hands grip my asscheeks, pulling them apart. Cum shoots over my asshole, making me stiffen. Then, just as quickly, his hand delves underneath me and his thumb circles my clit, making me moan as oversensitivity assails me.

"Make that sound again," he commands.

I grit my teeth, the rebellious bitch in me refusing to give him what he wants, but his low chuckle vibrating against my back warns me I'll have no fucking choice. He pinches my clit between his thumb and forefinger, making my back arch and a gasp leave my lips as another moan bubbles out. He slaps my ass with his free hand and then the pressure against my clit releases as he backs up.

I keep my face in the pillow as I try to catch my breath, but turn my cheek to the side so it's easier. Dean's shadow falls across the bed, and I pause as his hands land on my ass, cupping and squeezing me. His spent cock slips between my thighs, rubbing against my skin and making me shiver. A thick finger trails up from my pussy to where his cum remains against my asshole and I stiffen all over again as he circles it, pushing some of the wetness there inside. His cock starts to harden once more.

My head lifts. My breathing speeds up. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I hiss.

A dark chuckle escapes him, lingering in the air. The sound sends a vibration of something wicked through me. “I’m just wondering how hard I can fuck you here and how much noise you’ll make for me, baby,” he replies.

“Who says I’ll let you fuck me there?” I counter, forcing my voice to remain steady. The dream I had before lingers in the back of my mind. This is different, I tell myself. This is Dean.

Fingers dig into the cheeks of my ass, spreading them further apart. “Oh, you’ll let me before too long,” he says, all confidence. “But don’t worry … nothing I do to you will ever be something you don’t want.” That statement is all it takes. That’s right. Dean’s not Roger. There’s nothing to fear here. Nonetheless, as if he senses my discomfort, he still draws his finger away. The heat of his skin settles behind me, his knuckles bumping against the inner skin of my thighs as he lines up the head of his cock again with my dripping pussy. I groan as he sinks back into me.

I shiver against every bump and ridge of his cock as it penetrates me, moving deep within me, conquering my pussy like it's his territory for the taking. Who the fuck am I kidding? It is. My pussy is just as much his as his cock is mine. I gasp and release a moan.

“So noisy when I fuck you, baby,” he says with a quiet laugh. “I like hearing how much you want me.” He pulls out and slams back into me, causing me to cry out, my hands slapping against the comforter. Not again, I think. I can't fucking come again. I'm too worn out. Dean doesn't think to ask that and I can't bear for him to stop this madness. I scratch at the sheets, digging into them, and scream as another orgasm crashes into me and I come with Dean shaking against my back, pulsating inside of me.

Only after that third round do the two of us finally drop. I groan into the pillow and the sound has nothing to do with sexual desire and everything to do with the soreness between my legs.

"I blame you for this," Dean says with gasping breaths.

"Me?" I huff.

"You're too fucking hot to resist," he accuses, making me laugh.

"Maybe I am," I agree with my own amusement rising, "but you have to admit, it's not like you tried very hard."

Dean looks at me as if I've grown a second head. "Why the fuck would I resist?" he replies. "If I die by sex then that's a good fucking way to go in my book."

Turning my cheek into the soft comforter, I let out a laugh, my shoulders shaking. There, in that fucking hotel bed, with Dean at my side and laughter in my veins, is the most blissful I've ever fucking been in my life.

31

AVALON

SECONDS PASS into minutes pass into hours, and all we do is hang out in that fucking bed. We shower and clean all of the sweat and chlorine water and sex off of us and then crawl right back between the sheets. Neither of us has the energy to get dressed, but Dean calls for room service and finally manages to pull on a pair of basketball shorts from our luggage to grab the food.

I watch him come back, setting a tray on the end of the bed as I pull up the sheet and tuck it underneath my arms. On it is an assortment of fruit and bread and cheese and it's the best fucking food I've ever had in my goddamn life. Dean jumps onto the head of the bed and pushes me up until he can sit down with my back against his chest.

He doesn't say anything, but every once in a while, he'll snag a piece of food from my fingertips and chew and swallow it before nuzzling into the side of my throat. I was never supposed to be this girl. I had no plans to be. Life, however, has a funny way of destroying expectations. So does Dean Carter. He came crashing into my life, full of ego and hate and doubt. To be honest, I was all of those things at first too.

I didn't like him. I didn't want to be near him. I certain as fuck didn't trust him.

Now, I can't picture the rest of my life without him. It hurts to try.

And as if he can sense the direction of my thoughts Dean leans forward and his voice rumbles against my back. "What are you thinking about, baby?" he asks. His fingers move up and down my arm and then his hand cups my face from the side as he tilts it up for me to look at him. Even that, I can't help but enjoy. I turn my face into the palm of his hand and inhale his scent. It's calming and it makes me realize that for a few short hours, I forgot. About Patricia. About Roger. About that fucking nightmare. Even about Corina. He makes me forget everything except him and I don't know if that's good or dangerous. I can't help but feel that it's a little bit of both.

"I'm thinking about how this all started," I tell him honestly.

"Oh?" He raises a brow and his lips quirk.

"Yeah. I was remembering a time when I couldn't fucking stand you—it wasn't that long ago, you know."

He laughs quietly. "Sometimes, I still think you can't fucking stand me."

"Sometimes, you're right," I reply, moving closer until my face is buried against his chest. The smell of him is stronger here. It makes my stomach clench.

His hand moves back from my face, into my hair as his other one curves around to press against my lower stomach, his fingers stroking back and forth. "You know I love you, right?" he asks. All at once, the relaxation disappears. My body stiffens, and I struggle not to pull away. Dean chuckles, the sound loud in my ears. "You don't have to say it back, baby. Not yet. I know you love me, too."

I bite my lip, chewing on it as I think. "I don't hate you as much as I hate the rest of the world," I offer instead.

Dean's shoulders move up and down in jerky movements and his hand flattens against my stomach as he laughs again, this time in silence. When he's done, he sucks in a quick breath and his hands start to stroke once more. "I suppose I should feel lucky things ended this way for us," he says. "If we'd gone on any longer hating each other and trying to tear each other apart, I think you might've unmanned me."

I snort. "I did," I reply, “or did you forget what happened at the beach estate?"

"No." He shakes his head. "I didn't forget—I guess you did, then. What I mean, though, is that, if either of us had held out for much longer maybe we wouldn't have ended up where we are now … and, baby? I like where I fucking am right now." He pulls me closer, sliding a leg between mine as his fingers skim down. His hand cups my ass, adjusting me so that I'm riding his thigh. "I really like where I am," he repeats.

Dirty fucker, I think, but it's not with any heat. I like where I am right now, too.

"Ava..." Dean pushes me forward slightly and moves off the bed. He dips down and rummages around on the floor until he lifts the pants he'd been wearing earlier. I snag a cracker from the remaining food on the tray and stuff it in my mouth as I watch, curious. He digs his hand into one of the pockets and when it comes free, he's holding his pocket knife. It's the same exact one I'd used to hack off Kate's hair over a month ago. He holds it in his palm, sliding the handle through his fingers as he twirls it. He releases a slow breath and then tosses it onto the bed next to me.

"I want you to keep that," he says as he slips back onto the mattress and reclines with his arms arching up behind his head.

Reaching for the knife, I lift it and weigh it in my palm with a smirk. "Oh, yeah?" I spin it between my fingers the same way that he had. "Why's that?"

He grunts, leaning to the side and cracking his neck without looking at me. "I've held onto it because of sentimentality," he admits. "But I think you'll feel safer with it if you know you've got a weapon on you at all times."

"Safer?" I stop spinning the knife and just hold it. "What do you mean sentimentality?"

Dean reaches down and grabs a piece of cheese and pops it into his mouth. "I got it for my tenth birthday," he admits. "From Abel's mom."

My curiosity grows. I stare down at the small pocket knife in my hand. Now that he's told me how old he was when he got it, it makes sense. It's a small knife, and though I'd never really considered it, for a man his size, having something this small is a bit odd. But for a ten-year-old, or for me—with my smaller hands—it fits perfectly.

"Who gives a ten-year-old a blade?" I ask, hitting the switch that makes the sharp edge jerk out of its hold.

Dean chuckles. "Someone who knew quite well the hardships that ten-year-old would have to deal with," he tells me, turning onto his side. "Don’t worry, Abel got something from her, too."

"Like what?" I ask.

Dean hums in his throat. "Abel got the car," he says. "His Mustang.”

I snort. "And what about Brax?”

"Brax isn’t the type to take anything," Dean says. “He doesn’t even like getting gifts for his birthday.”

My amusement fades. I’d never really gotten gifts for my birthday, but it’s kind of hard to imagine someone like Brax—growing up in the world that he did—just not accepting them. Then again, when you have anything and everything you could possibly ever want, what’s the point?

I look back at the knife in my hand. "If this is so important, why are you giving it to me?" I repeat my question from earlier. "Why not give me a different knife?"

"I want to give this one to you," he says. "Every time you dream of shit or you even think of shit you don't want to deal with, I want you to hold it. If anyone ever fucking touches you, if they get up in your face, if they do anything you don't like—hold that knife."

My eyes meet his gaze and lock there for several long, tense seconds. "Think of that knife as a part of me," he tells me. "It's a weapon, but it's yours now. You can use it to hurt, you can use it to torture, you can fucking use it to kill. Every time you touch that blade, you'll know—you're not alone and you never will be again."

Silence rings in my ears as his words fade into the darkness of the room. My breath echoes in my ears, and my heartbeat pounds like a drum.

"You loved her," I say aloud.

Dean's face softens. "We all did," he admits.

"Will you tell me about her?"

Dean's hand reaches for mine, he pulls the knife out of my hand holds it up, carefully pushing the blade back into place before he sets it in my lap and weaves our fingers together. "Maybe I'll tell you some other time," he says. "But not tonight."

"Why not?" I ask.

He doesn't answer, just shakes his head. A part of me wants to be angry. He knows all about me. He knows everything from my deepest darkest sins to my worst, most shameful moments. It's unfair of him to ask to keep this to himself, to keep her to himself.

But is he really keeping her to himself if he's giving you the knife? Another voice asks in the back of my head.

As if sensing my internal thoughts, Dean leans forward and touches my face. He kisses my forehead. “I will tell you about her someday,” he swears. “But it’s not just my story to tell—it’s Abel’s and Braxton’s too. She was more than just Abel’s mom, she was all of ours. She was the one fucking parent we actually gave a shit about, and that actually gave a shit about any of us. She didn’t like mine and Braxton’s mothers. She was more hardcore than any of them.”

“Will you at least tell me what happened to her?” I hate the begging in my tone. I don’t beg for shit, but this, I want to know. If this woman was so important to them, I want to know why she’s not with them now.

“What happens to everyone in our life,” Dean replies. “She was killed.”

I frown at that and lean away from him. She was killed, he said. Not ‘she died.’ There is a difference. “What do you mean she was killed?”

Dean reaches down and locks his hand on mine, keeping me from pulling away completely. “There’s something you need to understand, Ava. We’ve all lost something, but when Abel’s mom—when Josie—died, we all suffered. Remember how I told you before that we don’t normally get to choose our partners?”

I nod.

“That was true for our parents as well. Josie was an heiress hand-picked to marry into the Frazier family. She didn’t get a say and neither did Abel’s dad. The same is true for mine and Braxton’s moms. I truly thought my father was trying to kill you, Ava, because you weren’t picked. Knowing what we know now—about your father—about his connection to mine makes his acceptance of you more understandable, but there have always been consequences of marrying out of turn.”

“But if she was selected to marry him and she did then how was she killed?” I point out.

Dean’s face grows hard. “Josie loved Abel,” he says. “She loved me and Brax like we were her own, but she never loved Lionel and he knew that.”

His hand tightens on mine until it hurts. “She cheated on him,” I guess.

As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I wish I could take them back. Pain etches itself across Dean’s face. “Never trust anyone but us, Avalon.” His tone is rough and hoarse. Dean’s head dips and his forehead presses into my shoulder. “No one, but especially not our parents.”

“You think Abel’s father killed her?” I ask.

“I don’t know what to fucking think,” he admits. “Sometimes, I think he did. It was a car accident. She was meeting her lover, though we didn’t find that out until much later.”

“Who—”

“Viks told us,” Dean says, answering my question before it's even fully out of my mouth, “when he left the company.”

“Was he the—”

“No, he wasn’t her lover. We don’t know who it was. Afterwards, though, Lionel was angry and he took it out on Abel. He wanted Abel to make up for the loss of her connections by working with him. We didn’t realize what that really meant to his dad until it was too late.”

“What it really meant to his dad?” I repeat. “What do you mean? What did he do?”

Dean inhales sharply and then pulls himself back, his hands coming up to cup my shoulders as he turns his face away. “That’s it,” he says. “I’m done. That’s Abel’s story to tell, Avalon. Certainly not mine.”

I press my lips together, but I don’t argue. No matter how much I want to. To let him know that I’m okay with it, I reach up and tug on a strand of his hair before scratching my nails lightly down his beard stubble. When Dean turns to me in surprise, I lean forward and kiss him. His tongue tangles with mine and I move forward, letting the sheet drop as I wrap my arms around his shoulders and kiss him like he’s got the last fresh breath of air on Earth.

When we part, we’re both panting heavily. I sigh and rest my cheek against his chest. “You know,” I begin, “I feel like we’re all one fucked up family.”

A bark of surprised laughter escapes him, making his body shake against mine.

“I’m serious,” I tell him.

“Yeah?” he chuckles, reclining until we’re both laid out on the bed once more. “How’s that?”

“We’ve all got fucked up family issues—none of our parents are any good and the parents that are decent always end up being unable to help.” They end up dead, but I don’t think this is the time to point that particular fact out. It is a commonality that I have with Abel though—his mom, my father. What great luck we both have.

“You have a point,” Dean surmises.

“Sometimes I think I got the shit end of the stick and sometimes I think I got lucky,” I confess. “All of my emotions are contradictory.”

“Emotions about what?” he asks.

“About my dad,” I say. “I’m angry.”

Dean’s chest rumbles. “Angry?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Not just angry, I’m fucking pissed. I think ‘why the fuck did he have to be the one to die? Why couldn’t it have been her?’” There’s no guessing in the ‘her’ I’m referring to. I turn my cheek and rub it against his warm skin. “Sometimes…” My voice fades, growing lighter, more of a whisper. “Sometimes I think that I’m exactly who she made me. I am the monster I am today because of all she did and I can’t help but wonder who I would’ve been had things been different.”

Dean’s hand comes up and his fingers twist into my hair as they slide against the back of my skull. “Don’t think of that,” he growls. “Because the second you start to think like that, it’s hard to turn back.”

“I’m not remorseful,” I say. “I’m not even sad about what I’ve done. That makes me fucked up, doesn’t it? I’m a bad person for killing her, but I don’t regret it.”

“What about her?” Dean leans up, forcing me to pull away and look up into his eyes. Violent anger burns in their depths. “What about all she did to you?” he demands. “What about all she put you through? If she said she was sorry, would that automatically make her a better person?” He doesn’t even give me a second to answer. “No,” he snarls. “It wouldn’t.” His hand grows harder in my hair, clenching into a fist and holding my head up and my face near his. “If you want to think you’re evil, then fine, but you’ve never killed anyone who didn’t deserve it. That piece of shit that raped you and your fucking mother. Fuck both of them. I can guarantee you that if hell exists then that’s where the two of them are right fucking now.”

“If it exists then that’s where we’re going,” I shoot back.

Dean smiles into my face, and it’s not kind. “Oh, baby, the only place that would ever be hell to me is one where you’re not with me. Even if our souls are damned to burn for eternity, as long as you’re there, I don’t really give a shit. As long as you’re there, it’ll be heaven to me.”

I open my mouth to reply, but before I even get the chance, a loud banging sounds out in the hallway, and Abel’s voice cuts through the penthouse. Dean releases my hair and gets off the bed. My eyes track him as he gathers up some clothes and starts to get dressed.

Neither of us say a word as I do the same, but it’s clear that this conversation is far from over.

32

DEAN

AM I WRONG? For telling Avalon about Mama Josie? That's not my story to tell. Her life and death are not my sorrow to hold. She'd meant the fucking world to me—far more than my own alcoholic mother—but she was Abel's mom. Not mine. A kernel of guilt eats away at the shriveled-up husk of a conscience that lays dormant within me as I stride down the hallway heading towards where I can hear Abel and Braxton talking.

They stop the second Avalon and I step out into the living room. "We have a problem," Abel says, his voice serious, his gaze hard.

Of course we fucking do. Would it ever be too much to fucking ask that we have a night off? That we just have a chance to think and breathe? Apparently yes—it would be too much to ask the universe. Fuck me.

"What's the issue?" I demand, running a hand up through my hair as Avalon separates from me and moves over to the kitchen. I watch her out of the corner of my eye as she searches through the cupboards and pulls out a glass. She puts it under the tap and runs water until it's half filled up. It's on the tip of my tongue to tell her to throw that shit out. We've got bottled water in the fridge, but I doubt she'd listen. She never does.

"Luc's here."

Abel's words have me swinging my focus back to him. "What?" My voice comes out on a growl that snatches Avalon's attention. Her glass clinks as it hits the marble countertops. I feel her gaze on the side of my face, but the entirety of my focus is on Abel and Braxton right now.

"He's here," Abel continues. "In the Aurum." His father's hotel, of course if he'd be here, he'd be there, what I don't understand is why. "Brax and I were at one of the local clubs when we heard about a Kincaid party going on there."

A hiss escapes my lips. "You're sure it's him?"

"Who else would it be, man?" Abel replies.

He's right. Unlike us, Kincaid has no joint heirs. It's him and him alone. The smaller branches of the Kincaid family don't even have legal rights. It has to be him. "That motherfucker," I curse, turning away.

I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone, checking the screen on the off chance that he's responded to any of my numerous messages, but no. They all remain unread.

"Dean—" Avalon starts.

I shake my head, cutting her off. "He knows how important the job we gave him is," I tell her, looking up and meeting her gaze as she comes to a standstill between the pillars that lead into the kitchen. "You said you trusted him, but I don't. I can't. This"—I hold up my phone—"has gone on long enough."

"We're going over there?" Abel asks.

I don't see any other option. If Luc won't come to us, then we'll just have to go to him. Whether he likes it or not, he will answer me. Avalon presses her lips together and then sighs. "Fine," she mutters, "I'll get dressed."

She's already dressed, but I know what she means. We're not going to a regular party. We're going to a Kincaid party and that means she'll have to look the part. As will the rest of us. Her hair shifts over her shoulder, the scent of her making me inhale sharply as she passes me on her way back into the hallway.

"But I think you're wrong about him," she says, loud enough for everyone to hear. "I think he is trustworthy."

My gaze tracks her as she disappears down the hallway and when she's gone, I finally release the breath I'd been holding. "She reacted better than expected," Brax says casually.

Of the three of us, he seems to be the most at ease. It's a façade, I know. He doesn't get tense or showcase that darker side of him until we're in the moment, but his comment does make me rethink our plans tonight.

We still have to go. I can't stand to have Kincaid running or hiding or keeping secrets. What he's been asked to do is far too important a task. Why does Avalon seem to trust him so fucking much, though? I don't fucking like it.

"We need to talk about what's going to happen," I say, my eyes still on the hallway. A part of me half expects Avalon to come charging back out here, but she doesn't. She's changing, little by little, and I'm not sure if it's good or bad. I really don't know. The one person I'd normally go to for something like this is on my shit list. I can't deny, though, that I want to fucking call him right now. I still could. My fingers clench against my phone. Viks would pick up—he's just that type of guy. No matter what I've said before, he'd answer my fucking call. Unlike Kincaid.

"What's the game plan?" Brax asks.

"Information," I answer, turning away from the hallway and taking a step towards the back of the couch. I slip my phone back into my pocket and cross my arms over my chest. "I want to know why that fucker hasn't been answering my messages. If he's got any leads on Corina and anything else that might be of use to us."

"Ava's fucking lost it if she thinks that fucker is trustworthy," Abel huffs out.

I don't know about that. I don't like Kincaid, never have, probably never fucking will, but Avalon sees things that we don't. She's perceptive and observant. What does she see in him? I grit my teeth. I hate to admit it, but working alongside him would be far simpler than fighting him.

Braxton stretches back on the side of the couch, his arms moving up and crossing behind his head. "We also need to prepare for when we actually do catch up with the chick," he comments.

By prepare, he means we need to have a secondary location to take her. Avalon is going to want to take her time. "I've got contacts on the line," I say. "They'll be ready as soon as we are."

"No matter where we are?" he presses.

"Of course." The Carter name is far reaching—combined with the Eastpoint status, there's no doubt in my mind that we'll have a place to take her when the time comes.

My crazy baby will have her vengeance, I'll make sure of it. For now, we've got to deal with a rogue Kincaid.

33

AVALON

I'D BEEN to my fair share of parties back in Plexton. Forest parties with large fires, lots of pickup trucks, and cheap beer. Those Plexton parties are not how the Sick Boys roll and it's also not how Luc Kincaid rolls.

The hotel Dean had mentioned is right there, quite literally across the street from us—attached by a bridge overhead. As we approach, it looks more like something from a Pretty Woman or Breakfast at Tiffany's set than actual reality. Large glass walls encase the front bottom floor and inside, doormen stand on either side. I didn't think it possible that there was a place where a person's entire job was simply to hold open a door for people as they passed in and out of the lobby.

I had no illusions that had I been on my own, the people manning the front reception desk would've escorted my ass straight back out into the street. With Dean, Braxton, and Abel at my side, however, they barely even blink—each man and woman offering polite, distant smiles as we stride through the main hub towards the row of elevators in the back.

I skim my eyes along the floor. It’s so shiny that I can see the outline of my reflection in the white marble. Dean is silent as we make our way towards the back and stand until one of the elevators ding, and a set of gray metal doors opens, allowing us entry.

"So, what's the plan?" Braxton asks.

Dean crosses his arms. "Abel will stick with Avalon," he decides. "You and I are going to have a word with Luc."

I release a sigh and lean into one of the walls, crossing my arms as well. My hands grip either elbow as I consider the actions we're about to take. Dean's obviously pissed. I'll be more shocked if we leave here without a fight than if we don't.

"You think he's fucking around?" I ask.

Dean's gaze cuts to me. "What do you think?" he demands.

I shrug. "I trust him." As much as I can trust anyone other than you three, but I don't say as much.

A scowl overtakes his face, but before he can go into a tirade, I raise an important question. "Do you hate him because he's done something to you?" I ask. "Or do you hate him because you've been raised to?"

Abel snorts. "He can't be trusted" is all he says. Dean doesn't refute or agree.

"Which means it's the latter," I say.

Abel frowns at me, turning my way as he gestures wildly. "Luc Kincaid is a fucking ass," he snaps. "He's had it out for us for forever. Did you forget the whole situation with Kate?"

"I remember that he was forced to propose to her because of his father," I comment lightly. "I also remember that there's no longer anything going on between them. Don't give that girl more power than she has. She was a tool that his father was using to fuck with you. Luc is just as much a victim of his heritage as you three are."

Dean and Braxton exchange a look, but neither of them says anything to deny the fact that I'm right. Abel goes red-faced. Left with little recourse we grow nearer and nearer to the penthouse suite, however, he turns away and grits his teeth in a facsimile of control and refuses to say another word.

He knows I'm not wrong, but I can understand why he doesn't want to admit it. Even Braxton and Dean don't. It's hard to disregard a lifetime of hatred in an instant. This will take a bit longer.

The elevator dings and the doors slide open to reveal loud music, a horde of people, and the scent of something spicy in the air. Dean curses under his breath and moves forward. He circles my waist in one of his arms, and we pass into the crowd. Braxton is big enough that as soon as people see him, they begin to move, clearing a path.

"There are more people than I expected," Brax says.

"I want to find that bastard and get out of here," Dean replies. His eyes go down to me. For a moment, I wonder what he'll do. His arm tightens as if he doesn't want to let go, but in the next instant, it eases. As soon as we've cleared the initial crowd and find what looks like an open space in the living room next to a row of windows, he releases me altogether. "Stay with Abel," he orders. I arch a brow. He grits his teeth and adds a reluctant, "Please."

Snorting, I turn away. "Fine," I say. Let him and Luc get into it, see if I give a shit when he comes back just as damaged. Dean may think he's king when it comes to all things, but I know for a fact that Luc was raised the same way. They have the same bravado, the same stupid, masculine arrogance. They'll tear each other apart. What irritates me the most about it, though, is that it's all over her. Corina. My nails dig into my arms as her name appears in my mind. I'm starting to think that it'll be far harder to capture one fucking rich bitch than I ever thought possible.

Dean moves closer, cupping my head even though I'm turned away from him. I feel the softness of his lips in my hair just once and then he's gone, sliding into the massive crowd that still surrounds us with Braxton at his back. I release a slow breath.

"Should we get a drink while we're here?" Abel asks.

I consider it. Getting drunk right now isn't a good plan, but Abel looks like he's not any happier about being relegated to Avalon duty than I am. Maybe it'll make him chillax. "Sure," I say.

Abel reaches for my hand and I release my arms, letting him take it and wrap his warm fingers around mine as he leads me back through the crowd. As we move, I lift my head and scan the area. I don't recognize half of the faces here, but every once in a while, I'll spot someone I do know—a classmate here or a TA there. I smirk. Naughty little peasants playing in the other king's castle when they think the Eastpoint heirs won't know. It's laughable.

When they catch a glimpse of me and Abel, their eyes blow open wide. More than once, I see someone dive behind another person or lift something in front of them to hide their face. It's too late, though. I see all and so do the Eastpoint heirs. Right now, their focus is on something more important. They have no care for the subjects who are where they shouldn't be.

Abel and I find alcohol in the giant kitchen. Even though I've been living in the Carter mansion for over a month now, it's still startling to see just how the other side lives. The guys may not truly see it because they've been raised in it, but I can't help but stare. The size of the kitchen in the penthouse is huge enough to comfortably fit well over ten people. Abel passes everyone as he heads for the fridge and retrieves two bottled beers. He checks their caps and then pops them open before handing me one.

I hold it, but don't take a sip, instead, choosing to watch as he downs half of his without a flinch. "Nervous?" I ask, curious when he finally lowers it.

He meets my eyes as he passes the back of his hand over his lips. "What?" Abel's lips twist into a frown. "No. Why?"

I shrug. "You seem off," I say without elaboration. I scan the room. Several of its inhabitants are staring at us. Wherever we go, it seems, we're watched. "Come on." I snag his arm and drag him along as I cut through the room into a hallway and hang a right towards where I assume a door to the outside balcony area will be.

When we were in the living room, I saw several people hanging out beyond the windows. If I'm guessing correctly, there's probably a pool out there and a lower likelihood that we'll have eyes watching us and ears listening.

Minutes later, I'm proven correct when we pass through what looks like a large bedroom with a door outside. As we pass one of the closed doors inside of the room, the sound of running water and feminine moans reach my ears. I roll my eyes. Every fucking party.

Warm summer air slaps my cheeks when we slide open the balcony doors and take a step outside. Set before us is a sea of lights. Buildings and roads as far as the eye can see. I take a step towards the ledge, my hand falling to the side with the still full bottle grasped between my fingers.

"Be careful," Abel warns.

"It'll be fine," I assure him, turning and leaning into the railing. "If I was meant to die from a fall, I doubt I would've gone through all the other shit life has thrown at me."

He doesn't crack a smile. Instead, he lifts his beer and downs the second half before chucking it in a nearby trashcan a few feet to the side of the door, though it's perfectly hidden inside a big block of marble. Had he not thrown his beer into its opening at the top, I would've just assumed it was a weird decor piece. I hold out my beer for him.

"Want this?" I ask.

"You're not gonna drink it?" He settles next to me against the railing and crosses his arms over the top.

"Nope."

He sighs and takes it from me, but doesn't immediately drink from it. I wait, sensing something he wants to tell me or perhaps ask me. Silence stretches between us for several minutes. Then…

"Ava?"

"Hmmm?" I hum in the back of my throat as I stare up at the night sky. Stars scatter across it like a blanket hovering just out of reach.

"Do you..." He begins, only to cut himself off.

In my periphery, I see his hand clench against the neck of his bottle.

"Yes?" I prompt him when several seconds go by without a second attempt to speak.

"Do you really fucking trust him? Kincaid?"

Ah, so that's what this is about. For a moment, I'd thought he was about to ask me about Rylie. I shake my head, closing my eyes once before reopening them and focusing on the image above me. In the distance, I can hear the squeals from the girl in the bathroom inside as someone, I assume, pounds her into oblivion, as well as the music from invisible speakers.

How to answer?

"Let me ask you something first," I say, turning and looking at him. "Can you definitively say why you hate him?"

Abel frowns, but unlike what he's done previously, he doesn't immediately jump into an answer. His head tilts and he looks out over the city. "You wouldn't know this," he says after another long silence, "but I've known him for longer than the others. His dad and mine had business together. They don't like each other, and yeah, you're right about it being because of the whole tradition bullshit. I don't hate him because our parents hate each other."

"Then why do you hate him?"

"That's just the thing," Abel says. "I don't hate him. I just don't trust the asshole. The one I do hate is his father; Jason Kincaid is not a man I would ever want you to go near, Ava." His hand tightens so hard around the bottle in his grasp that I worry he'll break it.

"What is it about his father that you don't like?" I inquire.

Abel shakes his head. "I can't tell you that, Ava." He turns and when he looks at me, there's an apology in his gaze. "I want to," he admits, "but I can't. All I can tell you is that if you ever meet the man, I want you to turn around and run the other way. He's a conniving bastard. I can't trust Luc, no matter how much you might like him."

"I don't." I start to protest, but Abel just reaches forward with his free hand and cups it over my lips, stopping me from continuing.

A soft smile appears on his face. "It's alright, Ava," he says. "I know you're dedicated to Dean. Any fucker with eyes can see that, but you do like Luc; not the same way, I get that but don't try to deny it."

I wait for him to pull his hand back before speaking. "Okay," I say. "You're right. I do like him, but have you ever wondered why?"

Abel turns back towards the city before finally lifting his second bottle and taking a long swallow. "Fine," he says. "Let's hear it. Why do you like him?"

"Because he reminds me of the three most important men in my life," I confess.

Abel throws me a startled look. I can't help but chuckle even as I move closer and lean my head down until my temple rests on his shoulder.

"Luc reminds me of you," I tell him. "And Dean and Brax. Except, I feel sorry for him because he doesn't have what the three of you do. He doesn't have your brotherhood, your willingness to kill and die for each other. Have you ever realized that he's grown up exactly the way you three have? If his father is as bad as you say, then can you imagine what he went through?" I can't see Abel's face from my position, but I feel the sharp inhale of his breath. "And yet, he's still willing to help us, to help me get revenge. He won't turn you—or us—in because his family is the same as yours. I can't help but think of how much stronger the three of you would be if he were on your side."

For a long time after that, Abel doesn't respond. His arm lifts and lowers as he drinks from his beer. Then, after it's emptied and he's chucked it into the hidden trash can, Abel pivots back to face me.

"There's another reason," he says quietly.

I arch an eyebrow and just wait.

His hands clench into fists at his side. "We've … allowed him to work with Rylie on occasion or rather, I know she has worked with him. We don't stop her from taking outside clients and she cleared it with Dean first."

I hold back a laugh. This makes much more sense. "You're jealous," I accuse playfully, and if looks could kill, I'd be six feet under, pushing daisies from the one he throws at me in response.

He crosses his arms over his chest and turns his cheek. His shirt moves slightly and a black splotch of ink appears at the top of his chest, a tattoo hidden under the fabric. "I don't like it," he admits. "But no, it's not because I'm jealous."

What a fucking liar.

"You ever going to tell me what's going on between the two of you?" I ask.

His jaw hardens, but for a brief moment, there's something in his eyes—a spot of warmth. Abel shakes his head before lowering his arms and holding out one to me. "Come on, let's go back inside and see if we can find those fuckers and get out of here. No doubt Dean's already bashed the bastard's head in by now."

I pull out my phone and check the time, and realize he's right. It's been nearly a half hour since we came out here. Dean and Brax are likely nearly done by now. Putting my phone back, I take his hand and step towards the sliding glass door on this side of the balcony. Before we enter, though, I pull him to a stop.

"I don't offer this to many people," I tell him, recalling what Dean had said about Abel's parents, his dad, but most particularly his mom. "But if you ever want to talk about anything, you know you can with me, right?"

Abel's expression softens and he leans down, making me jump slightly as he kisses the top of my head. "I got it, savage girl," he says, his voice low. "Thanks."

We bypass the bedroom again, ignoring the fact that this time—the couple from the bathroom had moved into the room and were now sprawled out naked on the bed. Abel stops dead as we both realize that it hadn't been a girl and a guy after all. With an eye roll, I shove him out of the room. The two girls were so entrenched in each other—likely half drunk and half high from whatever party drugs were being passed around the penthouse —to even notice our presence. It doesn’t take him long to slip right back into his player roll as he leans back and winks at me.

"What I wouldn't give to see you like that, Avalon," he says, eyeing me.

I don't even think about it. I just punch him and shove him into a wall, leaving him laughing and curling into his stomach as he wheezes while I head for what looks like a back hallway.

"Fucking perv," I mutter, shaking my head.

Where the hell is the exit? Abel’s footsteps sound against the smooth floor behind me as he follows, still laughing even as he fishes his phone out of his pocket and begins dialing the others.

We move further and further from the party, the sounds of people fucking and talking growing dimmer. Despite that, the music still lingers everywhere—whatever internal speaker system Luc has got in this place is really something.

"I think this is a back way to another elevator," Abel says as he catches up to me with his phone pressed to his ear.

"Another elevator?" I gape at him. How many fucking elevators did you need for one damn apartment?

He nods. "Yeah, if this is similar to some of our hotels, then there should be a second one right through—Dean?" Abel cuts himself off as he points through an open doorway.

With no one lingering around, I figure he's probably right, but just as I step out and turn to the left away from the dead end I spot a figure I never expected to see.

"—we're heading to the second elevator right now." Abel's voice reaches my ears, but even though it's right next to me, it sounds like it's coming at me over a great distance.

She's changed her hair. She's changed a lot of things, actually. I don't know what it is that makes me recognize her when she's got glasses on, a purse at her side and her back towards me. I freeze, waiting for her to turn back to look at me. Maybe I'm wrong.

"—have him, then get him to—" Abel's voice fades completely. I know he's still talking, but instead of from a distance, I now no longer hear him at all. Because she finally turns the fuck around and I realize my instincts are never fucking wrong. Her eyes widen in first recognition and then panic. She slams her hand down on the elevator button and the doors start to open.

It's her, I think, and she's trying to escape.

"Corina," I say, and a split second later, I'm ripping myself away from Abel's side and dashing down the short hallway.

The doors are all the way open. She's inside, panting as she slaps what I can only assume is the 'close doors' button. My legs pound against the floor and just before they close, I barrel through, slamming into the opposite wall and bouncing back.

"Avalon!" Abel's yell pierces my ears, my hearing returning a mere moment before the doors close behind us and we're together again. Corina and I. Just the two of us, and oh, the look of utter shock and horror on her face is well worth it.

34

DEAN

AVALON'S WORDS are springing through my mind as I search the damn penthouse party. Braxton and I split up and scour the rooms. We find people fucking in closets. People shooting up in bathrooms. People puking in sinks. We find and see it all, including some familiar faces.

I ignore those faces and focus on the task at hand, but all the while Avalon is circling in my head. I can't get her out, but what's worse, I don't want to get her out. She truly thinks that the people who've hurt her have turned her into a monster? No. It's not that. She's always been strong. As Abel said to me right before we'd taken her to that warehouse and watched her exact her vengeance on the woman who had made her life a living hell for the entirety of her childhood, I am grateful for that strength. Because, without it, she might not have been strong enough to find us, to find me.

Patricia, though, that bitch I wish I could've gotten my hands on. I'd taken a step back. I'd let Avalon take the lead because she needed it. Because she fucking deserved it. But I well and truly hated that piece of shit cunt. She wasn't a mother. She was scum. And now she was less than that, now she was a corpse rotting and burned to a crisp somewhere far away. No gravestone. No marking. Nothing to even record where her bones were. She didn't need it. As far as I was concerned, the world should just forget a monster like that ever existed.

Avalon thought herself a monster? Maybe. But there were worse monsters out there.

"Dean," Braxton calls my name, drawing me back to the present as he nods toward an open doorway. I move up to one side while he remains on the other and lean inward to see who's inside.

A curse spills out of my lips and before he can stop me, I shoot through the door, shoving it wide open. Luc jumps up from where he's sitting against the wall, a cell phone in his hand. A girl on the bed gasps and rips the sheets up from the edge of the bed to cover herself, her eyes wide.

I barely give her a glance. "Get the fuck out," I command as Luc slowly gets up.

She looks at him. Does she expect him to stick up for her? No. This motherfucker isn't the type, and I can guarantee that she’s nothing to him. Any man as relaxed as he is when his girl is naked in a room with other guys present, doesn’t give a shit about her. "Brax," I growl. He wastes no time. Brax strides across the room and grabs the girl by her arm, dragging her from the bed, sheets and all as she keeps them clutched to her chest. She starts to scream when he leans down and says something quietly in her ear. I don't know what he says and I don't give a shit; all I know is that her face goes pale and she shuts the fuck up before scurrying out of the room.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Luc says as I close the door behind me and flip the lock. We've been here too many times for this to go any other way. God, I can't wait to pound my fist into his face.

"Why the fuck haven't you been answering my messages," I grit out as I take a step across the room.

One thing I can say about Kincaid, he doesn't flinch at the hostility in my expression. Any other man would, but not him. He lifts his chin and glares right back at me.

"You haven't answered my question, Dean," he says then flicks a look to the door. "You shouldn't be here, especially not tonight."

"Why?" I ask sarcastically. "Afraid we'll ruin your good time?"

Luc's lips curl down in irritation as his brows furrow. "No, dumbass, because I have plans that concern us both tonight."

He opens his mouth, but before he can take a step forward, I'm on him. I grab him by the front of his shirt and shove him until his back meets the wall. I can feel the blood pulsing through my veins. "Enough with your fucking games," I growl. "Answer my fucking question, Kincaid. Why the fuck haven't you been answering my calls or messages?"

"I've been busy," Luc snaps. "You think it's fucking easy tracking down someone who doesn't want to be found?"

"Yeah, you look real fucking busy man," Brax says casually as he steps up behind me. I hear him move, feel him shift and then a knife—much thicker than the one I'd given Avalon—appears around my side. Luc freezes as Brax leans over my shoulder, pressing it into his throat. "Pretty girl you had there. Was she who you were busy with?"

"If you're asking if I fucked her, the answer is yes," Luc says, his voice gone cold. "I was about to leave, though—"

"Doesn't matter if you were about to meet the Queen of fucking England, Kincaid," I say, cutting him off. "I'm tired of getting the runaround from you."

"You're not getting the runaround, fucker—" He hisses when Braxton pushes the edge of the knife further against his throat. "She's supposed to be coming tonight!" he snaps.

"She?" He can't mean who I think he means. I back up. "Braxton." When Brax doesn't immediately withdraw his blade, I call his name again, firmly. "Brax," I snap.

Braxton growls but pulls back and his knife folds up and disappears back into his pocket. I turn to Luc. "Corina is supposed to be here?" I clarify. "Tonight."

"Yes!" He rubs his throat with his free hand, his fingers coming away wet with a little blood. He glares at Braxton before returning his attention to me. "She just messaged me and said she’s here. You need to go. You can't let her see you."

My phone rings. It's Abel. Fuck, I can't ignore it. Especially not now. "Abel—" I say, pressing the phone to my ear.

"Hey man, we're heading to the second elevator right now," he says, sounding amused.

"Abel, I need you to listen to me—"

"Do you have the douche canoe yet?" he asks, cutting me off. "If you have him, then get him to—"

"Abel," I snap. "I need you to keep an eye on Avalon. Corina's here. In the building." I look at Kincaid. "How long ago did she text you?" I ask.

"Less than five minutes," he admits. "She said the party was too crowded. She was going back down to the lobby and I was about to go meet her. I told her to take the back exit so no one would see her. Dean—she thinks I'm on her side in this. You four need to go—if Avalon's here, she definitely needs to stay the fuck away. Get her out."

"Shit," I hiss, turning away. We can't let Corina get to the lobby. We can't let her get out. We also can't let Avalon get to her before we can get the two of them to a different location.

Abel's still talking on the phone when I lift it back to my ear. "I need you to—" I begin only to be interrupted when he yells for Avalon.

Luc's words hit my brain. Back exit. Abel had said they were nearing the second elevator. I'm out the fucking door before I even realize my feet are moving. The Kincaid penthouse is much like the ones I've grown up in all my life. The stomping of feet echoes behind me as I shove people out of my path. The further back I go, the fewer people there are, and I'm thankful that they all seem to be drunk enough that they don't give a shit to follow.

"Fuck! Shit! Motherfucker!" I come careening around a corner to see Abel standing in front of an elevator, cursing up a storm. The one thing that makes my blood go cold, however, is the fact that he's standing there. Alone.

"Where is she?" I demand, rushing forward.

Abel whirls around and when he recognizes me, his face goes pale. "She was right next to me," he says quickly. "She seemed fucking fine one second and then she just took off after this chick. They got in the elevator. Who the fuck—"

"It was Corina," Luc says behind me. He sounds out of breath and grunts as he growls out a curse. "We've got to get to the lobby before them."

"How the fuck are we going to do that?" Abel demands.

I look up to the numbers board over the elevator and realize that the light over floor 9 is lit up red. "She stopped the fucking elevator," I say, stunned. Oh, my sick, twisted little baby. I can only imagine what Avalon is doing to Corina right now in that elevator. I bet the second she'd seen the bitch, she'd lost her control.

"Call the fucking local PD," I order. "Find whoever we've got on payroll. Then call Rylie. Take the other elevator." I turn to Luc and grab him by the collar. "You and me are taking the fucking stairs."

If there's not a body to contend with by the time we get to the lobby, I'll be shocked.

35

AVALON

FOR SEVERAL LONG SECONDS, the two of us stand there staring at each other. The elevator starts to move. I reach out and slam my hand against the emergency brake button on the panel. The lights go out and the emergency lights flare to life.

"You're not getting away this time, Corina," I say.

Slowly, she slips the purse dangling on her shoulder down until the bag hits the ground and the strap remains clutched in her fist. "Who says I'm trying to get away?" she counters.

It's a bluff. I know that much. She wouldn't have run the second she saw me if she wasn't trying to get away. I take a step closer and she stiffens. "Are you scared of me, Corina?" I ask, tilting my head to the side. My heart races in my ears. The volatile angry monster inside me is twisted and curving throughout my body, sensing prey. "You seem scared."

"I'm not," she snaps back. Her knuckles are white, though, as she hangs onto her purse strap.

In the dark interior of the elevator, my whole world is focused down to one pinpoint. Her. I take another step closer and she backs up, bumping into the wall.

“Then why did you run?” I prompt.

To that, she doesn’t appear to have an answer. I watch as a tiny bead of sweat rolls down her temple. In the weeks since she’s gone missing, she’s changed her looks. Her once blonde and brunette hair has grown out a bit and it’s obvious she’s dyed it to look darker. That isn’t the only change either. Her nose is now pierced and her skin is tanner—as if she’s been sitting on a beach somewhere while I was in the hospital recovering from the torture Ace inflicted upon me.

Her flat lips are encased in some shiny pink gloss and her eyelids are darkened to appear bigger and at the same time, sunken into her face. The make-up is heavy. No doubt because even coming here was a dangerous mission for her. She knew I’d be looking for her so I can only assume she made these changes as a way to hide her identity. None of it works.

I see through it now. I see her for what she is. A trembling, scared little girl who thought she could take on someone like me. Her mistake.

“Why are you here?” she demands, lifting her chin despite her fear. “You weren’t supposed to be here. Only Luc—”

“He told you to come here?” I interrupt. I suppose this means he was working on the problem.

“You were supposed to be back at Eastpoint.” She eyes me cautiously, warily.

I shrug. “I guess we don’t always get what we want, do we?”

Her eyes dart back and forth, the dim emergency lights throwing fucked up shadows across her features. As if she’s sensing my impending explosion—I can feel it, myself, the violence that writhes just under my skin, begging to be set free—she starts talking. “I heard that your mother went missing a few days ago,” she blurts. “Wondered if you had anything to do with it or maybe she finally got away…”

She’s stalling. “Don’t worry about my mother, Cor,” I tell her lightly. “You’ll be joining her soon.”

Corina pauses and looks at me, really fucking looks at me. She turns her body towards me when before it had been angled slightly away as if she was planning to protect herself. There’s no protection against me, now, though. There is no getting free.

“So, you did kill her,” she says. It’s not a question, but I answer it as if it is.

“Yes.”

Her lips part. “To kill your own mother…” Her words come out as a whisper. “You really are a fucking monster.”

A snort escapes me. “That’s what you have to say?” I stare at her as a smile begins to form on my face. It’s too fucking funny. “Yes, I’m a monster. I never lied about that. I’ve never fucking hidden what I am. Can you say the same?”

"You can't kill me here," she says, instead of answering my question. "There are cameras."

I laugh, the sound loud in the small dark space. "Do you think I give a shit if I get caught?" I ask her, shaking my head. "No, Corina. You're going to fucking pay for all the shit you put me through, but most of all you're going to pay for starting this game."

"I didn't start the game," she replies, turning her eyes away.

I close my eyes and twist my head back and forth. "Don't," I warn her. "Whether you want to admit it to yourself or not is your business, but when you're standing in front of me, you tell the truth. You've lied enough." My hand snaps out and slams into her throat. I grip it and squeeze along either side. "You had no fucking clue that you would lose, did you? Did you think I would go down so fucking easy? And then when I didn't, did you really expect to just run off and disappear?"

Corina rears back as far as she can in the limited space of the elevator and chucks her purse at my head. I duck and it sails over me, smacking into the doors and hitting the floor as I slam into her. With a shriek, Corina reaches up and sinks her nails into my forearm. My breath squeezes in and out of my own chest, as if I'm the one struggling to breathe. "I didn't trust you from the very beginning, but I didn't know you were this stupid."

"You think you know everything?" she says quickly, squeezing the words out as if she has something to offer me that might stop me from what I'm about to do to her.

"I know enough." I rear back and pound my other fist into her face. Her nose folds under my knuckles—the sharp crunching sounding like a melody to my ears. She cries out as blood flies. Her nails scratch along my arm as she fights to get away. I punch her again and watch as the back of her head slams into the wall. I can practically see the dizziness assailing her. It doesn't matter. She's going to pay for what she did. For every fucking thing.

Even if she didn't shove Roger's dick inside of me. Even if she didn't put my finger on the trigger. Even if she didn't make me set fire to my own mother. She was the catalyst. She planned it all—and yes, though she is working for someone else, even though she's just a puppet, her betrayal hurts on some level.

It's my fault for opening myself up—even the small amount that I had—to her. I've learned my lesson. I won't make this mistake again. My fingers clench around her throat even harder as the anger finally lets loose.

Using my hold on her, I throw her across the elevator and into the opposite wall. She smacks into it and slowly sinks down, her hand going to her face as she ducks my next blow. Scrambling across the floor she reaches for her purse once more. It didn't even occur to me that she might have a weapon in there, but there's no doubt I can't let her reach it.

Leaping on top of her, I wrap my legs around her waist and yank her back, putting her head in a lock with my forearm pressed against her throat once more. A half-garbled scream erupts from her lips and without warning, her head rears back and her skull connects with my face. I see stars.

"Fuck!" She bucks and fights like a woman possessed. Perhaps it's because she really does have a gun in that fucking purse, or maybe she realizes just how serious I am. Who can really say?

Blood runs down my arms as she claws at me, screaming and cursing. She tries to head butt me again, but the second she arches forward to bring it back I tuck my face into her neck and pinch the sides of her throat until she stops breathing altogether. Her body bows as she struggles to get out of my hold.

An elbow connects with my face and I gasp as the whole world goes fucking white for a split second. That split second is all she needs. Corina breaks free and jumps up, gasping and coughing even as her hand slaps the emergency button once more. The lights flash back on and the elevator starts moving again.

I’m not ready to let her get away, though. It’s not gonna be that fucking easy to escape me.

On the ground, I kick out, knocking her ankles together. She goes down in a heap and I roll on top of her. Shoving my fingers roughly into her hair on either side of her head, I pull her up and then slam her back down. If her skull cracks before I'm able to get my revenge, then oh fucking well. She's not going any-fucking-where. I can't let her get away—not after everything she's done. Not after the pain she's caused. I let the rage overtake me.

Once, twice, three times. I beat her head against the floor of the elevator until my muscles hurt. She scratches my face, punches my ribs. I feel something crack. It doesn't matter. Water dances in front of my eyes. That, too, doesn't fucking matter.

Corina manages to get one foot under her and shoves until she's on top. My body freezes. On top. She's on top. Roger was on top when he—red fills my vision—I snatch one of her hands, latching onto two of her fingers, and I squeeze until she screams in pain, until her fingers pop and I can feel them moving around under her skin, bone scraping against bone.

It's not enough. None of it will ever be enough. Flipping her over, I shove to my feet and stand over her as she holds her hand to her chest, tears streaming down her face. Distantly, I hear the elevator floors go by. Then, as the last ding reaches my ears, I lift my foot over her face and smash the heel of my boot down.

Corina sags. Her screaming stops. She's out cold. The elevator doors open and a panting, sweaty Dean comes careening around the corner with Abel and Braxton and Luc at his back. Red wet blood slowly trickles down the sides of my arms. My legs feel loose and there's a distant ringing in my ears. Kicking a foot out to stop the doors from closing, I reach down with one hand and grab Corina by the back of her shirt, dragging her out of the elevator.

Without any sense of care, I drop her on the tile of the lobby floor and turn my head. Gone are the attendants that had been at the front desk earlier. For a long second, the guys seem shocked by my disheveled state, and if I'm being honest, I am too. I hadn't expected Corina to fight as hard as she had. I suppose, though, that when one's life is at stake—people will do things they never thought themselves capable of.

"Get that," I say, pointing down at her unconscious body as I start walking past them, heading for the sliding glass doors that lead out into the street. "We're finishing this. Tonight."

36

AVALON

CORINA SCREAMS. She curses. She lashes out and threatens. The sound of her shrieking voice is enough to drive anyone insane. I'm half tempted to walk over there and cut out her tongue, but I hold myself back. For now, anyway.

"Luc," she sobs. "Luc, please, you have to help me! She's crazy." I am crazy, she's right about that. "I don't know what she told you, but it's a lie. It's all a lie."

"Does she really fucking think I'm gonna fall for that?" Luc shakes his head and turns away from her, and a little part of me finds satisfaction in the heartbreak that crosses her face a moment before her devilish eyes turn on me.

"You fucking bitch!" she shrieks. "What did you do to him? What did you tell him?"

I shrug. "I didn't do anything," I inform her. "And I just told him the truth."

Luc looks back once more at that and scowls. "Can you shut her up?" he snaps. "She's getting on my fucking nerves."

Corina looks like she's been slapped. Her face registers nothing but shock and hurt. Tears well up in her eyes and she sniffs. When she opens her mouth once more, her voice is softer. "I'm sorry, Luc," she whispers. "I don't know why you seem to hate me now, but I promise you—whatever she's told you is a lie—if you want me to be quiet, I will be, but it's the truth. I'm innocent. I've never done anything to Avalon. I only tried to be her friend, you know that."

I snort, earning a hard glare from her. "She's not so innocent, Luc; you know what she did to Kate," Corina goes on. "She was jealous of her—Avalon's in love with you."

"She better not fucking be," Dean growls from where he stands with his back against one of the pillars that line the house's empty living room.

"Don't worry, D-man," I say. "The only man that's crazy enough to want me is you."

"Doubt it," Luc replies, grinning my way. "You're a very attractive woman. If you ever do fall for me, let me know. I'd be happy to take you off Dean's hands any time, Ava. Say the word."

"Watch your fucking mouth, Kincaid," Dean snaps, straightening away from the pillar.

"Now why would I do that when I've got you to watch it for me," Luc shoots back, that grin never leaving his lips. "You seem awfully focused on my mouth, Dean. I'm not gonna suck your dick."

I roll my eyes and step between them as Dean shoots forward, fully intending to knock Luc down a peg or two, I suspect. "Enough with the dick measuring contest, you two," I say, lifting a hand as he stops in front of me.

"No need to measure, baby," Dean replies, his voice lowering. "We know who's bigger, better, and badder in bed."

Luc snickers. "Didn't take you for the type to admit you were bad in bed, my man."

"I'm not your fucking anything," Dean snarls, taking another step forward just as the piercing ring of his cell goes off. With a curse, he yanks out his phone and checks the screen. He points at Luc. "I will fuck you up, Kincaid. Keep your hands to yourself." His hand lowers and he glares at me. "Don't leave this fucking room," he growls at me. "I'll be right back."

"Aye, aye, Captain," I say sardonically as he storms out of the room with his phone pressed to his ear.

"But for your info, Cor," Luc says, returning his attention to Corina as he moves closer to me. I know he's only doing this now that Dean's out of the room and because he knows what it'll do to her. His arm circles my waist and he pulls me closer, intimately closer. Luc's an attractive man, but I meant what I said—Dean really is the only crazy man I need or have the fucking mental capacity for. Luc might not seem as outwardly unhinged, but I have the feeling he's hiding a lot of darkness under those ocean blue eyes and that boy next door smile of his. "Avalon did tell me all that you've done. She also made a few more things clear, and over the last few weeks, I've been doing my own research."

Corina's face goes pale. "R-research?" she stutters as Braxton finishes tightening the last of her bindings. "W-what kind of research?"

I glance up at Luc, noting the cruel twist of his lips as he smiles at her. His fingers clench against my side. "All of it revolving around you, Cor," he says. "And you've been a very bad girl, haven't you?"

"I-I don't know what you're talking about."

I glance between the two of them, curious. Luc's eyes turn hard. His brows lower and his smile twists even more, tightening the edges of his lips. "I think you do, Corina," he says, his tone low and dangerous. "You've been planning this for quite a fucking while, haven't you? Ever since the first day Avalon showed up. You knew she'd be coming."

"H-how would I know that?" Sweat begins to collect at Corina's temples. Her gaze rests firmly on Luc as if she's terrified to look anywhere else.

After a moment of silence where Luc simply stares at her—as if assessing her resolve to keep her lips shut—he loosens his hold on me and turns away. "Well, I suppose it doesn't matter now," he replies. "What I found, though, Corina … you're fucking lucky I don't kill you myself. You're fucking lucky she's got more of a right than I do to take you out." Luc's hands clench into fists as he steps away from me, moving through the room and into another several paces away. The glass doors remain hanging open, a pillar on either side of the opening.

The further from Corina he moves, however, the more unhinged she becomes. "Luc!" she screams. "Luc, please! You have to understand. I didn't want to, they made me!"

I turn back to her. "Who?" I demand. "Who made you do what?"

That shuts her up. She glares at me, struggling as she tries to rip her hands free from the arms of the chair. "Shut up!" she screeches. "You're the one to blame for all of this! It's your fault he hates me now! Everything was fine before you came along!"

I roll my eyes and turn away. The shrieking continues as I walk towards Luc. "Brax?" I call over my shoulder.

"On it," he replies. I don't look back as I hear Corina's chair rattle and scrape against the wood flooring.

"No! Stop. Get away from me, you-you psycho!" The irony of Corina calling anyone else a psycho doesn't escape me.

Finally, her screams cut off with a grunt and a low choked back moan. Thank fuck for Braxton. He'll watch her while I deal with Luc and once Dean returns, we can fucking start this shit and get it over with.

Luc doesn't react to Corina's sudden silence or the sound of my approach. He stands in the opposite room, facing away from her. Like I told Abel, in a lot of ways, he reminds me of the guys. They don't see it, but I do.

I take a second to look around the empty space. "It's funny," I say almost absently. "Money can buy almost anything..." Only a few hours ago, Dean and I had been laying naked in one of the most luxurious beds I've ever lain on, safe and secure like two normal lovers, in a penthouse suite across the city.

Now, here we are in a small rural house on the outskirts of the city's suburbia. Though the house is older, it's been well maintained, and it works quite well for our purposes since the nearest neighbor is a good mile away. It hadn't taken him any time at all to set this up—almost as if he'd been planning for it. It wouldn't shock me to learn that he had been. Dean's a planner, I know that. Still, it's probably made easier by the fact that he's so fucking rich. It’s amazing what connections and cash can do.

"Not everything," Luc replies softly, and I know from his tone he's not talking about the house or anything else. No. Whatever is going on in Luc Kincaid's head is for him and him alone. Whatever he'd found while he'd been helping to track Corina down and lure her back here, I could tell that it involved someone very important to him. A part of me doesn't want to ask. Perhaps being around Dean and the guys—even Rylie—has made me more human than I care to admit.

"I didn't say everything," I remind him. "I said almost anything."

Luc blows out a breath. If I thought for even a second that he might betray us, he wouldn't be here. Dean knows that. There's another reason that Luc's here. "So," I say, "what did you find while you were looking for her?"

His blue eyes jerk up and he glares across the dark space. "You should know never to ask a man about his demons, Ava," he replies.

A smile flits at my lips. "I'm not afraid of your demons, Luc, but you should be afraid of mine."

A lock of blond hair falls over the side of his forehead when he shakes his head at me. "All you need to know is that Corina deserves whatever you do to her," he replies. Then in a softer voice, "probably worse."

Doubtful, but only because I'm about as worse as it gets.

"Don't worry," I tell him instead. "She's not leaving here." I look back at her, watching her eyes center on us through the doorway as she struggles in vain, the chair scraping against the floorboards. Braxton stands to the side, watching her with a bored look on his face as he pulls a pocket knife from his pants and begins to flick it up and down, opening and closing it as he does. I’m half afraid he’ll end up stabbing himself in the hand, but even with his eyes centered on Corina, his movements never stop. That blade is like another limb to him. He doesn’t seem to need to pay any attention to it even as the sharp edge nearly grazes his palm a few times.

Corina doesn't even look at him. No, Corina won't ever be leaving this house again. She's at the end of the road and that's why she's so desperate. She knows I'm going to kill her. I've never tried to hide it.

Inhaling, I refocus my attention on Luc. "There is something I wanted to talk to you about," I say.

He hums in his throat, reaching up and rubbing both of his hands through his hair, shaking out the curls there. "Yeah?"

"Dean's going to be the head of the Carter family someday." I shove my hands into my pockets and lean back on my heels.

Luc frowns at me. "Is that a statement or a warning?" he inquires, not sounding particularly threatened.

"Just a statement," I assure him anyway. "It's a fact—as true as it is that you'll head the Kincaid family."

"That I will." He continues to eye me. "Where are you going with this?"

"A place you probably won't like," I reply, then before he can ask me anything else, I jump right in. "Don't you think that the two of you—the future heirs of your respective families and businesses—can make this ridiculous rivalry end?"

Luc is a handsome man. Even if Dean is all my stupid body wants, my eyes can't deny that. He, a lot like Corina, has an innocent façade about him. The surfer boy look, I assume. Right now, however, his eyes sharpen and he straightens, moving towards me with slow, deliberate steps until he stands right before me. "Is that why you brought me along?" he demands. "You could've left me at the hotel after you had her. I've been wondering since I got here what your choice to bring me was all about; I suppose it was this?"

I can feel Braxton's gaze on us, but I ignore it. I'm not afraid of Luc Kincaid.

"Not completely," I state. "We brought you because you happened to be there, and the guys don't trust you enough to just keep your mouth shut after seeing what I did to Corina in the elevator, and knowing what I plan to do to her."

"And afterwards?” he prompts. “What’s your plan after she’s gone?”

"That's a dumb fucking question." I deadpan. “I’m going to find the people who’ve been pulling her puppet strings and I’m going to take them out, too. No one fucking messes with me, Luc. Not if they value their lives. You should know that by now.”

“To be honest, Avalon, I don't know anything about you,” he says. “We’ve never had the pleasure of much time together, you and I.”

Tilting my head to the side, I examine him. I pull my hands out of my pockets and cross my arms over my chest. “Oh?”

He looks away. “I will tell you, though, that I think your dream of me becoming one of you is wasted. Dean has been my enemy since we were fucking born—it's not something either of us had a say in, but we've been pressured to compete for so long that I grew to resent him, and I know he resents me just as much. He's someone I can predict at this point. You, however..." Luc lifts his gaze once more, and those ocean blue eyes of his bore into me. "You're a fucking enigma.”

“You want to know who I am?” I ask, taking a step closer. He straightens. The blood in my veins pounds beneath my skin. I lower my hands back to my sides and stride forward until we’re barely a hair’s breadth away. The scent of his cologne reaches my nose—likely applied to attract whatever girl he fucked at the party that feels light years away now. “I’ll tell you exactly who I am.”

His eyes lock onto mine and they don’t leave. They can’t leave. When I speak, there’s a warning in my tone. I like Luc, and I think he’s worthy of my trust, but I’m also a cautious bitch. Anyone can turn. It doesn’t take much. Hell, I know that for a fact—my own mother had been working to get rid of me my entire life. No one is safe. I need to remind myself of that.

“I’m vile,” I tell him. “I’m wicked. I’m evil. I have no goodness in me. I’m going to kill Corina just like I killed my mother, and I won’t regret it. I'm going to exact my revenge in a horribly gruesome way. I'm going to make her understand what sick, twisted shit that bastard—the one who raped me—did. Before tonight is over, she'll be choking on her own blood, and I’m going to enjoy each and every second.

“She is just as guilty as the man who shoved his dick in me without my consent," I continue, feeling a charge in the air the longer he stares at me, unflinching. "She's worse, actually. Because she knew what she was doing. He was an animal, a puppet, and Corina was his master. She set things in motion that led to some of the darkest, most shameful moments of my life. She's going to pay for that, and for pretending to be my friend the entire time she was planning to have me violated and murdered.”

Luc releases a slow breath, and when he speaks, his words surprise me a little. He carries a darkness in him—it’s easy to see, especially for someone who knows darkness as well as I do. But I had expected him to tell me to be done with it and then turn around and leave. He doesn’t, though. He continues to meet my gaze and when he speaks, it’s with a resolute understanding.

“Nothing you’ve said has made me think any less of you, Avalon,” he replies. “You have a right to her bloodshed. I don’t care who she is to me or my family. For what it’s worth, I am sorry.”

"Why are you sorry?" I demand.

"Because she did it for me, because I didn't realize how obsessed she was.” His teeth clench at that and his jaw hardens. “Perhaps if I’d known sooner, I’d have saved you and others from suffering.”

Others? I think, narrowing my eyes on him. So, whatever he found does have to do with someone he cares about. Or perhaps cared about is the better term. I can’t say if they’re dead or alive. Corina seems to have a similar disconnect as I do when it comes to human life. She doesn’t seem to care who lives or dies as long as they serve their purpose. The only person that doesn’t fit that frame of mind in her fucked up little head is the man standing right in front of me.

"Luc." I carefully reach forward and put a hand on his arm. "I'll tell you what I told Dean when he blamed himself, too. You did not shove that man's dick into me. You didn't force Corina to do what she did. If you had, you would not be on this side of the torture that's about to take place." I don't make my words kinder. I tell it as it is—with all of the ugly and all of the brutal truth. "You're here, despite Dean's reservations—despite Abel’s and Braxton’s reservations—because I want you to be. If you don't want to stick around to see exactly what I'll do, then that's fine, but you have to know the truth because in the future, Luc, I expect you’ll be just as much of a Sick Boy as they are.”

His jaw drops. His eyes widen. Luc takes a step back from me, and my hand falls away from him. For several long seconds, he stares at me. I can't tell if he's analyzing me or just stunned by my statement. I wait for a response, and when I get it, I'm surprised by the ease with which he simply throws back his head and laughs.

"You know," he says through his laughter, "you remind me so fucking much of this girl I once knew."

I arch a brow. "Oh yeah?"

He curls one arm around his middle as he continues to chuckle, and his free hand scratches the side of his jaw. "She had tenacity and was just as fucking weird. So open and honest about shit that she shouldn't have been—or that society tells us not to be."

He's right. Most people are taught to hide their darker natures. Want to kill someone? It's wrong. Hate something? Bury that feeling deep and never let anyone know. I'm not like that. I’ve never been like that. I can’t be.

"I'm surprised I haven't met this chick yet," I confess as the sound of the front door opening reaches my ears. Moments later, Dean comes around the corner, stopping at the sight of us. He frowns but doesn’t say anything immediately as he moves towards us. Out of the corner of my eye, however, I see Braxton snap his knife closed and step up, grasping his shoulder, keeping him back, waiting.

Luc sobers. Though I’m sure he’s aware of Dean’s presence, he doesn't look behind him. He drops his arms and then lifts his head. "You wouldn't have had the chance to meet her," he says. "She disappeared a few years ago."

"Who was she?" I ask.

He's quiet for a long moment and then, in a barely audible whisper, he answers me. "My best friend."

I want to ask if this is the “other” person he mentioned earlier. Is this who he referred to when he said that Corina had done other things that justify his hatred towards her? Even I know, though, that sometimes pain is too volatile to share—and his pain is so fucking obvious to me, it nearly makes me flinch back.

Luc's head turns to the side and just like that, his demeanor changes. He steps closer, cups my face, and leans down just as Dean tears away from Braxton's hold, a growl on his lips. "But I'll take your wishes into consideration," Luc whispers to me as I catch sight of Dean barreling across the room. "Being a Sick Boy might not be so bad, especially if it means I can spend more time around you.”

“I’m taken,” I reply even as an amused smirk curls my lips.

“Pity.”

Before either of us can say anything else, Dean's hand grabs Luc by the shoulder and rips him back, shoving him away from me as he steps in front of me.

"Keep your fucking hands off of her, Kincaid," Dean growls.

An amused and teasing glint enters Luc's eyes as he holds up his hands, palms out, in mock surrender. "Sure thing, brother," he says. "Ava." He looks at me with a nod. "I think I'll actually take your advice and step out while you handle business." He lowers his arms and looks across the room, through the open doorway to where Corina still sits, whimpering, in her chair and watching him with longing and hopeful eyes. Luc's expression goes cold. "Do what you will. You've got my approval. I’ll handle the family matters.”

He pauses at the threshold of the hallway that leads to the front door. “Dean, keep your phone on. There’s more info I found while I was tracking her down,” he says. “I suggest when you’re done here, you clean up your mess and watch your back—I’d tell you now, but...” Luc turns slightly, his gaze skimming over Corina before landing on Braxton, and there it stays for a long pause. Then he shakes his head. “It’s better to wait until I have proof.”

With that, he turns and strides out of the room and out of the house.

37

AVALON

A BEAT of silence lingers on the air and then Dean hisses out a breath, shoving a hand into the dark swath of hair at the top of his head before he spins back to me. "Rylie's covered the cameras," he informs me. "The hotels will report a security blackout and all of the CCTVs within a mile radius of them will have the same issues."

“And Abel?” I ask. "Is he coming?"

Dean casts a look at me before turning his glare towards Corina, who begins to struggle now that Luc’s gone. I glance her way as well, noting the black cloth tied around her face. I smirk. From what I can see, the corners of her mouth are pulled wide with how tightly he's tied the damn thing. Tears spring to her eyes, rolling down her cheeks and soaking the makeshift gag. I could almost feel sorry for her if I didn't know that her looks have nothing to do with the wickedness that lurks beneath.

Corina looks like any average young woman. Pretty. Warm. Kind. Until she curls her lips into a sneering smile. Until the glint of truth enters her eyes, she could be mistaken for any of the millions of good people that must exist in this world.

But she's not good. She's a liar. She's a manipulator. The hazy memory of Roger Murphy's fat, bulbous chest and stomach pressing down on me from behind whips into my brain, making my hands curl into fists. Panic slides into my throat, choking me.

There are moments in time that dictate how a person's life will go. Brief periods of action that lead to consequences, and even if those consequences don't come for days or weeks or even years, they always eventually catch up with the perpetrator. Right here. Right now. Corina's have caught up with her.

“I talked to him too," Dean says. "He called to let me know that clean up at the hotel would take a bit longer. He's acting as Rylie's ground agent, so he might be detained with security to keep them quiet for a bit longer."

I arch a brow. “Bribery?”

Dean shoots me a look. “You know how this works.” That I do, I think, rolling my eyes. That I fucking do. Regardless, I should be grateful. Without the Sick Boys and their money and connections, I wouldn’t be getting my revenge. At least, not this soon.

“Fine,” I say, striding past him and back into the main interior of the house. I stop several feet in front of Corina and cross my arms over my chest. "Then let's move on to you, shall we?"

Her face is flushed a bright pink as if she's been having trouble breathing through the cloth that Braxton gagged her with. Several strands of her newly dyed hair stick to the sides of her face where her tears have dried on her skin. In my jeans’ pocket, the outline and weight of the knife that Dean had given me presses against my leg. It’s heavy, almost as if it’s there to remind me, to keep me grounded. I look back to Dean for a moment, gathering strength from his nod as he moves into the room as well and takes up a sentinel-like position against one of the pillars. Braxton moves to mimic his pose.

The image of the two of them, watching over me as I’m about to exact my revenge, just hammers home how fucking special they are. I never knew myself capable of love. Micki had made me think I was—but then she’d been gone. But these boys—these sick, twisted boys—have given me that hope again.

I turn back to Corina and reach forward, gripping the black gag tied around her face, yanking it towards me and then down so that it scrapes down her chin and hangs around her neck.

"You fucking bitch!" she hisses as she gasps for air. "Where did you send him? Where's Luc going? I know he wouldn't leave me. What did you do?”

"Wouldn't leave you?" I repeat, shaking my head. "He was never with you, Cor."

Reaching down, I grip the black tie still dangling around her throat. I clench my fist and yank it so that it forces her head forward. She chokes as it tightens around her neck and cuts off her air supply.

"You're in my fucking realm now, Corina," I tell her. "And you're not getting away this time."

Even through the pain she must be feeling with her broken nose and suffocation, she manages to look smug. Corina's head tips back and she glares up at me, the corners of her lips curling upward. It pisses me off, and there's nothing stopping me from punching her in the face for the insult of her fucking expression. So, I do.

I rear back and I punch her right in her broken nose. The whole thing kind of shifts as my knuckles slam into it and she cries out—a weak gasping sob of pain that wells up and echoes into the room. I close my eyes and inhale as the sound makes something inside of me relax. My fingers release the grasp on her gag and she slams her spine against the back of her chair as she sobs, fresh tears sliding down the sides of her face. This time, they're not crocodile tears.

"Y-you have no clue what you're fucking doing," she manages to grit out moments later. Her eyes cut across the room landing once on Dean with a snarl flitting across her lips before her gaze lands on Braxton and settles there. "Well..." Her voice grows stronger. "Not yet."

"I think I know how to hurt someone," I tell her as I glance down at one of her hands. Two of her fingers are purple and swollen. Broken. An idea forms. "But I think we all deserve a chance, don't you?" I ask sarcastically.

She eyes me. I lock my gaze with hers and reach down, lifting those two fingers slightly until she clenches her teeth. She tries—she really does—to keep from crying out, but it’s no use. Her lips part as tears fill her eyes and streak down her cheeks before she screams in agony when I shift around the fingers I’d broken in the elevator.

While I got a chance to clean myself up when we got here and most of my blood has been washed away, hers remains. I've got some scratches on my arms and cheeks, and definitely some bruises—it's amazing what even she can do when backed into a corner. What she doesn't realize—what no one seems to fucking realize—is that I've been in that corner far too often. While she—and everyone else—gets their strength for that limited, immediate moment, I've honed it to a fucking skill. I live it. I breathe it.

Without giving her a warning, I force her broken fingers backward and her scream reaches new heights. Her bones grind together under her skin, the digits in my grip jerking and seizing with the way I bend them until her voice grows hoarse. When I finally release them, she moans and pulls against her restraints as if she means to curl her broken digits to her chest.

I gaze down at her for another moment and then grin as I regrip her broken fingers again and perform the action all over.

"Fuck!" Saliva spews from her mouth and hits me in the face, slapping my cheek. I reach up with my free hand and wipe it away. "God! Fucking stop! It hurts!"

Good, I think, but I give her a reprieve. I let go and her fingers flop back into place. Unlike Roger, I want to make this last. I was too hasty before; I won't be this time.

I can feel Dean and Braxton's eyes on me as I lean down into Corina's face, tilting my head to the side as I take in her changing expressions. "Let's make a deal," I offer. Still gasping, wheezing, hissing through her pain, Corina jerks her chin up and eyes me warily. I take that to mean that she's willing to hear me out. “You’re going to die today.” I deadpan as my hand grazes her wounded fingers. She flinches. "But if you tell me where your friend, Ace, is … maybe I won’t make you suffer before you do.” It’s a stone-cold lie. She’ll suffer either way, but she doesn’t know that yet.

Her breath shudders in and out of her chest. Her eyes bounce back and forth between mine. I can hear the internal clock in my mind ticking. I wait a full ten seconds and when still she hasn't given me an answer, I reach down and snap her ring finger back until it touches her knuckles.

A startled scream echoes through the room, nearly deafening me. "What the fuck?" Corina shrieks, sounding breathless as she jerks. Does she really think she can get away trussed up like she is? I shake my head. Fucking stupid. "You're a fucking psycho bitch!" she curses me.

I release her finger and grip her by the throat, dropping the smile on my face as I lean forward until her lips are barely an inch from mine. There's no way in hell she can mistake my intention here. And as if she recognizes the shift in me, her body tries to recoil. Corina shies away from me, her tears falling harder and faster. Her lips gape open like a starving fish.

"You're damn right I am," I whisper, letting my words linger in the air between us. "And you were the dumb cunt who thought you could come after me and get away with it. You're not fucking leaving this house, Corina. Make no mistake. I’m not going to give you any hope of leaving. You are going to die here, and if I have my way, which I will, it will be in a lot of fucking pain."

Rage boils in my blood. It extends throughout my veins until I feel like I'm going to explode with it. My body feels hotter than ever before. Who knew anger could actually keep you warm at night?

"I'm going to do things to you that no woman should do to another," I whisper. I feel my shadows growing closer. The monster inside me licking her fucking lips. It wants blood. Hers. "Maybe someday," I tell her, "I'll have nightmares about this. Maybe one day, I'll regret my actions." My fingers delve into my pocket and I withdraw Dean's knife—my knife now. Flicking it open, I hold it up to her throat, letting it dig in just enough so that it slices into her skin and fresh blood dribbles out. "That day isn't today."

"No! Wait." Corina begins to beg as I pull away and slice through her clothes. I cut down the center of her shirt until the fabric parts. The desire to just unleash on her, to just pull my fist back and stab her right in the chest, and keep doing so until all of the pain and disgust inside of me fades is hard to push away, but I manage it. When the blade reaches the top of her shorts, I don't hesitate to cut through those as well, though it’s a bit harder since the fabric is tougher. "I-I can help you," Corina stutters out. "Please, you—I can tell you where Ace is."

I pause with the blade pressed to the inside of her thigh. Right above the femoral artery. She sobs and tries to move away, but there’s nowhere for her to go. I’ve got her right where I want her. One little slice. One cut. Too much pressure and a downward angle and she’ll bleed out in minutes. Or less depending on how deep I cut. I consider my options. I want to see her die. The need for it is in me. The desire is a cancer—eating away at my rationality. One little movement and this will all be over and I won’t have to make her suffer.

The fucked-up thing, though, is that I want to see her suffer. Maybe it was that damn dream or maybe the anger has just been bubbling under the surface all these weeks, waiting to be unleashed. Roger was like a wild animal, but she had led him to me. She had urged him to feast and to maim and hurt. She knew what she was doing. I don’t want to just end it here. I want her to know just how much it had hurt. How much I had fucking hurt, and I refuse to feel guilty for that.

One of the church ladies in Plexton had pulled me aside as a child after I’d punched a stupid boy for pulling on my hair. She’d told me, an eye for an eye makes the whole world blind. As an eight-year-old, I hadn’t understood her meaning. Now, I do … I just don’t care. Justice must be served. If an eye for an eye makes the whole world blind, then I’ll walk through this world with a rag over my eyes and blood on my feet. I’m not going to let Corina go that fucking easy.

All I can think of is the fact that she engineered my rape. She did this and she’s not even sorry. I haven’t heard a single apology uttered from her lips. I glance up at her from my position. She doesn’t look like the pretty rich girl here, like this. Her makeup is runny and smudged all around her eyes, giving them a sunken in look. There’s blood caked under her nostrils. Bruises on the side of her face. Even if she did suddenly start professing her regret, I wouldn’t believe her. People like Corina aren’t the type to ever truly understand their sins. Corina isn’t the type of woman who understands remorse. She’s obsessive and now that she realizes she’s caught like a fly in my fucking trap, she’ll do and say anything to get out.

“Where is he?” I ask anyway, despite myself. While Ace isn’t as guilty as her, I do want to repay him for the torture he gave me. I reach up and finger the side of my face, where the thin, barely there line from his knife remains, remembering.

Panting, her chest moving up and down underneath her bra and the remains of her clothes, she turns her head from side to side, trembling so hard that it nearly shakes the chair she’s tied to. "Let me go and I'll—ahhh!" I pull back and slam the sharp end of my knife into her thigh—away from the artery—right in the fleshy bit several inches above her knees.

I release it, leaving the knife there as I take a step back. “That’s not how this works,” I say. “Where is he?”

She groans, lifting her face. “You—” I don’t give her a chance to speak. I grab her arm right at the wrist on the hand opposite of her broken fingers, lock onto her middle one and then bend it and twist until the thing snaps.

Spittle flies from her lips as she shrieks in pain. I don’t care. Shoving the black cloth around her neck back into her mouth, I work on breaking each and every one of her fingers. Stifled sobs reach my ears, but I barely hear them. When I finally do glance at her face, it’s a patchy disgusting mess. Drool dribbles from her lips beneath the gag. Her eyes have taken on a hazy, faraway look as if even her own mind is trying to pull her away from what I’m doing to her. A part of me enjoys her pain, but it’s not enough. It won’t ever be enough. Because even if this is what I need, what I want is to turn back time. To erase what happened. That’s impossible, so I have to make do with this.

I finish breaking Corina’s fingers, and step back, looking down at the awkward, jagged digits, each one twisted or loose or swollen and purple. My brows draw down low over my eyes and I stare at her with parted lips. After a few seconds, she seems to come back to herself, and she spits out the gag. It’s grown too loose. My tongue presses into my cheek as I turn and look back to Dean and Braxton.

"What do you think?" I ask. “You think she knows where Ace is?” Even Rylie hadn’t been able to track him down.

Braxton takes a step forward, passes me, and rips up the handle of the knife, holding it up as blood runs down the sides. Corina whimpers, another sob choking in the back of her throat. "She's lying," he guesses.

"She could be telling the truth," Dean replies.

"Hmmm." I hum. I turn back to her. "Well, Corina? Where is Ace?"

"I-I said..." She gasps and whimpers. "Let me go and—" I have to withhold a laugh as Braxton sticks her other thigh and she screams again. She isn't too good at learning what we don't want to hear. "Why?" she sobs.

I shoot forward, grabbing her by the back of her head and jerking her face up to meet my gaze. "That's what I want to fucking know," I tell her. "Why the fuck did you do this? All for Luc? Did you really think you were helping him? He doesn't even acknowledge your existence." Her tears are getting annoying. I reach down and clamp my palm around the handle of the pocket knife and push it back and forth, digging it into her flesh as she chokes out more sobs. "You didn't even know me," I tell her. "So, why me? Why the fuck did you do what you did to me?"

"Because of who you are!" she screams. "You have no fucking clue, Avalon. No clue. Who you are. Where you come from. Who your father—"

"I know who my father was," I cut her off.

She freezes. Her lashes flicker and her eyes lift to meet mine. She stares at me and then shakes her head. "No," she says. "No, you don't. You can't. If you did then—"

"He was Nicholas Carter's best friend."

She pauses again, but for an even shorter time. This time when she speaks, it's with a slightly maniacal lilt to her words. "That's all you know?" she asks before she starts shaking her head in my grip. "No. No. No. You still know nothing. If you want to know who's behind all of this, Carter knows..." Her eyes move past me to something over my shoulder—or someone. I don't look back. "I think you already know, too."

"Don't look at them," I growl, gripping her hair tighter, until several strands are yanked out. "Look at me. I'm your fucking enemy."

"You never mattered." When she speaks, she sounds deflated. Like none of this matters. Like nothing matters at all anymore. "You were just a product of mistake," she says. "No one ever wanted you."

No one ever wanted me? Her words repeat in the back of my mind. There's something unnerving about that statement of hers. She sounds so sure and yet from her, it means nothing. She's also not right. Nicholas had admitted as much—so had Patricia—my father had wanted me. Before I was even born, there had been one person on this fucking planet who wanted me.

Breathing heavily, feeling the rage come forward, black spots dance in front of my vision. I can't stop it. It curdles in my stomach, rises up to my throat.

"Avalon?" Dean sounds like he's coming from so far away. That's not right. He should be right behind me, only a few feet away. Corina's hair falls out of my grip.

She thinks I don’t matter? She still doesn't seem to understand. If one of us doesn’t matter, it’s her. I’m going to walk out of this house after I’m done with her; she won’t ever walk again. Her head lolls to one side. What do I have to do to make her understand the gravity of what she did? What it did to me?

A horrible, disgusting thought blooms in my mind. I take a step back and look down at the knife in my hand and at the skin of her throat and chest. All the way down to her stomach. I could show her. Show her exactly what it felt like when Roger shot me up with drugs and fucked me on the dirty kitchen floor of my mother's trailer.

I'm strong, and yes, I survived. But no one survives those types of ordeals without some scarring, and before she leaves this fucking earth, I want to make sure that she knows what it's like to be shredded from the inside out.

As if sensing my intentions, she glares at me when I move towards her once more. "What are you doing?" she demands.

There's an odd tingling in my fingertips as I lift the knife and point it at her. I don't answer her question. I'm not going to, and when she realizes this, true fear crosses her expression. Her eyes blow wide open. Her lips part and her struggles increase.

"Stop!" she says. It's futile. Why do people think if they say it, that it'll happen? It didn't happen when I told Roger to stop. Is it just instinct? My foot lifts and I kick her square in the stomach. The chair topples over. "W-what … are you..." she tries to wheeze out the question once more. I should think it would be obvious by now.

I stand over her, knife in hand. Her blood runs down my fingers, coating my palm. My head feels like it's screaming, it hurts so fucking bad. My limbs are shaking.

"Please..." Corina finally gasps out, one last cry, one last plea. I let it disappear into the silence of the room as I lean down and press the sharp edge of the knife against her underwear.

"You know…” I say as I stare into her fear-filled eyes. “Even if I had said please, I don’t think he would’ve stopped. So, I’m not going to stop for you.”

The blade pushes forward, cutting into her insides like Roger's cock had done to me.

This, I think, is true, cold revenge.

38

DEAN

THIS IS … fucked up. Avalon doesn't show it, but she's on the edge. There's a darkness within her that I haven't seen in a while. Not since that night—the night we'd gone after her and found her in that position. An insidious monster curls in my chest. Watching her exact her revenge isn't enough for me. I want more. I need more.

Braxton's eyes are surprisingly not on the scene before us. Normally, he'd be the one absorbed in someone else's pain. He's accepted that part of himself, luxuriated in it for so long that his sadistic, twisted tendencies became second nature. I've always fought against mine. I've always remained somewhat human.

Until this moment.

Until now.

Avalon either doesn't care about Corina's screams and cries and pleas or she simply doesn't hear them. It wouldn't surprise me if she didn't. She works the girl over with cold calculation. Soils the knife I gave her in blood as she thrusts the blade into Corina's crotch and twists and stabs until Corina is shaking with agony. Then when she's done, she pulls out and begins carving her up.

Sweat collects on her brow, sliding down her temple, and then lingers at her jaw. I want to lick it off of her. I've never loved her more than I fucking do right now. Covered in the blood of her enemies and hurting the woman who fucking tried to break her. Some might say that these actions she takes—the bloodshed and psychotic need to make those who hurt her pay—proves that she is broken, but I disagree.

This proves nothing but that she was—is—stronger than them. She survived. My dick pulses in my pants. My teeth clench against the spiral of lust and desire that I have for this woman. For Avalon. It's so heavy that it feels like a physical weight on my shoulders.

God, we're fucked up, I think. Both of us, two irreparable creatures. Not quite monsters. No longer human.

It's too hot in this fucking room. It's stifling.

"Dean?" Brax moves closer to me. "Do you need to step outside?"

I do—not because the sight of her covered in Corina's blood bothers me—but because if I don't, I might drag her off the girl only to fuck her right there in that blood. I need to step out, but I don't want to leave her.

In response to Brax's question, I shake my head. I will hold off. I'll hold steady. I can handle this. I clench my hands into fists at my side. "Call a cleaner," I order instead. "She'll be done soon." If she's not, I'll have to make her finish. She's a predator and this bitch is her prey, but there's only so long you can play with your food before it goes stale.

Brax eyes me for a moment and then nods. I sense more than see him leave the room, his footsteps echoing on the hardwood floor behind me. My gaze returns to Avalon. By the time she's done with Corina, she's cut out the girl's tongue—I guess the screaming was getting to her—and tossed it to the side. She's carved up the bitch's nasty pussy, and left long lacerations up and down her legs and arms. Corina's mouth is filled with blood—she's practically choking on it.

Once we're alone, I take a step forward. "Avalon." She ignores me as she starts to work on one of Corina's pinky fingers. Corina lets out a gurgled whimper and her eyes jerk to me. Blood slips down the corner of her lips and into her hairline, almost slipping right into her ears. Does she think I'm going to save her? I scowl at the disgusting hope that shines in her eyes. No. I'm not her fucking savior. But she's only worth so much time spent torturing.

"Avalon," I say her name again and reach forward, cupping my hand over her shoulder. "I think you've played with your food enough. Kill her and be done."

Avalon's hands still against Corina's hand, her pinky hanging on by the white bone that shines through the blood and flesh she's stripped away. Her chest rises and falls with how heavily she's breathing, but she lets me pull the knife from her grip and fold it inward. I slip it into my pocket and then circle the chair.

Slipping a hand under the back, I leverage the chair up and back on all four legs before striding back to Avalon. She takes my hand silently and lets me help her up. The front door opens and Brax strides back into the room.

"They'll be here within the hour," he answers my unspoken question.

I nod and then hold out a hand. He knows what I want. Brax smiles as he withdraws a gun from the small of his back and places it in my palm. "Avalon," I say again, my voice low, barely above a whisper. "It's time." Cool, grey-blue eyes lift to meet mine as I press the gun into her hand.

Her fingers curl around it and she tips her head back even more, her lashes lowering until barely a slit of her eyes is visible through their dark shadows. Her lips part and she releases a slow breath. "Kiss me," she commands.

A smirk appears on my face. I couldn't fucking fight it even if I wanted to. Reaching up, I cup her cheek and press my lips to hers. My tongue moves into her mouth as her arm lifts. She doesn't even look at Corina as she pulls the trigger, and the loud explosion of the gun going off in her grip is damn near silent next to the raging desire I have for her. The guttural, pain filled moans cut off in an instant and there's nothing left except blessed quiet and the sounds of Avalon's breath against mine.

Carefully, I extract the gun from her grip and hold it out. Braxton's hand brushes mine as he takes it back. I hear his chuckle as he backs out of the room—fucker. He said the cleaners would be here in an hour, that means I've got that fucking long to see how often I can make my girl come next to the cooling body of the bitch who tried to hurt her.

No one can destroy Avalon. She's beyond that. Beyond everything.

Her arms arch up around my neck and her legs tense a split second before she jumps. As soon as she does, my hands find a grip right beneath her thighs. I back her up until her spine slams into a wall. She grunts into my mouth, biting down on my lower lip in retaliation.

I smile against her little bite, shoving my hands up her shirt, feeling the warmth of her abdomen under my greedy fingers. I keep going until the undersides of her breasts are in my palms, and I push her bra up, capturing her nipples in my grip, and twist lightly. She gasps against me, her pussy grinding down against my crotch as I rub against her insistently.

"How do you feel right now, baby?" I ask her.

"Good," she answers, panting. "Strong. Powerful. Freed." Exactly how she should feel.

"I'm glad," I tell her, nibbling a path down her throat as I pinch and twist her rosy nipples between my thumbs and forefingers. She groans, her head going back, smacking into the wall. That won't do, I think. I don't want her to hurt, not unless it's from me.

I pull her back away from the wall, turn and go down on one knee. Avalon, being the woman that she is, doesn't release me even as her body moves down. She clenches around me, tightening her thighs as her ankles lock together at the small of my back. Her back arches and I hate the fabric between us. As soon as her upper back touches down on the floorboards, I reach down and rip it up over her head, snapping her bra's front clasp. Fuck that shit. She shouldn't be wearing that around me.

My hands find her breasts again and knead them as her lips return to mine. Hot. Heavy. Without reserve. That's what we are. Avalon holds nothing back when my hands are on her. I lean down, lifting one breast up as I lick over the tip of her nipple and bite down. A moan escapes her throat, and beneath me her hips lift, rubbing her cloth covered pussy against my dick.

"Dean..." She says my name like it's a goddamn prayer, and it does something to me. I want that. I want her to pray to me. I'm already her king, but if I could be more—if I could be everything to this woman—I'd sell my fucking soul. I want to be her god.

"Tell me what you want, Babe," I whisper, against her flesh, blowing air across her nipple and watching it harden under my ministrations. "Use your words."

Her hands clench in my hair, jerking my head up as she glares down her chest at me. I smile. "Don't fucking patronize me, Dean," she hisses. "I want you to fuck me."

"You want me to fuck you?" I repeat, amused. "Right here? Right now? Braxton's outside, you know? If you come screaming on my cock, he'll probably hear you."

"I don't care," she responds.

"Oh?" I turn my cheek, peeking across the room at the body of Corina Harrison. It's empty—void of life—slumped over with her eyes wide open and staring at nothing. "What about that?" I ask. "You want to fuck right next to a dead body?"

Avalon parts her lips and lets out a laugh. So loud and strong that it makes me blink. When she's finally done, amusement still twitches at her lips and she looks back at me. "Are you scared?" she asks. "'Cause I'm not. I'll fuck you in her blood if you want me to."

My stomach clenches at that offer. I can picture it. Avalon covered from head to toe in blood, smiling at me as she lifts a hand out towards me. Fuck, I'm so fucking done. I don't give her an answer. I can't. Because the image in my own mind makes me go crazy. Psycho. Lost. That's what I am for her.

Our mouths clash, teeth clanging together, moans slipping from my throat to hers and back again. She writhes under me as I divest her of her clothes. Her nails cut into my flesh as she does the same to me until the two of us are rolling across the floor naked. We've shifted and moved so much that we're much closer to the corpse than before. I don't care.

I put my hand down and nearly slip when blood touches my palm, making it sticky and wet. Avalon shoves me onto my back, pushing my spine into a pool of that blood as she climbs on top of me. She takes my hand and guides it to the place between her thighs, moaning and undulating on top of me as I finger her clit.

"Dean," she pants, "I need you. Now."

I need her too, so I don’t waste any more time. I can't. Not now. I lift her and settle her over the head of my cock. Her pussy catches me and holds me as she sinks slowly down over me. Her head tips back until I can feel the ends of her dark, ink-like hair brushing against the top of my thighs. She's so beautiful like this. Riding me into oblivion.

She clenches down, her addictive cunt gripping me as tight as a vise—almost like she's afraid I'll pull out and shove her away. I wouldn't do that. Not to her. "Fuck me, baby," I urge in the most guttural tone I've ever heard in my life. It's hard to speak past the lust crawling through me.

I palm her stomach and reach down to pinch her clit as she begins her ride. She shudders but begins to move faster. Her hips shift up and down and back and forth as she takes me to fucking paradise. My hands are covered in blood and they leave marks across her pale skin. Smudges of red and brown over her tits, her thighs, her abdomen, and hips.

Playing with her clit makes her go wild. She gasps and moans, her eyes tightening as her head comes forward once more. I release her and palm the back of her skull, leaning up to suck on her bottom lip. She bites me again—angry that I've stopped. I laugh. I can't help that her little aggressive actions turn me on even more. My little psycho. My savage queen.

"Come on, baby," I taunt her. "You wanted my dick, now you've got it. What are you gonna do with it?"

Her eyes meet mine as she glares at me. Her hands shoot forward, one gripping my throat as she presses down and continues to ride. "Shut up," she growls, but her pussy never stops its momentum. She's fucking close. Riding my cock for all it's worth. I can feel my own orgasm rising to the top of this precipice we're on, but she's not quite there yet and I won't go over without her.

A groan bubbles out of my throat. Fuck, I'm gonna come. "Ava," I wheeze out. Her hand clenches down against my throat harder, until no air passes through. Oh fuck, that's hot. Watching her ride me as the edges of my vision flicker. I know exactly what she's feeling right now. She's feeling like she's on top of the world, all powerful, as her tiny little hands cut off my airflow. I know because I've done this for her before. It's hot. It's irrefutable. It's dangerous.

I clench my teeth and force back my orgasm as my hands tighten at her hips and pull her down harder on my cock. She's no longer riding me so much as I'm forcing her onto my dick, shoving her down until I swear I'm gonna bruise her insides. She doesn't hesitate or flinch though when I mouth the word "harder" to her. She smiles and reaches up with her other hand, holding both over my throat as I fuck her hard, pulling her onto my cock until her grip weakens. I just need her to come before I pass out. That'll be enough. That'll be like reaching the perfect fucking high.

It's right there—just out of reach. I'm gonna hit it. I know I am. As soon as Avalon cries out and her hands loosen their hold on my throat entirely, I feel her pussy spasm and clamp down on my cock.

"Fuck!" I grunt as oxygen reinvades my lungs. I grit my teeth as I come hard, filling her up from the inside until I feel the wetness between her legs leak out across my thighs and she slumps over, her breasts smacking my chest as she gasps for air.

Her hair smooths over my skin, the dark strands all that I can see as I lay there and try to catch my own breath. Without thinking, I reach down and finger a strand of her dark hair between my thumb and forefinger. I bring it up as I close my eyes and press a soft kiss to it.

Every time with her is like the first time. Every time is new, fresh, and exhilarating. In a thousand years—in a million—I don't think I'll ever find another woman like Avalon Manning.

39

AVALON

MONEY REALLY DOES EQUAL POWER, I acknowledge hours later after we’ve showered off the remains of Corina’s blood and gotten changed into clothes Abel brought to us. We didn't even need to dump Corina's corpse. I won't ever need to lay eyes on her again. She's gone. Done. And now it's time for me to move on.

When Braxton, Dean, and I get back to the hotel, Abel is waiting. We check out and get back to the SUV to start the drive back to Eastpoint. Maybe it should bother me that we all act so goddamn casual after our latest torture and murder, but it doesn't. Hell, I'm officially a regular offender now.

First, Roger Murphy. Second, my mother. Now, Corina Harrison.

I'm a serial killer.

The thought makes me chuckle as Dean speeds down the highway. His head tilts and he casts a curious look my way. I shake my head and reach out, taking his hand in mine. I feel the muscles under his skin jump when I do and frown at him before realizing the tops of his ears are turning red. He refocuses his gaze through the windshield and I'm left holding back even more laughter.

A little over an hour later, as we pull up to the front of the Carter Mansion, I spot a black sedan parked in front of the doors. The easy, relaxed air within the SUV evaporates, leaving behind only tension.

"Who's that?" I demand.

Dean pulls his hand from mine as he steers the SUV around the smaller car and towards the garage. "Stay in the car," he orders.

"Dean?" I stare at him, but he merely shakes his head and throws the vehicle into park. I'm too stunned to do anything but follow his command as Dean rips the keys out of the ignition. He and the guys slip out of the car and approach the unfamiliar car. The driver's side door opens and a tall, elderly man steps out.

He doesn't look particularly dangerous, but then again, neither do I, I suspect. His wrinkled face shows no emotion as Dean, Braxton, and Abel all stride towards him. There isn't a single relaxed bone in any of their bodies now. Each of them approaches slowly and with reserve, as if they're expecting an attack at any moment. I glance around the front of the house, scanning—trying to see what the hell they're so freaked out about.

When I don't find anything, I return my attention to the old man and the sedan. The man is speaking, his expression stoic and emotionless. With the dark gray hair and the unwrinkled business suit he's wearing, I expect that he must work for one of the guys' fathers. But which one? They all seem irritated by his presence.

I study Dean's body language as he shifts to the side, his profile to me as his eyes remain on the unknown man. Abel is speaking, shaking his head and clearly agitated. His dad? I wonder. But then the old man says something and turns to Braxton. Braxton frowns as he listens, but his lips never part and he doesn't say anything. When the old man is done, Brax merely turns to Dean and gives him a look that obviously says 'how do you want to handle this?'

Irritation flares to life inside of me. I don't like sitting on the sidelines. In fact, I fucking hate it. Tapping my fingers against the inside of the passenger door, I debate what to do. When several minutes go by, I curse and reach down, unclipping my seatbelt. I reach for the door, intending to get out and demand to know what the fuck is going on. The second my hand lands on the door handle, however, a loud snick echoes in the interior of the vehicle.

My lips part in shock. No. No, he fucking wouldn't. I raise my gaze slowly, sure that I've mistaken that sound, but Dean's head is turned towards me, a scowl on his face. Yes, he fucking did. He shakes his head at me and then pivots back to the old man.

There must be something wrong with me, brain damage perhaps from some unknown source, because despite knowing what that look meant, I can't help but try the handle. Yup, it's locked. I reach up and click the unlock button and hear the lock snick back into place almost immediately. My gaze lifts back to Dean, but his eyes aren't on me. How the fuck is he doing this?

I grip the handle and yank, but it's useless. "You motherfucker..." I let out a low half-laugh. Big fucking mistake, D-man, I think. As soon as I get out of this fucking SUV, I'm going to tear his ass to shreds.

Minutes later, red faced and growing more pissed with each passing second, I give up on trying to get out of the vehicle. And it seems no sooner do I fucking stop beating against the side of the fucking car and rocking it—not that the old man or the guys ever cast a look my way as I tried to get out—the locking mechanism inside the door snaps open.

My attention lifts to the guys and I gape as I watch Abel and Braxton walk towards the back of the sedan—Abel in obvious anger, kicking up dust and pebbles as he storms towards his door, and Braxton with a cold expression. Dean sighs as the old man gets into the driver's seat and then finally turns back to me.

I pop open the SUV door, slipping out until the soles of my sneakers hit the pavement. Something's wrong, I think as I watch the sedan back out of the driveway, turn around, and head towards the road.

"What the fuck is going on?" is the first thing I say as Dean moves towards me.

"Their fathers have called them to come home," Dean says through gritted teeth.

I shake my head. That doesn't make any fucking sense to me. Their home is here. Dean stops at my side and then reaches past me to close the door to the SUV. "Don't worry about it," he says quietly. "Let's go inside."

I look up at him. "Sure, but there's just one thing I need to do first." Dean's head pivots towards me and my fist catches his jawline just as he's almost fully facing me so he takes almost the entire weight of my rage.

"Shit!" He curses, stumbling back a step or two.

"Don't," I start, growling low, "ever. Fucking. Lock. Me. Up. Again."

His face goes hard as he rubs his jaw. "I told you to stay put," he snaps. "You weren't doing what I asked."

"I don't give a shit," I snap, marching past him. "Do it again, and we'll be right back here, doing this again."

"I don't want you involved with that man, Avalon," he replies.

My feet halt several feet away, and without thought, I spin back and stride towards him. As he straightens, my fingers lock into the front of his shirt and I shove him back until his spine slams into the side of the SUV. "I. Don't. Care," I hiss, glaring up into his dark, soil-rich eyes. "Never again. Do you fucking understand me?"

Dean leans forward, ignoring the fist I've made against his chest. His face is mere inches from mine, his breath tangling with mine. "No," he says.

My eyebrows shoot upward. "Excuse me?"

"I said no," he repeats. "When it comes to your safety, I don't give a shit if you get pissed. I don't want you near that man, and I don't care if you hate me for it, I'll make sure you stay away from him."

"He's an old man," I reply. "He doesn't look dangerous to me."

When Dean smiles, it's not kind. It's vicious, like a lion baring its teeth at its prey. "You and I both know that appearances can be deceiving, baby. So sink your little nails into my skin, punch me, and threaten all you want. None of that will alter any of my decisions when it comes to keeping you safe."

I release his shirt and take a step back, frowning at him. Even knowing that the sedan is long gone by now, I can't stop my eyes from turning back to the end of the driveway. "Why is he so dangerous?" I ask.

"Because he works for Lionel Frazier and Elric Smalls," Dean says. "He's worked for them for decades and of all of their employees, he knows every dirty little detail of their actions. That alone makes him about as dangerous as a man can get."

"They're the guys' dads," I say. It doesn't sound like a question, but it is. I cut my eyes back to Dean without moving my head.

Dean blows out a breath and leans his head back against the car. "I don't trust my own father, Ava," he says. "But I trust theirs even less. Hopefully, they'll be back within a day or two. If not, then a few weeks. It's never longer than that."

I pivot to face him fully. "Do their dads often call them randomly?"

Dean stares at me for a moment before pushing away from the SUV. He stalks forward, a predator in handsome human skin. "Not as often since they came to Eastpoint U," Dean says as he slings an arm over my shoulders. "Now, come on. I don't want to talk about this anymore. It's done." He leans closer, the corners of his mouth curl upward. "At least one good thing came out of this."

I purse my lips. "Oh?"

Dean pushes his nose into my hair, inhaling deeply against the side of my head before I feel his teeth at the top of my ear. My stomach clenches. "With the guys gone for a few days," he whispers, "I can fuck you all over the fucking house. I say we start with the kitchen. The counter is just the right height for us, don't you think?"

With a groan, I shove him away and stalk forward, striding for the front entrance. What a fucking perv. Then again, it's not like I'm any better. I did, after all, fuck him right next to a dead body.

Yeah, I'm just as fucked up as Dean Carter—perhaps even more.

40

AVALON

THREE DAYS later and sore as hell, there's still no word from Braxton or Abel. "Why the fuck haven't they at least called yet?" I ask as Dean slides a plate my way across the countertop.

His dark hair, wet from a recent shower, hangs down towards one side of his face. and it shifts when he looks up at me. "This is normal," he assures me.

I frown. "How the fuck is this normal?" I demand.

Dean crosses his arms over his naked chest, the muscles under his skin flexing and the tattoos branded on him catching my eye. I've had enough sex over the last seventy-two hours to last a fucking lifetime, but just looking at him makes me want to climb him like a fucking tree. I shake my head, pick out a piece of bacon from my sandwich, and pop it into my mouth as I wait for an answer.

Blowing out a breath, Dean slides his tongue along the front of his teeth as he considers his response. "I don't know why they do it, but all of our fathers are fucking assholes. Maybe it comes with being an Eastpoint heir; I don't know," he finally says. "There's a lot of pressure all of the time. It doesn't make up for how they fucking act like they can control every little aspect of our lives, but it at least explains it. When we were kids, we were always together, and every once in a while the guys' fathers got something up their asses and Brax and Abel would have to go back to their parents' place—sometimes for a day or two, sometimes a little longer. Each time, though, they'd have to give up their cells and they weren't allowed to contact anyone. Not even me."

Something clenches in my gut. My fingers tighten on the edge of my plate until I feel like the porcelain is going to crack in my grip. That doesn't sound right. I turn my head and stare out of the back windows, across the massive terrace and lawn beyond the French doors several paces away from the kitchen island where I sit.

"What happens when they come back?" I ask.

"They don't like to talk about it," Dean says. His answer makes me like this even less. I want to know where the guys are, what they're doing, and if they're okay. That last thought brings me up short and I loosen my grip on the plate. I want to know if they're okay, I realize. 'Cause I care. 'Cause I give a shit. Fuck. These Sick Boys really have changed me.

I open my mouth to say something, but before I can get anything out, the shrill sound of my cellphone cuts me off. With a sigh, I push the plate away and reach into my back pocket, pulling it out, noting Rylie's number on the screen before I flick the green button.

"Hey," I answer.

"Where are you?" Rylie demands.

I blink and then frown before straightening and casting a look at Dean. He turns away and finishes cleaning up the mess from lunch. “I’m at the house, why?”

“Can you get to campus?” she asks, ignoring my question. “I’m in the dorm and I need you to get here. I think I’ve found something.”

Dean doesn’t turn around as I track him across the kitchen, staring at his back. The eyes of his wolf stare back, already knowing what I’m going to do. “Sure,” I say. “Give me a little bit.” I hang up and get up from the island. “Hey,” I say, catching his attention. “I need to go see Rylie; she says she’s got something. Mind if I take one of the cars?”

The wolf on Dean’s back disappears as he pivots to face me, arching a brow. “You’re asking?” He smirks and then shakes his head. “No, I’ll drive you.”

“I don’t need a chauffeur,” I tell him.

“Didn’t say you did, baby,” Dean replies as he circles the island and comes towards me. My heart rate spikes as he places one hand against the countertop on either side of me and leans close. “I’m gonna head out as well and I’d rather be the one picking you up and dropping you off.”

“Or I could drive myself,” I suggest as his lips draw nearer until they’re hovering just above mine.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Ava,” Dean growls. “Do you always have to fight? Just say yes.”

I laugh and lean up on my toes, kissing him hard before I fall back down and then duck under one arm. “Fine,” I call back as I head for the bedroom. “I’ll concede this once. Hurry up, she sounded like it was important.”

“Do I need to go with you?” he asks.

My feet come to a stop at the edge of the hallway and I turn back, thinking. She hadn’t said Dean needed to be there. I shake my head. “Nah,” I say, “I’ll tell you whatever she says anyway.”

With that, I head up to the second floor to get ready. When I come back down, Dean’s grabbed a t-shirt—probably directly from the laundry room or one of the guys’ spares since he never came up after me—and is waiting for me by the garage, flicking a keyring over his index finger while staring at his phone screen.

“You good?” I ask, making him look up.

He smiles, but it’s a bit tight. “Fine,” he says. “Let’s go.”

Minutes later, we pull up through the entrance of the Eastpoint campus and hang a left towards the Havers dorm. “Don’t leave,” Dean says as he slows to a roll in front of the building.

“I’ll be fine,” I huff.

He snatches my arm before I can reach for the door handle. “I fucking mean it, Ava,” he grits out. “Don’t fucking leave Havers. Stay in the dorm until I come back to pick you up.”

I frown at him. “I’m not an idiot,” I remind him.

Dean sighs. “I know—actually—” He releases me and reaches for the glovebox. It pops open, and he rummages around inside for a brief moment before pulling out a handgun. “I want you to keep this while you’re here.”

“You’re giving me a gun?” I take it from him and hold it up, checking the safety before glancing back at him.

Dean’s lips press together and he turns back to the windshield as he releases my arm. "This is just a precaution,” he says. “Regardless, don’t leave this fucking building, okay?”

“I’m not going to do anything stupid,” I tell him. “I can take care of myself.” My hands squeeze the gun in my lap. “But I’ll stay put, just keep me updated.” Dean’s jaw hardens, and I lean across the console and press my lips to the corner of his mouth. His head whips around and he captures them in the brief second before I can pull away. His tongue slides against mine. He devours me and ruins all logical thought. When he finally pulls back, it’s hard to breathe … almost like he’s stolen the very breath from my lungs.

“Be careful,” he says.

I nod and then turn towards the door, popping it open, and stepping out. Just before the door swings shut, I catch it and dip my head to look inside the interior. "Call me if Brax or Abel contact you."

Dean rolls his head to the side and he gives me a small smile. "I will, baby. Promise." Taking a step back, I shut the door and pivot towards the front of Havers dorm. The gun is heavy in my hand, I check the safety one last time before I tuck it into the back waistband of my pants. I feel the burn of Dean’s eyes on me as I head towards the front doors. He doesn't drive off until I'm inside the building.

I stride down the empty hallway of the dorm, noting that the front desk is closed and most of the hallway lights have been turned out. Is she the only one still here? I wonder as I reach the second floor and cut towards my old dorm room. Floorboards creak under my footsteps and before I can even lift my fist to knock, the door swings inward and Rylie appears wearing a nearly see through ripped white t-shirt over a black sports bra and black leggings.

She appears out of breath and I glance behind her, trying to find the source of her agitation when she grips my wrist and yanks me inside.

"You good?" I ask as I reach down and peel her fingers off my arm.

"No," she says immediately, running a hand through her knotted purple hair. "No, I am not fucking good. Ava. Jesus—fuck. Okay." She spins towards me and pushes me back and it's my shock more than anything that gives her the strength to shove me onto the nearest surface—the extra bed shoved into the corner across from hers. "You need to sit down for this," she tells me, her voice shaking.

"What's wrong?" I ask, watching her curiously.

Rylie rakes her teeth over her bottom lip and turns away from me, pacing across the room and back again. This—I realize—must have been the cause of her breathlessness. She's probably been pacing for a while now. I release a slow breath and stand up.

"Hey," I say, stopping her in her tracks as I grab hold of her arms and keep her steady. "Calm down. Whatever it is—"

"It's big," Rylie bursts out, cutting me off. Her eyes are wide. White teeth flash as she sinks them back into her lower lip and stares up at me. She chews on it for a moment before letting it go. "It's really fucking big." Her voice drops to a whisper. She eyes the bed behind me. "You really should be sitting down," she says.

"What is it?" I ask. "Just spit it out."

Rylie lifts her hands and cups them over her face, pressing her palms up into her eye sockets before she rips herself away from my grasp and turns towards her new laptop, matte black this time instead of the average silver. She lifts it up and turns it around, shoving the screen in my face.

"Do you recognize this man?" she demands. "Do you know who he is?"

My eyes fall to the image on her screen and I take a step back. "Yeah..." I frown at it and then lift my gaze back to hers. "But how do you have that picture?"

Her eyebrows shoot up. "You know him?"

Depicted on her computer screen is the picture of a young man in his early twenties—the same man that had been standing alongside Nicholas Carter in a photo frame the last time I'd been to the Eastpoint offices on campus. Chaz Mason—my father. This one is slightly different—he is slightly different. Instead of a suit, he wears basketball shorts and a plain t-shirt tossing hoops into a shitty basketless hoop.

"He's my father," I tell her.

Rylie snaps the computer shut and gapes at me. "How do you know that?" she demands.

I frown and gesture to her. "Does this have anything to do with why you called me here?" I ask. "You said you found something."

"Yes," she replies. "I found out who your father is and … you already knew!" In a strange, un-Rylie like move, she turns and tosses the laptop onto her mattress and turns back to me. "You were an Eastpoint heir this whole time and you didn't think that was information I needed to know when tracing back money trails."

I stop dead. "Excuse me?" I can't have heard her right. "What the fuck did you just say?"

"Your father, Avalon—Chaz Mason—"

"Yeah, no, I got that part," I say, holding up a hand. "What I don't understand is the next thing you just said—an Eastpoint heir?"

I try to think back, but no—nothing in my recollection connects with that. Nicholas had said that Chaz was his best friend, but he'd never mentioned ... no, of course not. I stare at Rylie without actually seeing her. That bastard had fucking conned me—or had he? At the very least, he'd fucking lied to my fucking face. Best friends? Eastpoint heir? What the actual fuck?

Rylie's chest rises and falls as she watches me. I don't know if my internal confusion is showing on my face, but I'm sure as fuck not understanding what any of this means. If my father was an Eastpoint heir, then none of the shit that had happened should have, right? If he was rich and powerful, then what the fuck had I been doing growing up in the gutter?

"Ava..."

I lift my head and lock eyes with her. "You need to tell me everything you've fucking found, Rylie," I say. "And tell me now."

Her lashes flicker, but she inhales and nods. "I was tracking the secondary money trail," she begins. "Just like the first trail went to a bunch of odd LLCs that didn't seem to have any actual owner, this one did too. Both come from Eastpoint funds.”

"Both of them?"

She nods.

"How's that possible? Wouldn't it just be one trail then, why would both of them come from Dean's father."

"They wouldn't," Rylie replies. "I said they both came from Eastpoint funds, not that they came from Nicholas Carter."

I take a step back and sink onto the uncovered mattress. My nails sink into the sides as I grip it and try to figure out what this means, I'm smart enough to memorize shit for those stupid standardized tests high schools hand out, but this is next level confusing. I'm not a detective. “What are you saying?”

Rylie turns back to her laptop, snatching it up and bringing it over to me as she flips it back open. Her fingers fly over the keys with an assuredness and familiarity that showcases her talent. "Nicholas wouldn't pay your mother twice, but your father—Chaz Mason—was an Eastpoint heir and because of that, he was loaded. Avalon, you're a fucking heiress."

I shake my head. I don't—I can't deal with the gravity of that right now. "Just focus on the money trail," I snap.

She winces, but nods. "Okay, so it's like this," Rylie continues. "When Chaz Mason died almost nineteen years ago, he had a secret trust fund set up to pay out when you turned eighteen. This second money trail started the day after you were born but you've never had a bank account, so it went to your mother's.”

"How is that possible?" A fucking trust fund? I am not a trust fund bitch. My head is reeling.

"Well, I sort of discovered it by accident," Rylie admits with a wince. "This picture I found—" She pulls it back up and I find myself drawn to the man in the photo. Just like before, I notice all of the ways he looks like me or, I guess, that I look like him. This was the man my mother had fallen in love with, the reason she'd hated me so much. "Ava?"

I jerk and realize Rylie's been calling my name for what sounds like a while. "What?"

"You drifted, did you hear what I said?" When she turns and looks at me, her hazel eyes staring straight at me almost as if they can see right down into my soul, I pull away.

"No," I say. "I didn't hear you. Just say it again."

She blinks and returns her eyes to the computer screen. "I said it looks like someone spent a lot of time and a lot of money to try and erase his existence online," she repeats. "I saw him in that photograph and thought he looked familiar, though, I didn't realize he was your father until I found your birth certificate. Well, an older version anyway. The one that's officially on file actually has your father's name as unknown, but—"

The more she talks, the more confused I get. "Can you just skip to how you connected the picture with the money?" I ask.

"Right." Rylie clears her throat and then clicks across the screen making the image disappear. "So, I found that Chaz Mason was killed in a car accident, but like your birth certificate, there were two reports. An older report details that he had severe internal bleeding caused by gunshot wounds to the chest and abdomen. Then, later, the report was updated and those details were removed." Her fingers click across the keyboard as her words flow into my head. "The only way I fucking found it was by sheer dumb luck."

"That fucking asshole," I mutter.

Her fingers pause. "Huh?"

"Nicholas fucking Carter," I clarify. "He told me that my father had been his best friend, but he never mentioned being an Eastpoint heir. He said he'd died, but never mentioned how." I release the edge of the mattress and lift my hands to find them shaking. I'm shaking all over, actually. Trembling with barely suppressed rage. "He was murdered, wasn't he?" The question comes out of my throat raw and hoarse.

For a moment, Rylie is silent, and then I feel her shift beside me. I don't look up. I don't turn to her. I just wait for her to respond. When her hand touches mine, I realize that she's moved her computer to the side. I don't squeeze back as she holds it, but it's … I guess … kind of nice that she does. It calms the anger down marginally at least, enough that I can think clearly.

"Yeah," she says. "It looks like he was."

I suck in a sharp breath. "Keep going," I tell her.

Rylie doesn't reach for her computer again. This time, she just starts talking, and I realize—she knows this story by heart. She's probably run through the details of what she's discovered for hours—long before she called me here. The computer, the clicking, the typing, pulling up evidence, that damn photo—it was all a distraction. For her and for me. Because the fact is this is a heavy subject. I doubt she likes it any more than I do.

"The old file on his accident was supposed to have been destroyed years ago," Rylie tells me. "Someone accidentally saved the report, though, when they started doing online cataloging. Newer cases went first into the database that I had to hack into, so his didn't pop up immediately. Ava … someone went through a lot of trouble to cover up his death." His murder, she means.

This is dangerous now, not just for me, but for her, too. And though I don't really care much for normal people—Rylie's grown on me. I almost feel bad, even responsible for putting her in this position. Once you know something, you can't take that knowledge back. No matter how much you might want to.

Patricia's crazy ramblings are starting to make sense to me. She said that I was the reason my father was dead. A part of me had wondered, but I hoped it was just Patricia's justification for all the shit she did, for her own grief. If he was murdered almost nineteen years ago—just months before I'd been born—maybe she was right. Maybe it is my fault.

41

DEAN

I SIT in the SUV in front of a familiar brownstone, gritting my teeth as I dial Braxton's cell for what feels like the millionth time. This time it doesn't even ring but goes straight to voicemail. The same thing happens with Abel's number.

Three days is nothing. They’d been gone for far longer than that before. Yet, something in my gut tells me this time is different. It doesn’t feel right. Something is definitely off. I slam my cell into the console and grip the steering wheel hard, fighting back the urge to hit something. With everything we’d been through recently, not having Braxton and Abel nearby is like having my arms chopped off. There’s no doubt I’m strong on my own, but being without two of the most important people in my life when I’ve grown so used to them being within reach for the last few years … it only amplifies my feelings.

A knock on the passenger side window has me immediately reaching for the gun I’ve taken to carrying at the small of my back. The familiar face that greets me, however, has me pulling my hand away without bringing it out. The door cracks and Viks leans in, gripping the top of the frame with two hands as he arches a brow.

“You’ve been sitting out here for quite some time,” he comments. “Staking out my place now to try and get ahold of your old man?” I scowl, but before I can deny it, he continues talking. “You should know, Dean, he doesn’t come here.”

“Is that a fact?” I deadpan.

“It is.” He smirks. “I can tell you, however, that he called a couple of nights ago and said he had to fly out to California to deal with Miranda.”

I scowl. Of course he did, I think. My mother can’t fucking keep her cool for two goddamn minutes. “Did she get dumped again?” I ask.

Viks shrugs. “She was asked to go to rehab for her alcoholism this time. He’s dealing with that.”

“And he called you to let you know,” I snap. “How is it the two of you aren’t fucking the same bitch again? You’re so close.”

Viks’ expression darkens. “You know I’m with Haley, Dean. I don’t take kindly to anyone questioning that, even jokingly.”

I curse and turn my head even as a minor sliver of guilt eats at me.

After a moment of silence where neither of us say anything, he sighs, making me look his way once more. “I know you don’t like your old man, Dean, but Nicholas isn’t a bad character. I wouldn’t have worked for the man as long as I did if he were.”

I sit there staring at him—trying to decide my next course of action. There’s a reason I drove down here. A reason I’m sitting outside his fucking house. It’s because I have no one else to go to. I have two best friends in this world—and they’re both unavailable until further notice. Avalon is … she’d listen, but I don’t want to dump more onto her plate than she already has to deal with. Who the fuck am I—how the fuck can I call myself a man—if I can’t keep her fucking safe?

“Come on,” Viks says, knocking the top of my SUV with his fist before he pushes away from the car. “Come in and have a drink or something; talk to me.”

My hands curl into fists. “Can I?” I ask.

His brows shoot up. “What the fuck kind of question is that, man?” Viks asks. He shakes his head and turns away from me. “Get your ass in gear before I rescind my offer.” I snort. We both know he’s not going to. He may look like a badass with more ink than anyone I’ve ever seen, but there’s a reason when he finally managed to get his degree it was in something like psychology. A hardass with a fucking heart. Definitely never thought I’d have one of those as my final option.

I cut the engine and slide out of the vehicle to follow Viks up to the porch. When he reaches for the door, he pauses and looks back. “You don’t need to worry about whatever you tell me,” he says suddenly. “Haley’s at a doctor’s appointment.”

I press my lips together but nod my acknowledgment and he opens the door. We trek inside and go immediately to the kitchen. It’s hard to believe that a few short weeks ago I was sitting in this exact same spot with Avalon at my side. Then, I’d blown up. I wonder if I’d kept my cool then, could I have come back here earlier? Would I have figured things out that much sooner? Fact is, I haven’t figured it out yet, but I hope by talking to Viks, I might save my sorry ass.

“Alright,” Viks pulls out a couple of beers from the fridge and tosses one my way.

I don’t flinch as I catch the thing and twist the top off before downing my first swallow. It’s rich and kind of tastes like coffee. After I’ve drained an inch or so from the bottle, I pull it away and look at it, smirking at the foreign label. “Got used to the good stuff, I see,” I say, holding it up and shaking it his way.

He laughs. “What can I say?” he replies with a shrug. “Good place. Good woman. Good beer. I’m living the perfect life.”

“Haley’s doing good then?” I ask. “With the baby?”

A warmth enters Viks expression. “Yeah, I’m happy, man. Can’t wait to have two girls in the house.”

“Oof, man … a girl?” I tip my bottle up again. “What are you gonna do when she starts getting interested in guys?”

His expression darkens, and then after a moment, the sunny warmth is back. He smiles back at me. “I’ll kill any motherfucker who wants to put his hands on my daughter,” he says pleasantly.

I shake my head, not shocked in the slightest.

“What about you?” Viks asks as he lowers his bottle and leans back against the counter. “You thinking about popping out a few of your own with that girl of yours?”

I freeze, stunned by the question—not because it’s not something I haven’t half expected someone to ask, but certainly not so early. “I—ah—I don’t think so,” I reply.

Viks tilts his head. “Oh?” That’s it. No demands as to why, no pressure or talks about how great kids are—then again, his hasn’t even come out of the oven yet, so maybe he’ll be different after he’s had a chance to hold her in his arms. Still, though, that one little syllable makes me feel like I need to say something. Damn man is good at that.

“I can’t imagine it,” I confess. “I love Avalon. I want her—for the rest of my life, honestly. I’ve already proposed.”

“Congratulations.” He tips his beer towards me, and I laugh.

“I didn’t say she accepted,” I tell him. “In fact, she turned me down.”

He whistles. “Scared?”

I lean back on the stool I sit on. “Yeah,” I reply. “Out of her mind—though she’ll never fucking admit it. I know she’s probably still half expecting something to happen between us. She’s never had anyone stick around before.”

Viks barks out a responding laugh. “She’s in for a hard time then,” he says. “When you want something, you’re as sticky as it gets.”

“Damn right, I am,” I agree. My eyes lower to the bottle in my hand and I rim the top with my thumb as I speak. “I’m not going anywhere. I know that. She doesn’t. That’s okay … but kids?” I can’t picture it. Okay, that’s a lie. I can. I can picture a miniature Avalon, or hell, even a miniature me—but her with kids? That’s hard. “I just don’t think it’ll be for us.”

“Why not?” There’s no judgment in his tone, for which I’m grateful.

“I hate the idea of sharing her,” I tell him honestly. “I’m too … possessive. I think about having to give a part of her to someone else, even to my own damn kid, and I get jealous. If we ever do have kids, it’ll be because she wants them, but I’ll be honest, man, I don’t think she will.”

“That could change,” he replies lightly.

“Yeah, it could.” I lift my thumb away from the rim of my beer. “But I don’t think it will. We’re too damaged—both of us are.”

“Damaged people sometimes make the best parents.”

I inhale, lift the bottle, put it to my lips, and down at least half of what I’ve got left. “Yeah, maybe,” I concede. That still doesn’t take away the feeling I have in my soul. Abel’s always been the family guy. Maybe he’ll have one, and if he does, I’ll love that little shit like the best damn uncle in the world. I’d be happy with that. I shake my head. “I didn’t come here to talk about my relationship with Avalon,” I say, getting serious as I look up and meet Viks’ gaze.

He nods. “You didn’t.”

“I’m worried about Braxton and Abel,” I confess. “Elric and Lionel called them back a few days ago, and I haven’t heard from them.”

Viks sets his beer down on the counter and crosses his arms over his chest. “That’s not unusual,” he replies. “That happened often when you were still in high school.”

“No, I know.” I down the last of my beer and set it on the counter as well. “Things are different this time, though.”

He narrows his eyes on me. “How so?”

“It’s different because of what we’re dealing with when it comes to Avalon. We just finished tracking someone down and getting rid of a problem,” I say. “Then all of the sudden we come back to find the fucking car and Mr. Andrews ready to take them away. You don’t fucking think that’s suspicious?”

Viks takes that in and doesn’t say anything for a moment. He lowers his eyes to the floor, and I can practically see the wheels turning in his head. I’d give anything to be inside of it right now, to follow his thoughts and see if I can make sense of what is happening around me that much faster. I’d been able to distract Avalon as much as I could over the last few days, but she’s just as concerned as I am, and there’s only so much I can do.

“Have you figured out who’s behind everything happening with your girl yet?” he asks suddenly.

A scowl forms over my face. “No, my father still hasn’t told us shit.” I pause. “Well, he did finally fucking tell us who Avalon’s father was—though it was like pulling fucking teeth.”

“Oh? And?”

I turn away, blowing out a frustrated breath. “He said the guy was his best friend from his college days. Chaz Mason.”

Viks moves so quickly, he knocks over the bottle he set down on the counter and I hear the glass shatter on the tile floors before I feel his hands grip the front of my shirt and he jerks me half over the island. “What did you just say?” he demands.

I stare at him, stunned. “Chaz Mason,” I repeat the name. “Why? Who is he? I thought you’d know since you said you knew of Avalon.”

Viks looks shocked to his fucking core—his face pale and brows drawn down low. “I knew of her, Dean, but I didn’t know Chaz fucking Mason was her father—shit, I should have. She looks just like the man.”

“Did you know him?” I ask.

“I did—a long time ago,” he answers. “I was a fucking teenager. One of the high school program students and he was…” Viks releases me abruptly and turns away, his foot smacking into the half of the bottle that had somehow managed to stay intact when it smashed into the floor. The neck however, is scattered all over. Not that he fucking notices. “Chaz Mason was an Eastpoint heir. He died. This is—shit, you need to go. Go get Avalon. Bring her—no, fuck!” He shoves a hand over the top of his head and scrubs it down his face as he looks around between the baby shit in his living room and me. “You can’t bring her here.”

“Why the fuck would I bring her here?” I demand. “Viks, man, tell me what’s going on.”

Viks spins to face me. “Fucking think about it, Dean,” he snaps. “Your father knows who’s behind everything—have you ever fucking known him to keep from throwing his power around? Is he tracking them or has he found them? I guarantee you if he knows who they are, then he knows where they are.”

“Yeah? He said he can’t do anything yet—”

“Did he say why?” he cuts me off. “I’m guessing the answer is no, but Dean, you’ve been so mad at him for not telling you what’s going on, that you didn’t think about the fact that him not telling you is a clue within itself.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” I snap. “You know we’ve always done what we had to in order to protect ourselves, but if my father is too scared to tell us who’s behind this, I don’t know how I’m supposed to protect her or do anything if I don’t even know who the fuck I’m fighting.”

“You know, Dean,” Viks steps around the counter and grabs me by the arm. He stares down at me, his expression hard. “If your father is afraid of someone, that means you need to be, too. Think about—who are the only people he can’t do anything to?”

My blood runs cold. “No.”

“You need to go get her,” he says.

“It’s not them,” I say. “It can’t be.” But the only people it could be are … Elric Smalls and Lionel Frazier—Braxton and Abel’s fathers. The only men who have the same power as Nicholas Carter. The only men he’s tied to. The only ones he can’t fucking hurt. I hate how much sense it makes. I’d always thought—they were fucking assholes, monsters to their own children, but they were Eastpoint and so were we. The only time an Eastpoint heir turned on another is if the rules were broken—and that’s exactly what Chaz Mason had done with Avalon’s mother.

“If I’d hazard a guess, Nicholas being out of town just gave them an opportunity—the timing lines up. They called your boys back. Nicholas is gone.”

I jump away from him, ripping my arm from his grasp. “Fuck!”

“I’ll meet you at your place,” Viks says quickly as he starts to move.

“What?” I glance back over my shoulder.

He’s frantically searching through drawers, pulling up fake bottoms, and withdrawing what looks like a Ruger 57. “I said I’m fucking coming with you,” he says. “I’ve gotta send Haley a text, then I’m meeting you at your place. You can’t come here, not with Haley so close to giving birth, but I can certainly fucking stay with you until Nicholas gets back. I’ll call Troy as well—I assume he’s still working for you?”

“He is.”

Viks looks at me standing there, stunned by his offer—does he not even realize how fucking selfless it is? “What the hell are you doing, man? Go get her!”

“It’s dangerous,” I tell him. “You can’t put your family in danger. Even if Haley’s not coming with you—you could get shot or hurt if you get in the middle of this.”

Viks reaches out and grips my arm, his eyes boring into me. “You are fucking family, Dean. Even when you’re acting like a snot-nosed little brother.”

I want to punch him for that comment, but I don’t have time. He’s right. I really need to go get Avalon. I reach up and grip his arm, tightening my hold for a brief moment before letting him go. “Thank you,” I say, hoping he knows that I’m thanking him for far more than his help now, but for all of the times when I felt like my world was spinning out of control. “I’ll see you at the house.”

“Go get her, man.” It’s the last thing I hear from him as I rush towards the front door, throw it open, and dive down the front steps as I pull my phone out and dial her number.

Come on, baby. I race towards the SUV. Pick up…

42

AVALON

MURDERED. My father was murdered, and it was my fault. "I'm sorry, Ava..." Rylie says.

She looks at me, and I hate the expression on her face. It's a mixture of guilt and pity. I hate pity. She's my friend, but that one emotion is enough to make me want to pound my fist into her face. I clench my hand against my side and resist the urge. She's not doing it on purpose, I remind myself. She just feels bad that she had to be the one to tell me that I essentially killed the only parent who ever fucking wanted me.

I shove up and away from the bed because I can't stand to remain sitting a second longer. "Who do you think did it?" I ask, trying to distract myself.

"There aren't a whole lot of people who can kill an Eastpoint heir," she says. "Much less kill them and get away with it."

There's no proof that they did get away with it, though, I think. From what I've come to understand about the Eastpoint heirs over the last few months, they often take care of their business outside of social guidelines, specifically outside of the law. They’re shrouded in darkness, just like me.

"But if I'm the reason he's dead, then it has to be someone close to him," I said. "What about his parents?" My grandparents—the reminder is there in my brain, but it wasn't like all parents truly cared for their children. My mother certainly hadn't. Neither were the guys’ parents for that matter … no, my father’s parents haven’t been mentioned even once. It’s not them, but Rylie confirms it a moment later.

"No, his parents actually passed away just before he graduated high school,” she says as she moves to stand. “He was in his early twenties when your mother was pregnant with you and he died. He'd already been the head of the Mason family fortune for a few years. Unlike the other families, though, it looks like the Masons don't really have any minor branch families attached to them. Each heir only ever had one child."

"Nicholas knew," I state, feeling like my head's about to fucking explode. There's something I'm missing. If Nicholas knew who my father really was, then the only reason he didn't tell me everything is because he knew it would lead me to the truth. To who was behind it all. "Whoever killed my father is trying to kill me.”

Rylie lifts a hand to her face and bites down on her thumbnail, her brows scrunching up on her face. "But why?" she asks. "You're not a threat. At least you weren't then. You might be now that you know more."

There was something that Dean had said weeks ago, before we'd found out Corina's connection to everything, before we found out that she'd been working for the enemy all along, perhaps even longer than I'd been here. Otherwise, how would she have known who I was? How would she have known to approach me early on?

"The succession of ownership and inheritance..." It hits me like a lightning bolt, and as soon as I see a clear picture in my mind, horror is fast on its heels. That's it, I think. It all makes sense. I just need to prove it. "Rylie," I snap, "who got my father's money when he died? Outside of the trust fund, there must have been businesses. Eastpoint heirs aren't low tier rich."

Her eyes bulge. "No," she agrees. "They're not. They're each worth millions, if not billions." She reaches for her computer, propping it back on her desktop. I stand behind her as her fingers fly across the keyboard again. I can almost see her mind jump through the screen, her focus becomes so sharp. She's completely enthralled by the numbers and words flipping through the screen in front of her. Pictures. Images. Bank accounts. Tracers. I'm smart, but I'm nowhere near her level. She's a fucking computer genius, that much is clear. It's no wonder the guys hired her. She's the best of the best, I've never known anyone to type that fast, much less read and process the information she's searching.

"Oh my god..." Her fingers freeze and she presses her palm against her mouth as the whisper escapes her lips.

"What is it?" I ask, leaning over her. "Did you find him?"

"Th-them." Her voice trembles as she looks back at me with big hazel eyes full of fear. "I found them. Avalon ... the money went to the rest of the Eastpoints. It went to the guys' fathers."

I open my mouth to respond when she gasps and her screen glitches. "What the fuck?" she snaps.

"What just happened?" I ask.

"The wifi went out," she replies. "Ugh. Stupid fucking, shitty ass—I have my own wifi, this shouldn't be happening."

I scrub a hand down my face as she fiddles with the computer, trying to get the information back. Her discovery makes sense. The Sick Boys—or rather, the Eastpoint heir families—have had this tradition for ages. Dean told me. Their businesses are intertwined. Their families so deeply interwoven that one cannot hurt the other lest the rest fall apart. Business deals. Hostile takeovers. Marriage contracts. American royalty. American industrialism. One family cannot attack another, but what happens when one family disobeys? What happens when one heir breaks the rules? What happens when three gang up on one? Wait, no, not three.

Nicholas had truly seemed heartbroken at the loss of his friend, the loss of my father. Dean doesn't trust him, but he's never shown hatred towards me. He's never tried to hurt me. He even accepted my relationship with Dean. Then that has to mean…

"Braxton and Abel are in danger," I say.

"What?" Rylie pushes back from her chair as soon as Abel's name leaves my lips. "Why?"

I shake my head. There isn't enough time. I reach for my cell and as soon as my fingers touch it, a sharp, piercing alarm screams through the room. Rylie yelps, jumping as she cups her hands over her ears.

"What the fuck?" I look up as the lights flicker and the alarm continues to blare.

"It's the fire alarm!" Rylie yells over the noise.

Fuck. Just our luck. "Grab your computer," I snap. "We need to at least go to the first floor to see if it's just a drill or real."

She nods and spins back to her desk, snatching her computer and shoving it into a nearby satchel. I head for the door as I pull my cell phone out. The second I hit the hallway, though, I know the fire is very much real. Though I don't yet see flames, the scent of smoke is thick.

"Shit." I hiss and quickly dial Dean's number, but nothing happens. I look at the top of the screen and curse when I see the lack of bars and lack of wifi—whatever is fucking jamming Rylie's laptop appears to be working on my cell phone as well.

"Avalon!" Rylie grabs my arm and points down the hallway. I turn my head and my jaw drops. The scent of smoke isn't the only thing in the air now, black smoke billows up from the first floor, creeping over the staircase. "We need to get out of here," she says quickly.

"The emergency exit staircase," I yell over the still screaming alarm.

She nods and follows me as I race towards it, on the opposite end of the hall, hoping like fuck that the fire is on the other side of the building and not on this one. I'd rather avoid jumping from a second story window if at all possible. I glance back as Rylie hurries to keep up with me. She's so small, she'll probably break both of her legs on the way down if we have to go that route.

We hit the emergency exit running and thankfully, the stairwell seems to be smoke free, but the sound of the alarm echoes upward, resounding back and hitting our eardrums even louder than before. I wince as we rush down the stairs and hit the first floor. But as soon as we're out of the enclosed emergency staircase, smoke hits us in the face.

I curse, turning away as it begins to burn my eyes. "Get down!" I yell, crouching as I grip the top of my shirt and pull it up over my nose and mouth.

"This way!" Rylie calls back. Her hand finds mine and this time, she tugs me after her as she rushes along the first hallway. Her nails sink into the back of my hand, but the sting is nothing compared to the burn in my eyes. I can feel tears begin to form tracks down my cheeks.

My head's fucking pounding by the time Rylie stops in front of a door and drops my hand. She covers her palm with the bottom of her shirt and touches the handle before trying to open it, but nothing happens. Her eyes widen and she looks back at me helplessly.

I don't even have the voice to tell her to move back, I just push her against the other side of the hallway and take a step back from the door. I reach towards my back and withdraw the gun from my waistband. Pointing the barrel at the lock, I flip the safety off and pull the trigger. The lock and the wood around it explode, and I lift my foot and kick as hard as I can. The door slams inward, the frame where the lock had been coming away in pieces. Breathing hard, I cough as my shirt falls away from my face and more smoke enters my lungs. It's hot as fucking hades in here and we need to get the fuck out.

Rylie moves before I'm even ready, shoving me into the room and turning and pushing the door somewhat back in place. It's an empty dorm room. "What ... are you ... doing?" I cough out.

"The windows," she says, pointing to the glass windows across from the beds and dressers. We both hurry towards them. Setting the gun down on the ledge, I unlock the top and try to open them, frowning when I see that someone's fucking corked up the sides and sealed the window shut. Fucking campus policies.

I pull out my pocket knife and start digging at the sides. Rylie rips me away as more smoke begins to slip in from the broken doorway. She picks up one of the chairs and pushes it towards me. "Break it!" she yells.

I nod, gripping the chair and taking a deep, burning breath before I heft the fucking heavy ass wood up and throw it as hard as I can. With the building being as old as it is, the window has double panes. The chair only breaks one. I pull it back and try again.

Glass shatters and fresh air pours into the room. "You first," I say, ripping off my shirt and wrapping my hand in the fabric to push out the glass along the bottom, top, and sides.

Rylie clambers through the now open window and drops down onto the grass below and seconds later, I follow, grabbing my gun on the way.

Gasping in the clean air and feeling it against my semi-naked skin, my head starts to spin. A cough escapes my throat and as soon as one does, another follows it. I turn on my side as the coughs become rougher and harder.

"Ava..." Rylie croaks. I see her start to crawl towards me, there's a smudge of something dark on her hand and when she reaches up and wipes the sweat away from her brow, it sticks to her skin. "Ava, are you..."

"Well, well, well, what do we have here?" a familiar voice asks.

I'd been so hot. Burning really. My chest feels like it's caving in, and I feel like I've inhaled enough smoke to never want another fucking cigarette in my life, but that voice makes me go cold.

I get up on shaking legs, clutching the gun in my free hand even as Rylie pushes herself under me and holds one of my arms over her shoulders. "Who's that?" she asks as I look up and meet the gaze of a man I'd hoped to be torturing the next time I saw him.

"His name’s Ace," I rasp, shoving my cellphone in her hands. "You need to call Dean," I say, pushing away from her. “Now.”

"W-what are you going to do?" she stutters as I take a step towards Ace, eying him up and down. He’s got a new scar on his neck. Almost like someone tried to kill him with a piece of wire—the red line disappears around the side of his neck, but his voice only sounds marginally deeper.

"Bye time," I huff, lifting my arm and taking aim. My gaze is blurry. My head is pounding. I fucking pray Dean gets here soon because, even as close as Ace is, I’m not sure I can hit him. As soon as my finger settles over the trigger, though, Ace lifts up an odd shaped black gun of his own, points it at me, and pulls the trigger.

Electricity races through my system, fire dancing along my nerve endings, and sending my already struggling brain into overdrive. The gun in my grasp falls to the ground. My limbs shake and tremble as I tumble down, shivering and jerking even though I'm not actively doing anything. A feminine gasp sounds in my ears and then something hits the ground next to me. In my peripheral vision, I see Rylie fumbling for something. The gun? I don’t see her pick it up, though, and the last thing I hear before I pass out is a gunshot from further away and then Rylie's scream.

43

DEAN

SHE'S NOT FUCKING ANSWERING the phone. I press call again and the damn thing doesn't even ring—just like Abel and Braxton's phones. Something is definitely fucking wrong and I can feel my panic rising. I don't know what else to do, so I call the one man I hoped I'd never need, but right now I'm willing to do whatever it takes even if that means I need to sell my soul to the Devil, himself.

He picks up on the first ring. "Dean, I'm busy right now—"

"The guys are missing," I cut him off, breathless as I push down on the gas even harder and swerve around a creeping sedan. The dial on the speedometer creeps up to ninety and then past it. "Avalon isn't picking up her phone." Fuck, I don't know what to do. "I know who's been trying to hurt her. I know what you've been keeping from me."

Nicholas is quiet for a brief moment, then… "I told you not to go looking for them, Dean," he says. "Dean. You shouldn't have—"

"I didn't go looking!" I yell as I blast through a yellow light. If a cop catches me now, I'm just going to have to keep going. The last thing we need right now is to draw attention, but I have to get to her. "I was with Viks and it just—it hit me—you're gone. They're making their move. I can't get ahold of her." I choke and slam my fist against the steering wheel. "I know you're not in town. Viks told me."

"Maybe she's just asleep or something, Dean," my father says, his tone gentling. I've never heard this tone from him before. He actually sounds almost something like a real fucking father. "Don't panic."

Don't panic? I'm already fucking panicking. "No!" I yell. "It's not even ringing. It's like it's jammed or something. I'm on my way back to her, but..." I've never been this fucking scared in my life. I squeeze the steering wheel in front of me, holding on for dear life. "Dad … I don't know what the fuck to do. I can't—I can't fucking lose her.”

"Calm down," he snaps. "You can't do anything until you know whether or not she's okay. The first thing you do is—"

I screech into the parking lot of the Havers dormitory and my jaw drops. "No."

"Dean?" My father's voice grows distant. "Dean, what's going on?"

"It's on fire..." I hear myself say the words as I throw the car into park.

"What's on fire?" he asks.

"The fucking building," I say. "Havers." I hear sirens in the distance. I shut the car off and jump out, lifting the phone to my ear. "I left her here," I tell him. "She was right fucking here an hour ago! She wanted to stop by and see her—"

A splitting ring cuts through my call and I look down. The second I see Avalon's number, I don't give him any explanation, I just cut the call over to her. "Avalon?" I pant. "Baby, I'm here. Where the hell are you? The building's on—"

"D-Dean?" It's not Avalon's voice that comes across the line, but Rylie's.

"Rylie?" I frown as I start searching the empty parking lot. "Where's Avalon? Is she with you?"

She sniffles and I turn around as I hear it in person and she's standing there with a satchel across her chest and a bloody arm, tears running down her face. I drop my hand and rush over to her. "Rylie!" I grab her, making her yelp. Blood smears across my hand, but I don't care. There's no sign of Avalon anywhere. "Where is she?"

Rylie shakes her head. "H-he took her," she says. It's clear she's in shock, and maybe I should be kinder to this girl—especially knowing how Abel feels about her—but I can't. There's too much adrenaline running through my system and not enough answers. Where is Avalon?

"Who took her, Rylie?" I demand, shaking her slightly.

"She said his name was Ace," she says quickly. "He didn't kill her, he just tased her and took her with him."

"And this," I ask, releasing her bleeding arm.

"He shot at me and told me to stay back if I wanted to live."

"Fuck!" I turn away, the rage so hot inside of me, I can't contain it. A firetruck speeds into the parking lot and halts abruptly. Men jump out, rushing towards the burning building as more come towards us.

"Is there anyone else inside?" one of the firefighters demands. I can't fucking do this right now, I turn away, but dimly, I hear Rylie reply, telling him no.

My phone rings and I answer—already knowing who it is. "Did you find her?" my father asks.

"No," I say. "They took her. She's gone."

He curses.

"This was fucking planned," I say.

"I know," he agrees. "Those fuckers—they must've had someone tracking me. I didn't tell many people that I'd be leaving. They're using my absence to their advantage."

"Dean?" Rylie's voice is soft but firm. I turn back to her. She lifts her chin and takes a step closer. "What do you want me to do?" she asks, clutching her satchel as blood runs down her arm. "I have my computer, but the wifi cut out before we had to get out of the building."

"It was probably a jammer," I tell her.

She nods as if she'd already figured that out. "It explains why I couldn't use the cell phone until they left," she replies. "There's something else, though, Avalon said that Abel was in trouble—and Braxton. I found out about her father, Dean. He was an Eastpoint heir which means she is. I think it was them—the others—who did this."

I eye her sharply. Even if I hadn't gone to Viks, she would've figured this out. It'd only been a matter of time.

"Dean," my father’s voice in my ear draws my attention back. I can't go back to him, though, until Rylie is taken care of.

"Go with the EMTs," I order her. "Get checked out. Stay at the hospital." I reach into my pocket and withdraw a black card, tossing it her way. "If anyone gives you any trouble, flash that. Keep Avalon's phone so I can get ahold of you."

She catches the card and holds it to her chest for a moment, her eyes locking on mine. "Find her, Dean," she says. "Don't fucking let them kill her."

I open my mouth, but she doesn't even let me tell her that there's no fucking way in hell I'll let that happen. She just turns around and walks away. I don't know when this little purple-haired mouse of a girl turned so vocal, but I have to think it's Avalon's influence, and maybe it's not a bad thing.

I shake my head and refocus on my phone. "What can you do?" I demand.

My father blows out a breath and I hear someone in the background talking to him and the whirring of airplane engines. Had he been on the move since this conversation started? "I'm chartering a plane right now," he says. "But I still won't be there for a few hours."

"Avalon might not have a few hours," I say. "And I can assure you as soon as I get my fucking hands on Lionel and Elric, they won't either. I need to know where they might have taken her."

He barks something to someone off the phone—demands for them to hurry the fuck up—and then he's back. "I'm going to send you an address," he tells me. "It's ... it's the Mason estate."

The Mason Estate—because Avalon's real last name is Mason and she's an Eastpoint heir just like the rest of us. It's almost fucking funny if it weren't the reason why she's in danger. She acted like an Eastpoint heir before we even knew she really was one. I don't have the energy to be angry about the fact that my father kept this from us, from her, too right now. I just need to find her.

"Send it to me," I growl as I grip the door to my SUV and yank it open.

"Already sent—to you and to Viks; I assume he'll be with you."

"Yeah."

"Be careful, Dean."

I jump back into the vehicle, hang up the call with my father, and dial Troy. We're going to need a lot of fucking guns because, after tonight, there will be two less Eastpoint heirs in this world.

Just hang on, baby. I think. I'm coming.

44

DEAN

VIKS SLAPS the magazine of his gun into place, pulls back on the top of the gun to check and make sure there’s a bullet in the chamber, and finishes loading. My foot is to the floor, pressing down on the gas as I speed through the streets. Every second I'm away from Avalon is dangerous. My heart's fucking pounding against my ribcage, so loud I can hear it thrumming in my eardrums.

"Still no answer from the guys?" he asks as I grip the steering wheel. "What did Nicholas have to say?"

"He's on his way back, but there's no way he's going to make it in time," I say. "You know they're going to try to end this tonight. They'll kill her as soon as they're sure they can get away with it."

"And if they're not at the Mason Estate?" he asks as he sets the gun down on the floorboards and reaches for mine. He unloads the magazine and checks the clip.

"Where else would they go?" I demand. "My father seemed pretty fucking convinced that's where they'd go."

"No one knows about it but him and those two," Viks concedes just as I catch sight of the entrance to the main Frazier estate. I whip in between the two brick columns and thank fuck that Abel had snuck me a gate entrance opener years ago. I press it and gun the engine, nearly colliding with the edges of the black, wrought iron gates when they don't open fast enough for my liking.

The lights of the house are lit when we pull up to the front. Viks hands my gun back and palms his own. "They probably left some men to keep the boys from running off," he warns. "We'll need to be careful."

If Viks is right—which he probably is—and Elric and Lionel are forcefully keeping their sons locked up then that can only mean they know what she means to them. She may be mine in every way under the sun, but to Brax and Abel … Ava has become something different. She's not a replacement, but those two haven't had a woman that gave a shit about them since Josie died.

I take the gun he hands me and check the safety before flicking it off. "We need to go get Brax after this," I say. "I can't do this without either of them."

Viks nods, but before he can say another word, a familiar voice speaks. "No need, I'm already here." Our heads turn and catch sight of Braxton as he slips from around the side of the mansion, dressed in dark clothes.

"Brax!" Relief slides through me. "How did you know to come here?"

"The old men have been keeping secrets," Brax replies as he stalks towards us. I frown when I note the dark bruises along the side of his face. "It seemed a bit odd to me that they would call us back at such a convenient time. They were tracking us, watching us. I don't know what they're planning, but I knew you'd need both Abel and I."

I nod. "I figured as much." It was the only explanation as to how they'd know exactly when we'd return from the city. They knew we killed their little puppet and as soon as my father left town, they'd thrown their plan into action. I can only hope that this plan of theirs is haphazard, that they’re just taking advantage of the opportunity and it doesn’t go deeper than that. There's no room for mistakes on our part. One wrong move could mean Avalon's death. "And yes, we do. Avalon's been taken."

His jaw hardens. I nod towards the SUV. "Take the extra gun in the glove box," I order. "Let's get Abel and get the fuck out of here."

"Do you know where she is?" he demands.

"I know where she might be, but we're running low on time."

Braxton doesn't need to be told twice. He marches towards the SUV as Viks and I turn our attention to the front of the Frazier mansion. Minutes later, he's at our side with his own firearm. All those years of training—the physical exhaustion, the warnings, the betrayals we faced—none of it had predicted that we'd be facing two of our own, but it had at least prepared us.

The three of us move towards the front door and I take the lead. I’m thankful that each of us had made it a point to copy keys to the main estates for all of us to have because it allows us to slip into the house quietly. That's the only thing that's quiet, though. The second we enter the foyer and shut the door behind us, Abel's voice sounds from somewhere on the first floor.

Viks lifts his gun and moves forward. "—fucking keep me here!" Abel yells.

"Please, calm yourself. Getting so worked up will do nothing." That's Andrews. His monotone, expressionless voice is bland, unbothered by Abel's anger. I round the side of a wider room and catch sight of Abel standing between two larger men, both with their guns drawn and pointed towards him.

"If you want to keep me from leaving, then you're going to have to tell them to shoot me, Andrews," Abel warns him.

"I will do what I must, Mr. Abel. Please be advised, we will not kill you, but if you continue disobeying your father's direct order to stay, we will ensure that you cannot leave, even if that means damaging your legs."

Abel's head turns one way and then another, and I can tell he's close to the edge. He's weaponless, but certainly not rageless, and though he may be the most easygoing out of all of us, he received the same training. He won't go down without a fight. We don't, however, have time for that fight. As Andrews lifts his palm, commanding the two men, Braxton, Viks, and I lift our own weapons and pull the triggers.

The men on either side of Abel go down first and then Andrews. Abel jumps back, curses, and turns, his fists raised before he sees who it is. "Dean? Brax?" He blinks at us. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

"No time," I snap, gesturing for him to hurry his ass up. "We need to go. Come on."

"Where's Ava?" Abel demands.

"She's been taken," Braxton informs him.

Abel's face goes from surprise to horror to amusement. He puts a hand to the top of his hairline and tosses back his head. "Oh, those dumb motherfuckers." He laughs. "They're in for it now. She's going to wreck them."

"Let's go give her some backup, then," I suggest. Abel nods and looks at the gun in my hand.

"You got another one of those for me?"

Viks reaches back and pulls out a second handgun, tossing it his way before he retrieves his cell. "You go on ahead," he orders. "I'll take care of this." He swipes a hand towards the bodies on the floor.

I give him a grateful nod. "Thanks, man."

He shakes his head. "Don't thank me, just get your damn girl back."

"I fucking will," I tell him.

45

AVALON

THERE'S no point in trying to pretend I'm still unconscious when my mind comes back to reality. The pain running through my body is enough to make me groan before I even open my eyes, ruining any element of surprise I could’ve mustered. My nerve endings feel like they’ve been fried. The excruciating, shooting pain I’d felt right before the world had turned black is gone, but the remnants still linger.

"You're awake," Ace says gruffly. "Good, I was afraid I held the trigger on that taser down a bit too long.”

"Is she dead?" is the first thing out of my mouth.

"I'm sorry?"

I tilt my head back and glare at him across the vast empty space. It's a ... living room? No, but it's a big room of sorts. Massive. With arching walls and a chandelier and a white brick fireplace. All of the furniture, however, aside from the couch Ace is lounging on—flipping my goddamn pocketknife up into the air before deftly catching it and tossing it again—and the chair underneath my ass is covered in white sheets.

"You will be," I growl. "But before we get to that, answer my fucking question—the girl that was with me. Did you kill her?"

"Oh." He stops tossing my knife. "No. I only had one of my men give her a warning shot. Nicked her arm—she'll be fine.”

I breathe a sigh of relief. I don't have that many friends in this world, it would fucking suck if yet another person who gave a shit about me died because of me. Footsteps sound against the floor from somewhere out of my line of sight. My muscles tighten automatically, making me groan again as pain lances through me.

A dark figure emerges with a phone in hand and stops between where I sit and Ace’s couch. Ace, however, has straightened and stood. He hovers above the newcomer but keeps his head low, and he takes a subservient stance with his arms behind his back. I eye the new scar.

“Sir,” he says respectfully.

Sir? Shit, this must be one of them, I think.

“Calm yourself, Ace,” a gruff voice says. He finishes whatever he’s doing on the phone and then tucks it into the brown waistcoat he’s wearing. Who the fuck wears a waistcoat in the summer? Apparently this man. “We’re just waiting on Smalls. Has she said anything?”

“She just asked about the friend we left behind,” Ace responds.

“That’s all?”

“Hey,” I snap, stretching my hands out behind my back as I try to gain more feeling in them. My wrists feel numb and the tips of my fingers are tingling. “I’m right fucking here; if you’re so fucking curious about what I’ve said, you can ask me.”

The man turns towards me and I pause, recognizing him. But where from? No, it’s not that I recognize him, it’s that he resembles someone I know. Abel.

I grit my teeth. “You must be Lionel.”

His eyebrows rise. “You know who I am?”

“You look just like your son,” I reply. “Does he know that you’re here? Does he know what you’re doing?”

Lionel Frazier scoffs. “That stupid boy?” He shakes his head. “No. He’s safely back in my mansion, doing what he’s told, as he should.”

I cough out a laugh. I must have inhaled more smoke than I thought because my throat and lungs still ache. “I’m sure he is,” I say sarcastically.

“I don’t appreciate your tone,” Lionel says sharply.

“Yeah?” I try to clear my throat to no avail. “Well, I don’t like being raped, tortured, almost killed, and then tased and kidnapped. You’ll have to fucking forgive me if I can’t quite give a shit about you liking my tone or not.”

“Mouthy, aren’t you?” Lionel comments as he takes a step closer to me and reaches up, removing first one glove and then another. “Not surprising. Your mother was quite a mouthy bitch when she was your age.”

“I’m nothing like her,” I snap.

Lionel removes his other glove and passes both off to Ace, who takes them and then moves back. His face is an expressionless mask while Lionel hovers over me with a gleeful look in his eyes. “You’re prettier than she was, though, by far,” Lionel comments.

I scowl at him. “Aren’t you planning on killing me?” I demand. “Why are you wasting time fucking talking?

He grasps my chin and tilts my head back. His fingers tighten until I can’t keep my mouth shut because of the pain in my jaw. “Unlike your stupid father, I don’t do anything without my partner by my side. Elric is on his way; not to worry, little girl. Your life will end soon. We should’ve known better than to leave this to insufficient idiots.”

My eyebrows raise and my gaze flicks to Ace. Catching my deviated attention, Lionel releases me and chuckles. “Yes, I mean Ace. He’s good at his job when you tell him what to do, but he’s far too fucking stupid to be of use anywhere else. He needs a master to hold his reins right.” Ace’s jaw clenches, but he doesn’t respond to offer anything to counter this man’s claims. It’s kind of odd to me. Lionel is a good half a foot shorter than Ace and from the looks of it several pounds lighter. Ace is dangerous. Ace is a master in the craft of torture—having experienced it first hand, I know. What the hell could Lionel have on him that makes him act like a subservient puppy?

“If you ask me, I’d say you’re the one who’s far too fucking stupid to be of use,” I say. “You need someone else to do your dirty work for you.”

The blow lands against the side of my face before I even see his hand move. A cough spews out along with flying spittle just before the pain hits my cheek. Blood fills my mouth and I lick my dry lips. The split he created right in the corner of my mouth stings and burns.

“I don’t believe anyone asked you,” Lionel’s voice is hard, cold. “But I do not appreciate insolence, little girl.”

I laugh. “That’s too bad,” I say. “‘Cause I’m fucking full of it.”

He shifts in front of me and arches a brow, a smirk appearing on his lips. “You’re quite cocky for someone who knows she’s about to die.”

“Death. Life. Who gives a shit?” I ask. “But if you think I’ll die easily enough, you’re fucking crazier than you look.”

“Am I?” He seems amused for some reason, and that more than anything sets me on edge.

I’m pissed, growing angrier by the second. My skin feels like hundreds of bees are crawling through it. Like the phantom of the earlier voltage that Ace shot through me is still lingering on my flesh. My vision blurs slightly and I shake my head to get rid of it. It doesn’t completely eradicate the fuzziness, but it does clear my head.

“You wouldn’t be here right now if I were easy to kill,” I point out, turning my cheek and spitting out a wad of saliva and blood.

He frowns down at the collection of fluids on the floor. “Vulgar,” he snaps.

I smile. “That’s me.”

A door somewhere opens and more footsteps enter. “Well, not to worry, you won’t be around much longer,” Lionel replies as he looks up when the footsteps stop somewhere behind me.

I hate that I can’t fucking turn around and see who it is. Hate the fucking vulnerability in being tied to this damn chair, but I can guess who our newest guest is. Especially when Lionel’s face loses all expression and he takes a step back.

“What are you doing?” a deep baritone inquires.

“Waiting for you,” Lionel replies.

“Well, I’m here now,” he says. “There’s no need to wait any longer.”

Lionel frowns. “Where have you been?”

The man approaches, circling around the side of my chair, and my eyes widen. Holy shit, the guys really do take after their fathers. Because this man looks like a carbon copy of Braxton—except, if possible—even fucking bigger. The only difference is that his hair is slightly lighter and he’s dressed in a pressed, pinstriped suit.

“I had to deal with a separate matter,” the man I suspect is Elric Smalls says.

“Your son?” Lionel inquires.

Elric doesn’t say a word, but he does nod.

“Are the boys going to be a problem?” Lionel asks.

“I can handle my son as long as you can handle yours,” Elric replies before looking down at me. Unlike the somewhat wicked glint in Lionel’s gaze, this man … has no expression. No warmth. No excitement. No fear. No anything. He looks devoid of all emotion. Completely empty with eyes like a corpse. It makes my heart pound against the inside of my chest.

My lashes flicker as I look between the two of them. “Fine, then,” Lionel says. “Let’s get this over with.”

When Lionel pulls out a gun from behind his back, lifts, and points it my way, I feel something click into place. No—I don’t feel a click, I hear one. Then the soft puff of a silencer. Only, as I stare at the gun in Lionel’s grasp, I realize it doesn’t have one.

I look up just as Ace dives to the side. A red dot appears on Lionel Frazier’s forehead before it leaks down between his eyes. The gun slips between his fingers and lands on the ground as he slumps over.

“Shit,” Ace hisses.

“Get the girl,” Elric commands. “Get to the basement.”

Before I understand what’s happening, the glass windows to the far back of the massive room shatter, and more gunshots come pouring through. They stop though as Ace dives on top of me and circles my back. He cuts through the ropes pinning me down and then holds the knife against my throat—my fucking knife. I grit my teeth. “Don’t fucking try anything,” he hisses in my ear as he and Elric hold me in front of them as they back towards another hallway.

“Did you lead them here?” Ace demands.

“Watch your tone,” Elric says coldly, shooting him a venomous look. “They must have been lying in wait.”

“It’s Dean,” I say. “And the guys—they fucking figured it out.”

“Shut up,” Ace replies, shoving me down a flight of stairs.

I gasp as my legs leave the fucking stairs and I tumble down, slamming into the opposite wall. My head bangs into something hard, something concrete. Fuck. The world’s spinning. I pant, putting one hand against my temple, but when I feel a masculine hand wrap around my bicep and try to pull me back to my feet, I catch the bastard, spin, and slam my knee into his fucking crotch. Ace wheezes out a breath and falls to the ground. I jump over him and rush back up the stairs.

I don’t make it three steps, however, because a massive paw grabs the back of my neck and squeezes, ripping me back and tossing me from the staircase into another room—this one, an empty unfinished basement with a stone floor and four windowless walls.

“How the fuck are you gonna get out of here?” I demand. “You’re caught like a rat in a trap.”

“That doesn’t concern you.”

Panting, I get to my feet. Something sticky drips down the back of my neck. Fuck, I think. I hit my head harder than I originally thought. Ace coughs as he places a hand on the side of the wall and leverages back onto his feet.

“You fucking bitch,” he hisses.

“Enough, Ace,” Elric snaps. “Go back upstairs and give the boys something to focus on while I finish up here.”

Ace staggers to the side and then swings his head towards Elric. “Are you insane?” He gapes at the man. “They’re going to kill me.”

“Yes, I suspect they will,” Elric reaches into his jacket pocket and retrieves another gun.

“I’m not going back up there just to die,” Ace argues.

Elric sighs and turns, lifting the gun and pointing it his way. “Die up there or die down here, it makes no difference to me. I recommend you go upstairs, however, and follow my orders. Perhaps if you survive, I’ll forget this bit of rebelliousness. Unless you want your final actions to cause an issue for a friend of yours…”

Ace’s face goes cold—the same face I recall when he tortured me. Though I can tell it takes effort for him, he stands straighter and turns back towards the stairs. “Understood,” he says, disappearing back up to the dark.

The second he’s gone, I know Elric is going to turn that gun on me. I don’t give him the chance. Placing one foot firmly on the ground, I inhale and then launch myself across the space towards him. My fingers grip the gun, reaching down and hitting something as the magazine clip comes free. His finger squeezes the trigger and I nearly fucking fall on my ass when a bullet pings into the concrete floor an inch from my foot, but that’s good. There’s no magazine and nothing in the chamber now. I may not be able to wrestle the damn gun from him, but he can’t shoot me with no bullets.

Elric’s free hand slams into the side of my face, knuckles crunching against my cheekbone. More blood hits my tongue. Stars dance in front of my vision. One whole side of my face is hot. My vision fades completely for a moment and my knees hit the ground.

“Ava!” Footsteps sound on the staircase. I turn just as my sight returns to see Dean launch himself off of the bottom step and slam into Elric. The two tumble to the ground. I hear the click of Elric’s gun and then an irritated curse. The magazine lays on the floor several feet away. I struggle to get back to my feet, only to be knocked back as Dean comes flying my way. His back hits my stomach and the two of us fall in a tangle of limbs as the last of the air in my chest flies out.

I cough. “Dean…” I gasp, wheeze. Can’t breathe. Air. His hands find my shoulders as Dean gets back to his feet and lifts me to mine, tucking me behind him.

What the fuck is wrong with me? I think. I’m not fighting. One knee buckles and I look down, realizing my pants are torn and blood is leaking from an open wound right over my knee. I stare at it, expecting it to hurt, but all I can feel is the fire in my chest.

“Are you okay?” Dean asks.

“Yeah…” I lie through my teeth, reaching up and squeezing his arm more to keep myself standing than to give him reassurance.

“You should have taken the hint, boy,” Elric snaps as he steps forward, and my eyes widen as he leans down and picks up the gun that Dean had dropped in the scuffle, dropping his empty useless one. “You should have stayed away and let us finish this business that should have been taken care of nineteen years ago.”

46

AVALON

NO.

I see it before it even happens and my whole body rebels against it. No, is all I can think. No, please. Anything but that. Anything but him.

The thing about the universe, about people, though, is that they often don’t take your desires and needs into consideration. The universe doesn’t understand that without him, I’ll be as good as dead. An empty vessel. Without him, I’ve got seconds to live. Seconds that will be altogether too goddamn long because they’ll be in a world where he no longer resides.

The universe doesn’t care. It’s indifferent.

So is Elric Smalls as he lifts the gun and pulls the trigger without even a hint of hesitation. Even though we all know who his true target is—me—it’s not me he’s shooting at. It’s Dean. Because there is no place that I could ever be where Dean would not be right alongside me, in front of me like the stupid bastard that he is. Neither in life nor in death. The whole world slows as he shifts further in front of me, and I see it when the bullet hits him. His body jerks, slams backwards as his spine hits my chest, and a sudden pain enters my ribcage.

“No!”

At first, I think I’m the one screaming the word that’s ricocheting around the inside of my mind, but that isn’t the case. The voice screaming it is far too masculine. Then I see him. As I fall backwards, Dean’s weight too heavy to hold up on my own as he slumps to the ground, Braxton tears down the staircase. When his father turns the gun on him, Braxton doesn't even flinch; he pulls the trigger, and Elric's gun goes flying.

Elric releases a low grunt and grasps his hand as blood drips onto the unfinished basement flooring. Braxton doesn't take the easy way out, though. There's a bruise on the side of his face and it only heightens the molten fury in his eyes as he launches himself off the bottom step, his speed far more surprising than anything else as he barrels straight into his own father and lets his fists fly, his own gun skidding to the side, forgotten.

My eyes go down to the man in my arms. Dean’s face is pale, splattered with his own blood. Hell, I’m covered in it too. I can feel it leaking through his back all over my lap and onto my chest. I shift him, moving to the side, my fingers slipping in all of the red that surrounds us. I lift my hand as if staring at someone else’s limbs. It’s trembling so badly it feels like the whole world is experiencing the worst earthquake in history. That’s not it. It’s just me. I’m the only thing shaking. Fear makes people do crazy things. It wreaks havoc on the body as well as the mind. Fear can make you lose your sight, your hearing, your rationale, your fucking mind if you’re not careful.

Before Roger Murphy had well and truly fucked me—both physically and mentally—I’d thought I understood the emotion of fear. I’d lived in the shadow of it all my life.

I hated Patricia, but I was afraid of being abandoned by her. I hated my life but feared death. If I’m being honest with myself, when Roger had finally raped me, it’d almost felt like a dam had burst, almost as if I’d been walking through life with shades on and clogged ears and as soon as it had happened, poof—I could hear and see crystal clear again.

I’d gotten so used to the murky waters of life that I hadn’t realized it was all so gray and muddy. But every shove of my face into that gross trailer vinyl had driven home the reality. It was all bound to happen one way or another. It was, in a way, fate.

I’d tried running from it. Tried hiding. Tried fighting.

Then Roger Murphy happened. Lots of women are raped and I’d always known it could happen to me, but when it finally did … it hadn’t felt real.

I know I’m not the only one who’s suffered. Yet still … the after effects of it left me in an isolated mindset. Because in several dark, lonely hours standing under the shower in the Havers dormitory, I’d felt like the only person on the planet that had ever experienced the feelings of violation, disgust, and rage that welled within me.

Questions had raced through my mind: Why me? Why did it have to happen? Why did he do it? What was I going to do now?

Those damn unrelenting questions drove me damn near crazier than the actual action ever had. I, at least, had one thing going for me—unlike so many of the others, I had actually killed the man who thought he could take from me simply because he was bigger and stronger.

And how did he do it? Well, he had to drug me—not once, but twice. Yet, still, thinking of it doesn’t erase the little, condescending voice in the back of my head that says it was always bound to happen. Roger had been trying to get me for years. Patricia had been helping him. Her hatred for me—first because I’d lived while my father hadn’t, and then for looking like him when he was already dead and out of her reach—had taken her to lows no parent should ever go.

I’d fought her and the inevitability of Roger’s actions all my life. I’d latched onto the first person who’d ever shown me affection and caring and kindness. I didn’t realize how lucky I’d gotten until I met Micki. She’d taught me the ways to unleash the rage within me—through fights, through sheer stubbornness. And even though she had her own issues, her own secrets that she continuously refused to share with me, she had left me with a very important gift.

The gift of adaptability, of change, of being able to move the fuck on.

When you live under the cloud of fear for so long, it starts to rot your soul. You become accustomed to the feeling and the potency lessens. Fear goes away, but its effects remain.

It’s like my mind and body can work on autopilot when I feel the vast range of fear that overwhelms me. I don’t have to think about anything; the emotion takes care of it all.

I was afraid for so long, and now I’m not.

I’m not afraid of Patricia or Corina or Ace or anyone.

I’m not even afraid of death.

Now, the only thing I’m afraid of … is this. His death.

“Dean?” My voice is hoarse as I touch his cheek and move up to his forehead.

His eyes open, but they’re unfocused. His chest rises and falls, but with each movement, more blood leaks from the hole to the side of his chest and from his lips.

No.

“Ava?” he whispers. “Baby?”

“I’m here.” His arm lifts but then falls back down before it even makes it to me. I reach for it.

“Jesus,” another male voice joins the room—familiar—and then hard footsteps on the staircase follow us down. Something clear falls onto Dean’s face as he looks up at me. A droplet. Is it raining? I think. No. Even if it were, we’re inside. That’s not possible. Maybe there’s a leak somewhere and it's dripping down right over Dean's face, sliding down his cheek.

“Baby, are you okay?” How the fuck can he be asking me that right now? I wonder. There's so much fucking blood. On his face. On my hands. All over his chest. Oh, fuck ... his fucking chest is…

There are grunts somewhere in the room, growing louder. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Braxton’s father flip him onto his back, but that’s the last I see of him because as soon as he does, Braxton goes apeshit. He throws him off and dives back over the man, eclipsing Elric Smalls from my view. I don’t care. It doesn’t matter. All that matters right now is Dean.

“I’m okay,” I lie.

“You’re not, brother,” Abel says as he finally reaches us and touches Dean’s arm.

Dean looks down at him and I follow his gaze to see that Abel’s staring at the two of us with a hard look and a phone pressed to his ear. Someone picks up on the other end. “Yes,” he snaps into the phone. “I need an ambulance at…” He rattles off an address.

I tap Dean’s cheek, grabbing his attention once more. “Dean…” There’s a heavy weight sitting on my heart. I feel sluggish, like the whole world is moving in slow motion.

Dean’s eyes return to mine and he smiles, though it’s weak. “It’s okay,” he tells me. “You’re okay. It’s all gonna be okay, baby.”

“No,” I tell him, grabbing the side of his shirt, it’s soaked through with blood just like everything around us. Hell, I feel like I’m sitting in a kiddie pool full of it. How much blood does the human body even hold? I was sure I’d learned it somewhere before in one of my classes, but for the first time in my life, I can’t think of the answer. School always came so easy—rote memorization wasn’t that hard—but all of my memories now have blurred together and formed one black line. I know what I’ve done. I know who I am, but for the life of me, I can’t recall a single instance with any kind of clarity.

“—with a gunshot wound to the chest,” Abel says, his voice coming back into focus as he leans over Dean and tries to assess the damage. He curses and then says something else to the person on the phone.

Dean reaches out for him and Abel drops the phone and grabs hold of his outstretched hand. “Hold on, man,” he says quickly. “The ambulance is on the way. You’re gonna be fine.”

“Take care of her,” he says.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” I demand. More rain falls on his face. My vision is blurry—more faded and watery than it's ever been. “Didn’t you fucking hear him? Abel said you’re gonna be fine. You just have to hold on until—”

Dean shakes his head, cutting me off. “I’m sorry, baby.”

I shake my head. “No,” I tell him. “Fuck your sorry. Don’t fucking say sorry. There’s nothing to be sorry about. You’re fucking fine. You’re going to be fine. Abel said—"

“Ava…” Abel cuts me off, his voice growing deep. Gruff.

“Shut up!” I scream at him.

I grab Dean’s head, holding it centered squarely in my lap. It hurts to breathe. The world is growing fuzzy. “You’re fine,” I tell him, not caring if it's a lie. I've lied so much in my lifetime, what's one more? “You’re fine.”

“I’m sorry,” Dean whispers again, more blood leaking out from the side of his mouth.

I can hear the sirens now. They’re growing louder. The sounds of Elric’s grunts from across the room have faded and all I can hear from Braxton is the steady and slow sound of fists hitting flesh—again and again and again.

“Hold onto him,” Abel says. “Keep him here, Ava. I have to—just hold on.”

I don’t know what he has to do and I don’t care. He gets up and leaves, sprinting across the room to where Braxton hovers over his motionless father.

“Dean…” More water drips onto his face, sliding down his cheek and mixing with his blood. My vision grows blurrier by the second. There’s something wrong with me. It feels like my chest is caving in. Breathing grows steadily harder. My nails scrape lightly against Dean’s beard stubble. “I love you,” I finally tell him. “Please don’t. Don’t do this to me.”

The corner of his lips quirk up. “I’ve been waiting to fucking hear you say that for forever,” he admits.

“I’ll say it every day,” I promise. “I’ll wear your stupid ring. I’ll even wear a white fucking wedding dress. Just don’t … leave.”

“I’m sorry, baby,” he says again, coughing. Something wet hits my cheek and I know it’s his blood. The sirens are right outside now. Red and blue lights flash over the windows and into the interior. I can hear Abel talking, though not what he’s saying. Everything in me is focused on the man in my arms.

“You have to stay,” I tell him.

“I wish I could. You don’t know how badly I wish I could…”

When Dean’s eyes close and his words drift off, the air freezes for a moment. Then I shake him. Hard. “Dean?” Nothing. No response. “Dean!” I shake him again. Slapping his face.

Breathing is hard. It’s the hardest thing that I’ve ever done. Dragging in air feels like ripping my own heart out of my chest. Pain echoes around inside of me, sharp jagged points tearing into my organs. Ripping me to shreds and leaving nothing but a crumpled heap of flesh and death in its wake.

Distantly, I hear doors opening, shouting, men and women, and then there are people surrounding me. They touch Dean’s neck, his wrists. Feeling for a pulse. There has to be a pulse. Someone pulls me back. I fight them—or I try to—I’ve never felt so weak before, though. I just sag into the body behind me. When I look up, I realize it’s Abel.

Horror covers his features as he tries to move me out of the way, but I fight him. He wraps his arms around me and physically lifts me away, dragging me backwards. One of the EMTs yells for something and someone goes sprinting out of the room. Everything is so loud, but nothing is clear. How can it be so noisy and muffled at the same time? I wonder. And why does my chest still hurt so badly?

I reach down and feel around against my chest. I wince when I feel torn flesh inside a hole in my shirt. Oh fuck…

“Abel…” He looks down and his eyes widen when my fingers come away from my chest wet with fresh blood—blood that isn’t Dean’s. The world shifts, tilting into darkness.

“Avalon!”

But it’s too late. I can’t answer him anymore.

47

AVALON

THE SOFT WHIRRING of tires turning over pavement lifts me out of the darkness. It feels like several tons of concrete are sitting over my eyes as I fight to open them. Once I do, I find that my forehead is pressed against the cool glass of a car window. Blinking rapidly, I sit up. The world is foggy; I can't seem to bring anything directly into focus even with my eyes wide open. Trees fly past outside and I look to see who the driver is.

"Dean?"

His head turns. "Hey," he says, his voice deep and familiar and yet, at the same time—strange. "You're awake."

"Where are we?" A hard pounding ricochets through my skull. I put a palm to the side of my head and groan. "What happened?"

"Don't worry," he replies, looking back through the windshield. "It's going to be okay. We're almost there."

"There?" I repeat, confused. "Where are we going?"

He doesn't answer, and that doesn’t sit right with me.

"Dean?" Something hits me. We’re in the Mustang, but Abel isn’t here. I feel around, my hands cold and shaking. The aching in my skull isn't going away. Instead, it’s getting worse. It feels like red hot spikes are being shoved through my ear holes and into my brain. "Ugh." I lower my face to my knees, breathing rapidly through my mouth and nose as I try to bear through the pain. What’s wrong with me? Why can't I remember getting in the car? Why does everything still feel so fuzzy?

"Dean," I say through clenched teeth, "where are we going? Why are we in Abel's Mustang? Where is Abel? Where's everyone else?"

Dean turns his head towards me, though his hands remain gripping the wheel. "It's going to be okay," he repeats.

A chill rushes down my spine and irritation flares to life. I slam my fist against the dashboard. "Stop fucking saying that,” I snap. "Just answer me!"

"You're hurt, Avalon," he says, cool faced. Not Ava. Not baby. Avalon. I turn my head and stare at him for a long moment, but he doesn’t look at me. I’m in pain—it’s obvious—and he’s not asking me if I’m okay. No, he’s not asking—he’s telling me that I will be. Maybe I’d believe it if his voice shook, if he showed some sort of emotion, but he seems as cool as ever. And that's when I know. This isn't real. He isn't real. Whoever this man is, he most certainly is not Dean Carter.

My hand shoots for the glove compartment and I rip it open, reaching in for the gun I know is always stashed there. My hand meets empty air. I jerk my head down. There’s nothing in there, not even papers or old receipts like there normally is. It’s just … empty. Slowly, I lift my head and stare at the man driving the car. "Who the hell are you?"

He glances my way finally and sighs. "I thought you would feel more comfortable with this face," the man says.

Chills chase down my spine. "That's not an answer," I reply.

"You should get comfortable," he says, ignoring me. "We'll be there soon."

"You still haven't told me where we're going," I grit out.

"I'm surprised you haven't figured it out yet, Avalon."

I hate it when he says my name with that face. Whoever this man is, he isn't right. There is not a single ounce of emotion in him. No fear. No anger. No concern. Just a stillness, a coldness I’ve only ever experienced from one other human being before.

His body is like a puppet. His movements are jerky as if he’s being played and pulled around by strings. I want to cut them. I want to shoot him in the head and see what comes out. Will it be blood? Or will he be as hollow and empty as his words?

My breath comes faster. The pain grows fiercer. My eyes dart to the door handle. I reach for it.

"Don't," he warns.

"Don't what?" I ask sharply. "I want out. Get me the hell out of here."

As I fight through the agony in my head, a new one spreads through my chest. Breathing becomes harder. My heart squeezes, pumping so slowly it’s as if it’s moving tar through my veins and arteries instead of blood. What’s happening to me? Where the hell am I? Is this a dream?

"It's not a dream," the man says. Had he read my mind or had I asked that question aloud? I don't know. I can't even hear myself think anymore.

"Fuck," I whimper. It hurts. I want it to stop. Stop hurting. Stop tearing me apart inside. I want it to stop. Stop. STOP!

"It will," the man assures me.

"Stop doing that!" I yell. My lungs squeeze with my panic. "Let me out!" I grab onto the door handle and yank. It doesn't move. I release it and punch the window. My bones feel like they've broken, but the glass remains unfractured. I’m not going to stop, though—not until I get out of this fucking car.

"Avalon, you’ll hurt yourself before we even arrive. I recommend that you don't."

"Shut the fuck up!" I scream. "I don't know who you are. I don't trust you and I hate that fucking face you're wearing!" I rear back and punch him. "Fuck!" I double over, cradling my fist in my hand. His face is like granite beneath the facade of human skin. Certainly harder than the glass.

"Calm down," he says.

I work through the pain. Unbuckling my seatbelt and sliding down in the passenger seat. I turn and put my feet against the window and start kicking. "Dean!" I scream his name. "Dean, get me out!"

Suddenly, the dark trees outside begin to grow lighter. Sunlight peeks in through the branches. I shudder inside. The warmth in the car turns cold—like ice in my veins. The fake Dean turns his head towards me and stares in what appears to be shock. "Interesting," he murmurs.

"What?" I look back at him, trying not to panic, but that’s all I feel right now. Panic. Horror. Fear. True fear. Where is the real Dean? Why isn’t he here? "What's interesting? What does that mean?"

He looks down at me. "I thought you were ready," he says. "I guess not."

I gape at him. "No fucking shit, Sherlock! Now, let me out."

He hums and I feel the car decelerate. "It's time for you to wake up, Avalon."

“What?” I blurt. I sit up straighter as something hard hits my back, like a hard metal surface, but when I glance at the seat, it’s normal—just a regular car seat. Nothing metal about it. I refocus on the fake Dean.

The car rolls to a stop as more sunlight pours in through the trees on either side of us, and he turns to face me fully. "Wake. Up."

I’M PROPELLED out of the car by a force I can't see. My eyes slam shut and when I open them again, I’m not in the Mustang anymore. Instead, I’m on a rolling table. The hard metal surface, I absently realize. A bright light shines down on my face—not sunlight but a manufactured light—straight into my eyes. What the fuck? Memories come rushing back to me. Corina. Patricia. Them. The gun. Dean’s blood. I’m not where I’m supposed to be. I’m not with Dean. Where is he?

"She's awake!" someone yells, distracting me.

"Increase the dose and put her back under,” someone else replies. “We're not done."

The black fog that I'd fought my way free of before begins to seep into my mind once more. My lips part and I can feel how dry and cracked they are. "No..." I can't go back. I won't.

"Shhh." Someone's fingers brush over my hair, smoothing it back from my face. "It's okay. Avalon," they say. "This is a good thing. You're awake, honey. You woke up. You'll wake up again."

That’s the last I hear before the darkness rips me back into oblivion. Right back into hell.

48

AVALON

I COME AWAKE SLOWLY, like rising to the surface of a great big body of water, to the sound of machines running. There's an annoying, consistent beeping and the smell of antiseptic in my nostrils. It burns. Shit, everything burns. A sharp pain digs against my ribcage, and the rest of my body isn't in great shape either. My leg is wrapped in some sort of gauze and it’s difficult to move. It's like someone threw me down a massive flight of stairs and I'd somehow managed to bruise every fucking bone in my body.

My lips part and a low groan emerges. It's so fucking dry. My mouth tastes like shit.

"Ava?" I know that voice. My eyelids crack open and I turn my head. Rylie's face hovers in front of me, the dark circles under her eyes even more shadowed than usual. Her face is washed free of her usual makeup and her fading lavender colored hair is pulled up into a haphazard bun. "Oh my God, you're awake." She sniffles and her hand clenches into the plain white sheets tucked into the side of the hospital mattress. Her upper arm is wrapped in bandages. "Are you in pain? Do you need anything? Want me to call the nurse?"

"Water," I rasp, lifting a hand as if a glass will magically appear if I just reach for it.

"Of course." Rylie disappears out of my line of vision for a brief moment and I hear the sounds of a door opening and closing and a tap running. When she comes back, she's got a plastic cup in her grip, filled halfway. "You need to be careful," she says, shifting onto the mattress and placing a hand behind my neck as she helps me sit up. It hurts to fucking move, but I need that fucking water. "Do you remember what happened?" she asks.

It's a little fuzzy when I think about it, but when I try to recall the memories of how I ended up here, it's interrupted by that weird ass dream I had. The car. A Dean who wasn't actually Dean. The sun coming up and then … nothing.

"Avalon?"

I blink, realizing I've finished the cup she'd given me and she's sitting there, staring at me as if waiting for a response. Wait, she is waiting for a response, but instead of answering her question, I ask one of my own. "Where's Dean?"

Rylie pulls her hand back and lets me rest back on the pillow. Her lips pinch down and she glances to the side. My head turns, eyes following the direction of hers. As soon as I see him, the breath rushes out of my chest. Dean is on his back with bandages peeking out of the hospital gown he's wearing—the same kind I am. The monitors on the other side of the second bed in the room beep with consistency, letting me know that the one person on the face of this earth that I need—the one person I can't live without—is still breathing. His heart is still beating.

I don't even realize I'm crying until the sight of him becomes blurry. "Ava." Rylie's hand finds mine over the sheets. "Ava, he's okay. He's just resting. He hasn't woken up yet, but the doctors said he's out of the danger zone now."

It's good to hear that. It eases something inside of me, but now that the dam has opened, I can't seem to stop these tears. Her fingers—cold and thin as they are—feel so strong in my grip. I squeeze until I know I'm probably hurting her, but Rylie doesn't say anything. She doesn't flinch away from my fear or the bite of my nails. In fact, she squeezes back—as if to let me know without using her words that she's here. That I'm here, and so is Dean. We're alive. We made it. It's over.

The rush of relief is both euphoric and exhausting. I curl towards her as her free hand lifts up and touches my back. I don't know how long I lay like that, with my head half in her lap as she rubs my back, but it reminds me of a long ago memory. Something I'd forgotten until just now.

I'd been so fucking young—three? Maybe four? It's one of my first memories. I'd been sick to my stomach, puking, shaking, and crying. My skin had been cold one minute, hot the next, and all throughout, I thought I was going to die. Patricia had never come to see me. She'd ignored my existence even then, but sometime, in the middle of the night—a cool hand had touched my feverish forehead. No assurances had been spoken, but I'd felt her tears as she'd lifted me into her hole-riddled arms and held me, rubbing my back just as Rylie does now. And just before I'd fallen back into my delirious slumber, I'd heard my mother's voice.

"I'm so sorry," she'd whispered to me, but it wasn't my name she'd said. It wasn't me she was apologizing to. It was him—my father. It was the one and only time I think she'd ever hugged me, but it was there. It's as real to me as the present is now.

Rylie holds me and lets me cry on her for a long time. How long, I don't know because eventually I fall back asleep like that, curling into her, feeling her fingers against my spine, and despite the place and the pain in my chest, feeling safer than I've ever felt in my entire life.

When next I wake, the darkness in the room has lightened a bit and Rylie's gone. This time, she's replaced with another familiar face. "Abel," I croak, groaning when it appears my throat's gone dry again.

He jerks up from the chair he'd been dozing in and flashes a look between Dean and me as if he couldn't recognize the tone of my voice and isn't sure which of us had called for him. When he sees my eyes open, he nearly jumps on me.

"Gently," I say quickly when it looks like he might pounce. He pauses at the side of my bed and then lowers down. His palm presses into the mattress, pushing it down as he hovers over me, his face drawn tight.

"Ava ... fuck, Jesus, Ava—we almost..." He bites his lip and then releases a slow, shuddering breath. "We almost lost both of you."

I figured. That dream in the back of my mind—the Mustang, the fake Dean. I'd died or almost had. That much was clear. I always thought that those hallucinations people had right before they died were all bullshit, but apparently not. There hadn't been a white light, but the sun rising—it'd felt warm.

"What happened?" I ask, my voice croaking. "Where's Rylie?"

Abel gently turns and scoots his ass onto the mattress and I push away from him to give him some room, wincing when a few of the cords attached to my arm pull tight. He curses and adjusts, pulling me back so that they ease up, and then shifts both of us until he's resting back against the headboard and I'm half draped over his lap.

"Rylie's getting checked out by the doctor," he answers my second question first.

"Her arm?" I ask. "She was shot?"

"It's just a graze, she'll be fine," he assures me.

"And everything else?" I prompt.

"Our dads are dead," he begins. "You're safe. That's the most important thing. Dean's father was out of town taking care of something and they decided to act while he was away."

I nod. It's over. I lay against him for a moment, relishing in that knowledge. I'm fucking tired, sore as hell, and hooked up to an ungodly amount of machines—but it's all fucking over. Finally.

"Wait," I say, looking up at him. "How did you guys..." I don't know exactly how to ask.

"Cover it up?" he guesses. I nod. He inhales. "We took a note from your book," he says. "We set the house on fire as well as their bodies. Dean's father is handling the rest. As far as the media is concerned Elric Smalls and Lionel Frazier were visiting an old friend’s house that had been unoccupied for years. The electricity running throughout the house shorted, caused a fire, and exploded the building while they were inside."

"And Ace?" I ask. "Elric sent him upstairs after you guys."

"We didn't see him," Abel replied.

"He must have gotten away, then..." I think back to Elric's words just before Ace had left. It almost sounded like Ace was only working for them to keep someone else safe. Who though?

Abel's hand squeezes my arm lightly, the warmth of his palm almost like fire against my cold skin. My nose twitches. The scent of bleach and medicine is so heavy that it's a relief to turn my face into his side and inhale his cologne. The only thing that'd make this better is if it were Dean laying by my side.

"Can you help me?" I ask.

Abel stops squeezing and pulls away slightly. "Of course," he says, immediately. "What's wrong? Are you in pain? Do you need me to call the nurse?"

I shake my head. "No, I just want..." I gesture lamely to the other side of the room where Dean lays.

Abel's head turns up and follows the direction of my hand before a light of understanding enters his eyes. When he looks back at me, his face softens. "You can't get up right now," he replies. "But I think I can pull something together if you give me some time."

I reach down and touch his hand. Without hesitation, he flips it over and laces his fingers with mine, lifting it and kissing my bruised knuckles. "Thank you, Frontman," I say.

"Anytime, Princess."

As Abel leaves the room to go put together whatever he's planning, he's passed in the doorway by a giant, familiar figure. I smile as Brax takes up a stance at the end of my bed. "Heard you were awake," he rumbles.

"Yeah," I reply, "and hurting like a bitch." He doesn't crack a smile. I tilt my head to the side. "You good, psycho boy?" I ask.

Braxton crosses his arms and lowers his head until his chin is almost to his chest. After a moment of deep, slow breaths, he shakes his head. "Not even a fucking little bit, savage girl," he replies.

I hold out a hand. "Wanna talk about it?"

He takes one look at my hand and then, after what feels like eternity, he nods and circles the bed. It almost makes me laugh how easily he slides into bed with me, taking up Abel's vacated position. It's nice. It's sweet. It feels like I'm holding my family, but as I turn my cheek and take another long look at the man across the room, it doesn't feel like enough.

49

DEAN

THERE'S a heavy weight on my chest like a massive fucking boulder is sitting right on my sternum. My eyelids flicker. I'd bet anything in the fucking world those assholes—Brax and Abel—have pulled some dumbass prank on me. My head's pounding. I don't normally get so fucking drunk, but it's hard to remember how I got here.

When I finally manage to crack open my eyes, however, and I see the wash of dark, inky almost-black hair laying across my chest, the memories come flooding back. The Havers fire, the Mason Estate, Avalon, Elric Smalls. The gunshot.

It looks like I'm still alive, at least. And if Avalon is here then so is she.

I flex my fingers and reach up, ignoring the tugging of cords wrapped around my arms and the pain that shoots through me. The need to touch her is too strong. The pain is nothing. Her head pops up and she looks up at me, her eyes widening.

"You're awake." She breathes the words as if she can't fucking believe it and then before I can say anything, she leans up and wraps her arms around my neck and kisses me.

Shit yeah, this is the best fucking way to wake up even if I'm strapped to a goddamn hospital bed. My dick jumps beneath the plastic-y gown I'm dressed in, pressing insistently upward. Yeah, buddy, I think. I want her, too. And as much as I want to roll her over, push her legs apart, and sink into heaven—that weight is still there. The pain, while temporarily forgotten, comes roaring back and I break off the kiss with a low groan. Pathetic.

"Shit, sorry," Avalon pulls away, panting.

"Don't," I say gruffly, "ever apologize for waking me up like that, baby." I scrub a hand down my sore face and release a breath.

"How are you feeling?" she asks.

I chuckle. How does she think I feel? "Like someone shot me in the chest," I reply.

Her lips turn down into a scowl. "I'm fucking serious, Dean," she snaps. "Do I need to call the nurse?"

"What?" My eyes scan the room, noting that two hospital beds have been pushed together to make a much larger one, and on either side are a line of random ass machines. "Why would you do that? You call them, they're gonna come in here and drug me up again."

"Do you need it?" she asks.

I shoot her a dark look. "Do I look like I need it?"

She blinks innocently back at me. "Do you really want me to tell you how shitty you look right now?" she replies.

Brat. "I look shitty, huh?" I grin as I palm the side of her hip. "You were sure excited about jumping a guy who looks as shitty as I do."

Her beautiful blue-gray eyes roll. "Please," she mutters.

"Please what, baby?" I inquire, sliding my hand up her side—pushing the t-shirt she's wearing up past the waistband of her pants until I can feel the smooth, soft skin underneath.

Avalon purses her lips, reaches down, and pinches my side—fucking hard. "Fuck!" I snap, jerking away, and that too sends a bolt of agony up my chest. "What the hell was that for?" I demand even as I try to hide how much it actually hurt.

"For being a dipshit," she snaps. "You're in no condition to do shit right now much less be starting anything."

I groan and cup the side where she pinched me, but if she feels any remorse, she sure as fuck isn’t showing it. "You're hurting an injured man," I reply. "Don't you feel anything?"

"Annoyed." She deadpans.

"Well if you're not gonna do anything, why aren't you in your own damn bed?" I ask. "And why the hell are you wearing real clothes while I'm stuck in this shit." I gesture down to my hospital gown.

She shrugs. "I woke up first and asked Abel and Braxton to bring me some clothes," she answers.

"They're here?" I ask, turning my head towards the doorway, but no one appears.

"Yeah, somewhere—probably grabbing coffee. I doubt it's fun watching two people sleep."

I groan and reach for her, ignoring the tugs and little pains as I yank her down to my level, against my chest. “Shhhh,” I hush her by cupping my palm over her mouth as I settle back even further into the mattress and cut off her protests. The agony in my chest feels like a red hot poker and it takes everything in me not to show it. “Can we just relax, baby?” I ask. “Please, I’m tired.”

Her hands pause over my sides. “Are you sure you’re okay, Dean?”

I close my eyes and breathe through my nose. “I’m alive,” I tell her. “When I really didn’t think I was going to be.”

Her nails scratch against the plastic gown I’m wearing. “I’m pissed at you,” she tells me in a quiet voice.

I snort and that, too, hurts. “When aren’t you?” I shoot back.

“I’m serious,” she says. “I thought … if you ever do something like that again, Dean, I’ll kill you myself.”

“Kill a dead man?” I chuckle. “I don’t know if even you can do that.”

“Don’t,” she snaps. “Don’t make light of this.”

My eyes open and I look down, meeting her gaze. “Baby…”

“You almost died,” she says. “You can’t fucking shove yourself into someone’s life and then just give up like that. You can’t ever do that to me.”

“I didn’t plan to go in there and get shot,” I argue.

“You also didn’t think twice about putting yourself between me and a fucking bullet.” She bares her teeth at me. “You didn’t fucking think.”

My hold on her loosens. “You’re saying I didn’t fucking think?” I growl. “I did—all I could do was think. Think about what was happening to you. Whether you were dead or alive and what I could do to get you back. You’re all I fucking think about Avalon. You’re all I fucking want.”

“Then why did you almost fuck everything up?” she yells. I blink, overwhelming shock hitting me like a bullet train to the head when a single tear slips over her cheek. She doesn’t even give me an opportunity to reach up and wipe it away. To feel if it’s real or not with my own thumb. Instead, she quickly swipes her hand over her cheek, erasing its existence as if it’d never been there in the first place.

“Baby—”

“No, don’t fucking ‘baby’ me,” she snaps. “I want an answer, Dean. What made you think what you did was okay?”

“Are you seriously mad at me for protecting you?” I demand.

“Yes, I am.”

“Too fucking bad,” I curse, grabbing her arm when she moves to slide off the bed. “No,” I snap. “You started this, don’t you fucking run away. I will always put you first, Avalon. Before myself. Before my best friends. Before any-fucking-one else. If you’re gone, I can’t live. If you die, so do I.”

She turns around, her hands snapping out. The crinkle of plastic reaches my ears as she leans into my face. “The same damn thing is true for me.” Each word shoots out of her mouth like her lips are triggers and she’s over the edge. “I almost died, too,” she admits, “and I’ll be honest, if I woke up and you weren’t here … I would’ve closed my eyes and just given up. I am tired of being lost and betrayed and hurt and abandoned. If you want me—stay with me. If you love me like you say you do, don’t you ever fucking do that to me again.”

My lips part, but no words emerge.

“Do you understand?” she asks, shaking me slightly.

I wince, but her eyes never leave my face as she waits for a response. Like this … how the fuck can I deny her? I release a sigh, reaching out and touching her hands where they clench in the front of my hospital gown. “I understand,” I whisper as I move one hand up her arm. She doesn’t pull away from my gentle touch. In fact, she leans closer.

When I palm the back of her skull, her eyes close, and I drift forward. My mouth finds hers once more. I kiss her for a long time, longer than before. Until the pain comes back and then leaves again. Until I hear the hitch in her breath and wetness against my cheeks that isn’t my own. I keep my eyes closed as I kiss her, twisting my tongue along hers, biting her lower lip, and dragging it back into my mouth to suck on it.

“I love you, baby…” I whisper against her lips, tasting the salt from her tears. It’s like nirvana on my tongue.

50

AVALON

BRAX AND ABEL come back and both look relieved when they see Dean's awake. I stay quiet, exhaustion pulling at my nerves as the three of them shoot the shit and talk about what their plans are for when we get out of here. My hand finds Dean's chest. Even beneath the shitty plastic fabric, I can feel where the bullet entered his chest and tore him apart, nearly ripping him from this world. It's going to scar, but it's kind of funny—because I have a similar, albeit much smaller scar in almost the same area. The bullet had passed through him and hit me. Overall, though, he'd taken the worst damage. My main issue had been the concussion. I'd had several apparently.

I'm so lost in thought that I don't even notice when Brax and Abel head out of the room. It's only when Dean captures my hand and lifts it to his lips, pressing a kiss to the back of my knuckles that I realize they're gone. "Where'd the guys go?" I ask.

Dean snickers. "They went to see how your friend is doing and to grab me some sweats," he replies, shifting beneath the covers. "I can't fucking wait to get out of this damn itchy mess."

"You're gonna need help getting dressed," I warn him. "I did."

His eyes narrow on me. "Those fuckers better not have—"

"Calm your tits, D-man," I say, rolling my eyes as I tug my hand back and return it to his chest. "Rylie and a nurse helped me."

He huffs out a breath as he settles back against the mattress. "Good," he mutters.

Our heads turn as the door to the room opens once more and a tall figure fills the entryway. Dean sits up. “Dad?”

Nicholas Carter approaches the bed, eyeing the collection of machines alongside us. He releases a slow breath. “I won’t stay for long,” he tells us, his eyes scanning the rest of the room, from the windows to the machines once more. “I’m preparing for the funerals, but I needed to stop by to see how the two of you were doing.”

“We survived,” Dean manages to say. How a man can seem so powerful and commanding even when lying down, I’ll never know, but he pulls it off quite well. I reach behind me and press the button that’ll help him sit up anyway. His lips tighten with pain, but he doesn’t stop me.

Nicholas nods. “I’ve been told that you’ll have some physical therapy for the next several weeks.” I watch him curiously. He keeps his hands in the pockets of his jacket. Again, it seems odd given the time of year, but maybe it’s just something about rich people. His voice is gruff and he can’t seem to meet Dean’s eyes or mine. Finally, when he does look up, he catches my gaze and I refuse to look away.

He inhales a slow shuddering breath. “I am…” he begins, appearing unsure how to get out what he’s trying to say. Nicholas shakes his head and stands straighter. “I am truly sorry to the both of you,” he finally confesses. “I thought it was safer for you not to know—especially knowing that you would tell the boys. If they had known—”

“They would’ve been prepared,” I cut him off, frowning. “For what they had to do.”

Nicholas stiffens. Dean’s hand touches my arm. “Ava…”

I shake my head. “No, he knows that he fucked up. He should’ve told us from the beginning. Had he done that, we wouldn’t have been in this position. We wouldn’t be laying here. You wouldn’t have gotten shot. You wouldn’t have nearly died.”

“I know you’re upset,” Nicholas starts.

“Upset?” I snap. “That’s an understatement. I’m fucking pissed. You’re supposed to be an adult. You look at the two of us like we’re fucking children—and shit, maybe other people our age act like it. Fuck knows it’s not normal for an eighteen-year-old and a twenty-one-year-old to be able to figure the world out, but the two of us aren’t normal fucking people. The both of us had to fight and bleed our way to where we are. The least you could’ve done was give us a modicum of fucking respect and told us the truth from the beginning. Instead, all we got were ‘almosts’ and ‘half-truths.’”

Silence descends for a moment, and Dean turns his head towards his father, waiting. Nicholas stares straight back at me. “You’re right,” he finally admits. “I didn’t consider seeing either of you as allies. I treated the two of you as children and that was my mistake. It was my fault that things ended the way they did. I truly thought that Elric and Lionel wouldn’t make a move so soon.”

“Well, you were wrong—”

“Avalon, that’s enough.” Dean cuts me off by placing a palm over my mouth and though a part of me wants to rip it down and continue, he isn’t looking at me. His attention is solely on his father. “I appreciate you admitting your mistake,” Dean says. “You understand, though, that it changes nothing.” He inhales. “I let my anger get the best of me whenever you’re around because the truth is—a part of me hates you.” My lips part beneath his palm, shock ricocheting through me. It’s not like what he’s said is truly all that shocking, but the fact that he’s said it aloud is. “I hate the things you’ve done. The lies. The secrets. But at least now I understand how much of who you are revolves around Eastpoint. The only thing you can do to make up for everything is fucking change it.” Dean’s voice deepens. “Change that stupid contract between the Eastpoint families. With Elric and Lionel gone, Brax and Abel are the next heads—they’ll sign off on it. But no more. No more arranged marriages. No more fucking trials. It’s over.”

“I think that’s for the best,” Nicholas agrees. “I’ve already got my legal team drawing up the paperwork. As for Braxton and Abel … I think it would be best if they would only be figureheads for now. At least until they finish schooling.”

“That’s up to them,” Dean says. “You’ll have to take that up with them.”

Nicholas nods, taking a step back from the bed. “I’ll do that then.” He turns to go, but just before he steps out the door, he looks back, his lips tightening. “Oh, and Avalon, you should know your father’s businesses are under my control for now. If ever you decide you’d like to take over, let me know. I’ve run them for quite some time, but they were Chaz’s and by right, they’re yours too. I’ll respect whatever decision you make. Also, the money he left for you is being redeposited in a bank account for you. Someone will be by the house after you two are out of the hospital with the details.” I frown but don’t say anything. I don’t need his damn money, but then again, it was never really his to begin with, was it? Nicholas’s attention refocuses on Dean. “I’m truly glad you’re alright, Son,” he says and then he’s gone and the door slides shut silently behind him.

Dean drops his hand away from my mouth and his head collapses back against the pillows. After a long moment of silence, I nudge him. “Are you okay?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer me. Instead, Dean pulls me down to his side and snuggles closer. I note, though, when he winces and adjust myself when I feel like there’s too much pressure on his wounds. We lay like that for a long time. The silence, though, isn't uncomfortable. I stare at the window across from the bed, watching as the sun begins to set and the light pouring in through the vertical blinds grows dimmer and dimmer until we're shrouded in darkness once more.

There's something about dusk, about the dark gray murky light in the room, that makes it feel more intimate. "You know," Dean finally says, "for as bad as this whole situation has been, at least it's done one good thing."

I frown, trying to think back, but nothing comes to mind. "Are you dumb?" I ask. "What good thing came from this?"

He chuckles and shakes his head. "Always with the insults," he murmurs, cupping the back of my skull, his fingers playing lightly through the strands of my hair. If he notices the unkept and unwashed mess of it, he doesn't seem to give a shit. "You finally admitted you love me."

I freeze. That's what he meant. Tingles start at the tips of my fingers and work their way up my limbs as I consider that. Yeah, it had taken a whole shit load of gunfire and blood and near death for me to admit that. Out loud, at least. I suck in a breath, but Dean starts talking before I can speak.

"I wouldn't have been surprised, you know," he says quietly, "if you never said it."

"What?" Through the darkness, I blink at him.

"I'm not a good person, Avalon," he continues. His hand flexes against the back of my head, tugging—not as gently as before as he forces my face to tilt upward, towards him. "I've never been good and I never will be. I like that you've killed," he admits. "I liked watching you exact your vengeance, and I had no fucking problem hurting and killing whoever it took to get to you. I didn't think twice about it—I didn't have to. People like me, I guess, are born dark. If there ever was any light in me to start off with, it's gone. Eradicated. Burned away. I'm bad, baby, and I like it that way. I don't see a problem with how possessive I get over you. If another man so much as fucking hints that he desires you, it makes me want to cut his tongue out and shove it up his ass."

I can picture that, actually. But there's something wrong with his words. The way he says them. His tone of voice—it almost sounds like he's resigned to what he is, rather than proud of it as he should be.

“Light? What is light?” I ask. “Is it good? No.” I shake my head. “I didn’t give you any light or good. Good is easy to love. I’m not. We’re taught to value what’s good from a young age, just as we’re taught to fear the darkness.” I take a breath, feeling the cold air infiltrate my lungs, permeating my body—sliding into every bone and crevice. Every scar and pore.

“I don’t fear the darkness,” I say. “Especially not yours.” I move so that my breasts brush against his chest. I lift my hand and let my fingers trail down his throat until I find the hollow of his collarbone. “I crave it,” I confess. “I want all of the darkness you’ve never shown anyone else, Dean Carter.”

He catches my wrist and moves it down and away. I look up, meeting that dark, intense gaze of his. “You don’t ask for much, do you?” He doesn’t crack a smile and neither do I. “Just everything.”

“I ask for as much as I’m willing to give in return,” I say.

“And are you willing?” he asks, dipping his head until the warmth of his words slides over my cold lips. “To give me everything?”

And in that dark room, with our hearts pounding against our ribcages, I finally utter the truth I’d been so desperate to deny. I hadn’t wanted to admit it—not to him, but certainly not to myself. “I already have.”

His head lifts and his eyes meet mine. “That’s your answer?”

“Yes,” I say.

Dean’s breath catches in his throat and for a moment I think he’s going to break, but that’s not like Dean. Dean isn’t someone who breaks. He can cry. He can yell and throw shit. That’s just him showing his emotions. Crying doesn’t mean someone’s broken. So when his eyes begin to fill with tears and he leans down to bury his face against my neck, my reaction is simple. I lift my arms and hug him to me. My lips twitch as I hold him and let him hold me.

“Are you going to actually ask the question now?” I prompt.

He snorts. “God, baby, you’re going to be the death of me,” he mutters.

“That’s not exactly the kind of proposal I expected,” I deadpan.

Dean laughs, the sound heavy and warm, and it lights up something inside of me. When he leans back, his face covered in the tracks of his tears and his smile so fucking gorgeous it hurts my soul, I think I finally get it. If Patricia ever felt even a fraction of what I feel for Dean for my father, then I guess I can understand why she made the choices that led her to her death. I don’t regret killing her. I’ll never regret dealing out my own brand of justice, even if it’s not exactly what society says is right.

Too many people fall through the cracks of the system. Money and power make people do crazy things. Just like love.

“Avalon Manning,” Dean begins, “will you stop fucking torturing me, and marry me?”

I snort. “No can do on the torture,” I say, pushing up on my knees as I cup his face between my hands. I pause right before his lips and smile. “I plan on doing that for the rest of our lives, but the marriage bit, well … I guess I can do that.”

Before he can comment, I press forward and kiss him like it’s the last thing I’ll ever do. If I’m lucky, in another fifty years or so, it will be.

Until then, the rest of the world can go fuck itself.

EPILOGUE

RYLIE

6 weeks later …

My phone goes off, the sound so quiet in the darkness of my new dorm room that I almost don’t hear it. But as I sit there, so focused on siphoning through the layers and layers of information before me, something crawls into my consciousness. A warning.

My hands pause over the keyboard in front of me. Avalon isn’t really the type to ask for favors, so I know this is important. Unfortunately, even with the skill I have, I’m not a miracle worker. I can’t just make someone with no last name and no past magically appear out of thin air.

All I have to go on is a first name, a relative age, and where she lived. Whoever this Micki girl is, someone has spent quite a lot of time and energy to turn her into a ghost. By all means, she doesn’t exist. There’s no record of anyone named Micki living in Plexton, Georgia in the last several years, nor in the surrounding areas. At least, no female of her age by that name.

I lean back in my chair and groan as my spine bends and aches from too many hours sitting at this desk. Not for the first time, I think about putting the money I’m making from the Sick Boys to use and buying myself a nice ergonomic computer chair, complete with all the bells and whistles. Back support would be a fucking treat right about now. Maybe even a vibrating cushion that would massage my lower spine and keep me from feeling like an eighty-year-old woman in a nineteen-year-old's body. I’m practically drooling at the very thought, but no, all of the money I’ve made is secured safely in an offshore bank account. No one and nothing will be taking it away from me.

I've got plans for it.

With a yawn, I get up from the cheap old fashioned desk chair provided for each dorm room in the new building I've been relegated to since the Havers fire. Wofford Hall is nicer than Havers ever was—I even have my own bathroom—but the noise level is ... much louder. I wince as a feminine shriek from the hallway filters in through the crack beneath my door.

While Havers had been program and scholarship students only, which meant stricter regulations, more studying, and less partying, Wofford is full of all of the people I didn't care to be around. The rich kids and even worse, a few of my clients.

I grab my phone as I head for the bed. The second my ass hits the mattress, I crawl beneath the covers and flip the phone over, opening the screen. I scan the messages from my clients—Jake and a few others. Even Luc Kincaid, himself, has a job for me. I type out a few messages, accept a few offers, and give a general turnaround time for the easier sounding ones. As long as they don't interfere with trying to track down this Micki chick, I'll be okay.

Once I'm done scanning through those, I finally find the last message—the one that interrupted me. Only it's not a message at all ... it's an email from Grover, Massachusetts Correctional Facility.

The parole hearing results are in. The screen in front of me goes blurry as I read the verdict. My heart nearly stops in my chest, old fear encasing me. Sweat drips down my spine. Ice slides beneath my skin.

Daniel Dickerson is out.

My stomach drops out from beneath me and an old panic that I thought I’d managed to gain control of rears its ugly head. I can't breathe. It's as if all of the oxygen in the room has vanished and I'm left in a wasteland of empty nothingness. My thoughts begin to collide. A small child's scream in the back of my mind takes over.

I have to run.

I have to hide.

I have to make sure he can't find me.

I have to make sure that evil, wicked boy—now, thirteen years later, a man—never finds me.

Unlike some people who have to wait weeks to get the information on whether an inmate is being released or not, I had set an alarm to go off as soon as this information uploaded to the national database. I have time, I know, but it already feels like it's too short.

I know what he'll do the second those doors open. The second he's really and truly out, I know … he’ll want nothing more than to take his revenge on the girl who got him locked up in the first place.

THANK YOU FOR READING

*cue evil laughter* You guys didn’t really think it was over, did you? Avalon and Dean’s story may be concluded, but life goes on and there are a few more sick boys who deserve their own trigger happy endings, too, don’t you think?

Please don’t forget to review here if you liked the book and if you want more from the Sick Boys universe, pre order the next boy’s book right here.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lucy Smoke, also known as Lucinda Dark for her fantasy works, has a master’s degree in English and is a self-proclaimed creative chihuahua. She enjoys feeding her wanderlust, cover addiction, as well as her face, and truly hopes people will stop giving her bath bombs as gifts. Bath’s get cold too fast and it’s just not as wonderful as the commercials make it out to be when the tub isn’t a jacuzzi.

When she’s not on a never-ending quest to find the perfect milkshake, she lives and works in the southern United States with her beloved fur-baby, Hiro, and her family and friends.

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ALSO BY LUCY SMOKE / LUCINDA DARK

Contemporary Series:

Sick Boys Series

Pretty Little Savage

Stone Cold Queen

Natural Born Killers

Wicked Dark Heathens (coming soon)

Iris Boys Series (completed)

Now or Never

Power & Choice

Leap of Faith

Cross my Heart

Forever & Always

Iris Boys Series Boxset

The Break Series

Break Volume 1

Break Volume 2

Break Series Collection

Contemporary Standalones:

Expressionate

Wildest Dreams

Criminal Underground Series (Shared Universe Standalones)

Sweet Possession

Scarlett Thief

Sinister Engagement (coming soon)

Fantasy Series:

Twisted Fae Series (completed)

Court of Crimson

Court of Frost

Court of Midnight

Twisted Fae: Completed Series Boxset

Barbie: The Vampire Hunter Series (completed)

Rest in Pieces

Dead Girl Walking

Ashes to Ashes

Dark Maji Series (completed)

Fortune Favors the Cruel

Blessed Be the Wicked

Twisted is the Crown

For King and Corruption

Long Live the Soulless

Nerys Newblood Series

Daimon

Necrosis

Resurrection (coming soon)

Sky Cities Series (Dystopian)

Heart of Tartarus

Shadow of Deception

Sword of Damage

Dogs of War (coming soon)

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Contents

Author’s Note

Epigraph

Prologue

1. Avalon

2. Dean

3. Avalon

4. Dean

5. Avalon

6. Avalon

7. Dean

8. Avalon

9. Avalon

10. Avalon

11. Avalon

12. Avalon

13. Avalon

14. Dean

15. Avalon

16. Avalon

17. Dean

18. Avalon

19. Avalon

20. Dean

21. Avalon

22. Avalon

23. Dean

24. Avalon

25. Avalon

26. Dean

27. Avalon

28. Dean

29. Avalon

30. Avalon

31. Avalon

32. Dean

33. Avalon

34. Dean

35. Avalon

36. Avalon

37. Avalon

38. Dean

39. Avalon

40. Avalon

41. Dean

42. Avalon

43. Dean

44. Dean

45. Avalon

46. Avalon

47. Avalon

48. Avalon

49. Dean

50. Avalon

Epilogue

THANK YOU FOR READING

About the Author

Also By Lucy Smoke / Lucinda Dark