BLOODY CRUEL PSYCHO

A SICK BOYS NOVEL

LUCY SMOKE

Copyright © 2022 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

Alternate Cover Design: Quirah Casey at Temptation Creations

Proofreading by Jean Bachen

Created with Vellum

CONTENTS

Author’s Note

Acknowledgments

Prologue

1.  Braxton

2.  Clover

3.  Clover

4.  Braxton

5.  Clover

6.  Braxton

7.  Clover

8.  Braxton

9.  Clover

10.  Clover

11.  Clover

12.  Clover

13.  Braxton

14.  Braxton

15.  Clover

16.  Clover

17.  Clover

18.  Clover

19.  Braxton

20.  Clover

21.  Clover

22.  Braxton

23.  Clover

24.  Clover

25.  Clover

26.  Braxton

27.  Clover

28.  Clover

29.  Braxton

30.  Clover

31.  Braxton

32.  Clover

33.  Braxton

34.  Clover

35.  Braxton

36.  Clover

37.  Braxton

38.  Braxton

39.  Clover

40.  Braxton

41.  Clover

42.  Clover

43.  Braxton

44.  Clover

45.  Clover

46.  Braxton

47.  Clover

48.  Braxton

Epilogue

Thank You For Reading!

About the Author

Also by Lucy Smoke

“Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely.”

― Edna St. Vincent Millay

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Welcome back Eastpointers! I hope you’re ready for our next tale of heartbreak and vengeance. If you’ve been with me for a while, then you should know what to expect here, but I’ll say it all again just in case you’ve forgotten.

We’re here. We’re mentally unstable. And we like dark romance.

Nah! Just kidding … sorta. Anyway, if you’re tuning in for the first time, please make sure that you go back and read the rest of the Sick Boys series. I mean, you can totally do what you want. If you want to read this series out of order, I’m all for it. However, if you want a better understanding, I do recommend starting at the beginning.

For everyone else, be warned. As you know, the Sick Boys is a DARK Romance. This means that it contains all things sordid. Trigger warnings are available below.

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.

Trigger Warnings: This book contains kidnapping, dubious consent, blood, violence, death, murder, loss of a loved one, toxic behaviors etc. If any of these are triggering to you, please keep that in mind and read at your own risk.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

A lot of people I know ask why I decided to write college romance. They ask why I’m so drawn to younger characters, often between the ages of seventeen to twenty-three, and almost five years ago when I first started my publishing journey, I think I would’ve said because I related to them. Because at the time, I was a twenty-two-year-old re-entering university life as a graduate student. But now, at twenty-seven, I realize it’s something different.

I’m drawn to characters in college and college romance in general—both dark and light—because these characters are at an age that demands change. They’re leaving their pasts and transitioning into who they will be for the rest of their lives. Big changes happen during these ages. A lot of growing happens, and though it can be difficult to write a character that is in the midst of evolving, it is infinitely empowering to watch them grow up and get stronger. It’s like watching my children awaken to their true abilities.

This is the age where people sometimes find their forever families. Friendships that continue into marriages. People that become brothers and sisters in a world that sometimes guilts you into remaining loyal to blood regardless of care.

Found families are important. Just as important as blood. Loyalty can be hard to find, but when you do find it, the strength that it provides will keep you warm and protected for years to come.

I want to thank my own found family for providing me with this insight. For seeing me beyond my own struggles, for keeping me, for loving me. It is because of my own found family that I’m still here today. They are as blood to me as my own father. So, thank you. I hope you all know how much I love you. Every success I have, every dream of mine that comes true, is because of you all. I would have never had the bravery and strength to continue on, to change and grow myself, were it not for you.

PROLOGUE

CLOVER

EVERYTHING BEGINS and ends with power. What you allow to have power over you—your emotions, your actions, your heart—eventually wins. And I was a fucking idiot for forgetting who the fuck I am. For letting him have that power.

Instead of keeping myself safe, I let him take control. I let him have everything he wanted, and deep down, I think I was hoping he’d want something more. More than revenge. More than sex. More than power. I think I was hoping he’d want what no one else ever has.

Me.

Tires screech across the pavement as I tear down the road. The twin solid yellow lines that divide the old road are the only color in the otherwise dark night. Rain lashes against the windshield and it doesn’t let up for even a second until I’m hours away from his stupid Tower. I pull over into a dingy, shithole gas station and I just … fucking … lose it.

Every goddamn thought. Every emotion. Every single piece of myself that I left behind in Eastpoint are craters dug beneath my skin.

I scream until my lungs hurt and it feels like my ribcage might crack in half. People pass the car and they have to hear me, but they take one look at the crazy girl sitting in the driver’s seat of a crappy old car and keep walking, shoving their heads down—eyes on the sidewalk—so they aren’t subject to anything uncomfortable.

Everyone wants the control, but no one wants the responsibility.

The palms of my hands are sweaty as I pull them away from the steering wheel; they shake and tremble—a sign of my weakness. I want to go back. I want to change everything—my actions, my words, my care for the monster who locked me up in his fucking Tower. I curl my fingers and dig the points of my nails into my palms until the skin breaks and blood leaks out.

Once I’ve screamed my lungs dry and each exhale is filled with pain from my torn and chafed throat, I just sit there in the remaining silence. It’s deafening.

I rock back and forth, my eyes locked on a singular point somewhere in the distance. One of the bright neon signs hanging in the gas station window advertising warm hot dogs and cold cola.

I unclench my fists and reach around myself, hugging my arms around my body as if doing so will somehow make me feel more stable. Something is wrong inside. I’m fracturing apart. Like all of the pieces that make up who I am are splintering, again, like they did so long ago.

I am Clover La Roux. I am also Evgenia Volkov.

I am the daughter of a poor woman who knew only poverty and sadness and desperation. I am also the daughter of a runaway Russian mobster. I am the sister of someone who hurt a girl he cared about.

I am all of those things, but in this moment, every single one of those parts of me breaks into shrapnel. The cracking of my psyche drives up into my soul. Shivers skitter down my spine. My cheeks grow tight as I bite down on the skin inside my mouth, tasting blood. Tears track down my face.

I always hated that—that everything seems to make me cry. Anger, frustration, anxiety. And now, a full-blown mental breakdown brings out my tears. It didn’t matter to him, though. He loved it. Watching me cry was a turn on for him. The sick fuck.

And I hate myself a little bit more inside because, even that made me feel like maybe … we were made for each other. Because I can’t change who I am and he seemed to like something about me that I didn’t. He didn’t like me in spite of my flaws. He liked me because of them. Whether he wants to admit that shit or not.

No matter how much I’ve tried, now is the point I realize that there is no changing myself. There is no throwing away the parts of me that I detest. They are what make me who I am. And as I sit in the front seat of this stupid shitty ass car I stole, I realize that. With blood covering my hands and sliding to the back of my throat—I look up into the rearview mirror and see the girl staring back at me. I recognize now, as much as I want to—as much as I wish I could—there is no going back.

This is the point of no return.

I’m broken.

And in my wreckage, as I pick up the pieces and shove them back together, uncaring of whether or not they fit right anymore, I realize that maybe being a mixture of all of these qualities isn’t such a bad thing. Maybe it’s time that Clover and Evgenia become one.

I am Clover. I am Evgenia. There is no difference.

One side is good. One side is bad. Both sides fucking crazy … over one bloody cruel psycho.

1

BRAXTON

16 YEARS OLD…

I’m frozen in time, lost in the repetition of the whip as it slams into my back—over and over. The blood runs freely over my split flesh. The rust flavor coats the back of my tongue as I bite down, grinding my teeth to keep from making a single sound as it pulls away, dragging itself through the open wounds on my back.

Once, that sensation had made me scream. Once, this whole ordeal had made me cry. But not anymore. Agony is something I’ve grown accustomed to. It is my normal.

Some people believe that the only way to get through life is to keep moving forward, but it’s bullshit. Life is a construct. So is death. So is pain. So is desire.

The only way to survive is to remind yourself that there’s nothing more than this. The past disappears. The future is unknown. The present is all a man has.

The whip hits again and my body jerks forward under the force of it. My skin splits in a new place, opening as fresh blood bubbles up to the surface, sliding down my spine into the loose waistband of my shorts and drips between my ass cheeks.

Vomit threatens to come up, but I shove it back down. The pain is nothing, I remind myself. As if the thought turns something inside of me, my mind switches off, and I don’t even feel the next time the whip slices into my skin. Or I do—but it doesn’t hurt. Nothing hurts anymore. It barely even feels present. I barely feel present.

My mind slowly begins to go, and I lose myself to the haziness, the fog of exhaustion that overwhelms me until the only thing keeping me upright is the fact that my fingers have atrophied and locked onto the chains dangling from the ceiling in the basement of the Smalls’ family mansion. Chains that are meant to hold up punching bags and all manner of other workout equipment, but every so often … this is what they’re used for.

Discipline.

Punishment.

Hatred.

“Well done.” My father’s voice reaches my ears and just knowing that he’s talking now means it’s almost over. I don’t release my hold on the chains. I do what I’ve always done—I wait and I observe. Something hits the floor and when his fingers graze my wrecked back, I realize he’s dropped the whip. He smears his hand across the blood and broken flesh covering my spine—something I know should be increasingly painful, but isn’t. All I feel is disgust at having his skin on mine, his fingers sliding through my open wounds.

“You don’t show emotion even when you’re tortured,” he states. “That’ll serve you well, Son.” As if that’s what this—the whipping—is about. Teaching me what will serve me well. Ha. It’s never about what will serve me and all about what will serve him. The torture he puts me through is his own sick sense of fatherly duty. That, too, is bullshit. He enjoys this and reasons it away.

I withhold my scoff. Hell, I withhold everything from this man. All emotion is a weakness in the face of pure, unadulterated psychopathy. Some call me evil, but I’ve seen evil. I’ve looked it dead in the face and I call it ‘Father.’

“You may release yourself,” he says, giving me the signal that it’s well and truly over. His hand leaves my back and his footsteps fade. Still, I wait until he’s almost out of the room—knowing more than him that my body will collapse the second I unlock my fingers from these chains. “Clean yourself up and get ready for dinner. I’m having a woman over. If you do well, I may just let you fuck her after I’m done.”

With that, the door closes and my fingers release automatically. My knees buckle and I hit the floor hard. The skin of my kneecaps splits, and I gasp for breath as it all comes rushing back to me.

The pain is … agonizing. It feels like he peeled the very skin off of my back, and it takes me several long minutes before my legs regain any sense of strength they had before. I force my feet to plant firmly on the concrete surface of the basement floor as my vision wavers. I push my body to stand and reach out, catching myself on the wall, and holding it for support.

There’s a bathroom a good ten feet away. I just need to make it to the door before I can collapse again. Even from the floor, I’ll be able to reach the antiseptic and first-aid kit beneath the sink. There’s no telling how much time he’s given me to prepare for dinner and whatever whore he’s brought over this time. Sometimes he takes hours and sometimes these sessions barely last fifteen minutes. I can never tell. Once the whipping starts, I lose all sense of time. And I’ve long ago stopped trying to predict what will set him off.

I don’t necessarily want to fuck the same woman my father currently desires, though I know she’ll spread her legs willingly. Regardless of age, they’ll do what Elric Smalls says. Everyone caves to his demands.

Hissing through my teeth as I step forward, I inch my way along the wall in the direction of the bathroom. Once I get to the entrance, I push off the wall and stumble into the open doorway. My shoulder slams into the doorframe and I damn near black out at the resulting fire that races up my spine and side. I hit the floor once more. The tile is only slightly softer than the concrete.

With shaking hands, I open the doors of the cabinet beneath the sink and find what I’m looking for. I grab a small hand towel from the stack next to the first-aid kit and shove it in my mouth, practically choking myself as I tilt my head forward, uncap the antiseptic and pour it down my spine.

Violent wicked flames lick up my bloodied flesh and I spit a curse into the towel clamped between my teeth. If it weren’t for the soft fabric, I know I’d probably have broken a few teeth, if not wrecked my jaw. As it stands, the antiseptic soaks down my body and pools under my ass, running red as if I’ve pissed blood.

Dots dance in front of my vision, threatening to overwhelm me. Once the worst of the pain has subsided, however, I spit out the towel and get to work on cleaning myself up as best I can, wrapping gauze around my back and front. It sticks to my wrecked flesh and soaks through the flimsy white material. Doesn’t matter. All I need to do is make an appearance tonight, leave my father to fuck his whore, and escape to Dean’s. I just need to hold on until then.

Finishing my haphazard work, I cut off the end of the gauze and tie it down to my side before I get back to my feet, and pop a few pain pills on my way up—swallowing them dry. My hands clamp down on either side of the sink, and finally—after what feels like hours—I look up and meet my own reflection.

Blood is splattered on the side of my face, all the way back and barely noticeable, but there nonetheless. My eyes are sunken in and harsh lines are cut into my face. Pain is etched there. Pain and rage. Low and simmering, but always there. It’s been there for so long, I’ve gotten used to it, but I know others haven’t. Not even Dean and Abel, I think, realize just how on the edge I am.

One push, that’s all it’ll take. One last, final push and I’ll go careening into the void—never to be brought back again. Because once a man disappears into the darkness, there is no coming back and each day is one step closer.

Each day, I grow further and further away from the light, sinking deep into the dark that calls to me. The only string that keeps me from falling completely is them.

Abel and Dean. And once Aunt Josie, too.

I close my eyes, cutting off both my thoughts and the sight of myself as I straighten and reach into the hamper next to the sink, pulling out a worn workout t-shirt. Even if I have to take the rage my father dispenses, that doesn’t mean anyone else needs to know. So, I slip it on; if I don’t, the maids and butler and every-fucking-body else in this damned house will be whispering in shadowed corners about it before the end of the day.

Secrets like this are better left in the dark. Pain like this is better left ignored … until one can ignore it no longer.

2

CLOVER

8 MONTHS AGO…

There should be tears. There should be guilt. There should be something other than this deep, aching hellish void in my chest. But there is none.

I reach up and wipe at my dry cheeks, trying to picture what should be there but isn’t. I stare at the ghost-white reflection of my face in the dirty, cracked mirror, as my fingers run over my skin, staining it a brownish red in the dim lighting—smearing the proof of my crime.

They’re not even shaking.

That’s fucked up. Isn’t that fucked up?

A knock on the door draws me out of my thoughts. “Are you okay in there, solnyshka?” Ace’s deep, but worried voice comes through the thin wood.

“Where’s Mama Luda?” I ask.

The doorknob jiggles. “Solnyshka, open the door.” Ace doesn’t answer my question.

I don’t want to, so I turn the handle on the sink spout and let the water run some more. I rub my bloody fingers and hands under the water. The clear liquid starts to turn murky as it fills up the bottom of the sink. This damn thing’s been almost completely clogged for forever. It takes several long minutes just to drain the bottom out even a little bit. Mama Luda is gonna be mad if I don’t stop the water now and let it start draining.

But wait … that’s right. She can’t get mad anymore. So, I let the water keep running, and I keep rubbing my fingers clean.

Ace pounds on the door. “Clover!” He yells my English name through the door. “Don’t make me break this door down, Mama’s gonna be…” I don’t hear what he says next because my ears, they just shut off. It’s like a pop and suddenly all of the little annoying sounds are gone.

Mama’s gonna be what? I want to ask. Zloy? Okay?

Is she gonna start cursing at me in Russian and throwing her hands up in the air when I sit there and can’t understand her? I’m still learning and when she talks too fast, I can’t keep up. What I wouldn’t give to see her angry at me again, to watch her face scrunch up when she spoke too fast, to have her flick me with dishwater while she told me about life in the old country. What I wouldn’t give to know what she was saying as she was crying on that kitchen floor when that strange man was beating her.

Why she let him in, I don’t know. Why he got angry, I don’t know. Why she cried and slumped over when I grabbed the cast iron skillet from the stove and slammed it against the back of his head—over and over again until there was enough blood on the cheap linoleum tile to bathe in—I. Don’t. Know.

I don’t know a lot of things.

And as I look up at myself in the unframed mirror that’s held to the wall by duct tape and a prayer, I think that’s been true for a long time. I don’t know anything. Ace and Ivan haven’t told me anything.

Water sloshes up out of the sink and slaps my bare stomach. Where’s my shirt? I wonder absently, turning and looking for it. If Mama catches me like this, she’ll tell me that good girls should be mindful of what they wear at all times. If Mama catches me…

The water from the faucet fills up the sink to the rim and then pours over the side. I can still vaguely hear Ace saying something on the other side of the door. It’s not fair, I think. He’s never here. He should’ve been here to protect her. No, I should’ve been here to protect her.

When I turned eighteen, she didn’t need to be responsible for me anymore. She could have urged me to go off on my own, like Ace said he had at my age. Instead, my birthday came and went like any other day, and when I asked when she was gonna stop calling me milaya, she just smiled and said that it would never happen.

She lied.

Because that day is here. That day is now. I’ll never come home to her calling me milaya again.

The water continues spilling over the sink as I back up, staring at my own face in the mirror. I don’t even look like her. No one ever mistook me for her real daughter. Where she was dark skinned and thick with curves, I’m paler than sand with freckles covering my entire face.

It’s not important that I don’t look like her. She never cared that she didn’t give birth to me. But I do. I do, now. Now, I want nothing more than to look into this mirror and see the image of the only woman who’s ever shown me love and affection. I want to look at myself and see Mama Luda and I never will.

It’s not. Fucking. Fair.

Another voice mumbles something outside of the door, deep, rumbling, speaking Mama Luda’s native tongue. The pounding on the door stops. Ace replies back, then…

“Clover. The body’s gone. We’re gonna clean up out here. Just … finish washing and come out. Please, babygirl. Don’t worry, we’ll take care of everything. Don’t—”

“What about Mama?” I finally say. “Are you gonna take care of her, too?”

There’s a pause and then, with a tight and obviously pained breath, he says, “Yeah. We’ll take care of Mama, too.”

That’s it. That’s what takes care of the dam that appeared in my soul at the gates of my eyes twenty minutes ago. Tears burst forth and I stare back at myself as I slowly back into the floral wallpaper of Mama Luda’s bathroom and then slip down until my ass hits the floor.

I’ve finally found the tears I knew should’ve been here.

My head rests back against the peeling paper as the waterfall spills over the sink. It splashes me in the face, and soaks into the fabric of my running shorts. The blood might be gone from my hands, but it’ll never be erased from my soul.

I don’t know who that man was and I don’t care. All I know is that he killed her and I killed him.

A life for a life and now I’m blinded by tears.

3

CLOVER

PRESENT DAY…

Sweat sticks to the back of my neck. Little beads collecting and dripping down my spine like some ill omen. I shiver as the craptastic air conditioning unit hanging out of the bedroom window kicks on, coughing out a quick blast of air that’s slightly less hot than the rest of the damn place. Fuck. It’s broken again. Of course it is. Everything in Mama Luda’s trailer is broken.

Including its lone resident, a voice in the back of my head says.

I flip on the light in the bathroom to the master, ignoring the scurry of a roach in the corner as I reach for my toothbrush and pull it out of its plastic bag to get ready for bed. It might be impossible to get the little critters out of my damn house, but there’s no fucking way I’m letting them contaminate me any more than necessary.

With the water running out of the faucet, I reach under, holding my hand out to let the wet liquid soak over my fingers before I pull back and scrub it over my nape. I’m tired. More than usual. Maybe I’m getting sick again.

My fingers itch to text Ace, but I doubt he’ll answer. He hasn’t been answering my calls for the last month or so anyway. Even before that, it’d been several weeks of off and on contact. I know there are times when he needs to go completely dark, but I hate being left on the outside.

I finish brushing my teeth and clean off the bristles of my toothbrush before shoving it back into its bag. I click the light off and head into the bedroom, turning and sitting on the edge of the massive king-sized waterbed in the center of the room. I could’ve brought my own twin-sized bed from the front bedroom back here, but I like sleeping in Mama’s bed. It still smells like her, even months after…

Cutting that thought off, I groan and slump back, smacking into the squishy mattress covered in sheets and blankets and pillows. One push and I slip off the hard rim of the bed and into the wiggly center. I shake and float for a moment as the water within the barrier of the mattress rolls me in waves before finally settling down

This shit is god-awful for my back, but Mama Luda said it made her joints feel better. I close my eyes as the air conditioning unit does another one of its coughing air blasts and then cuts off, silence filling the room. Yup. The fucker’s done.

I roll over, grabbing a pillow and stuffing it down between my legs. Exhaustion pulls at each and every limb, but I stay like that for several long minutes. Counting the specks in the dark as my mind takes over and runs through what I can expect to do tomorrow.

I’ll have to go looking for another job. Mama Luda’s Social Security checks have stopped coming in and the welfare shit is just … unnecessary. I can work. I should work. I should take care of myself the way I always have. School’s not a problem anymore. Not since graduation. I curl in on myself as I list off my options.

There’s Petey’s Crab Shack. Or maybe Don’s Auto Shop. I can’t fuck with a car for shit, but maybe they need someone to schedule appointments? Nah. Probably not. Don’s a cheapskate. If I can’t do every job he’s got, then he won’t hire me. My stomach rumbles, reminding me that I’m down to my last box of ramen and a couple cans of tuna. I fucking hate tuna. I don’t know how the fuck Mama ate that shit.

On the nightstand, my phone lights up. I practically jump for it, but when I open it, my hopes fall as I read the spam text about losing weight. It takes a considerable amount of effort to not throw the damn thing and, instead, set it carefully back on the nightstand. I can’t afford a new one and Ace isn’t around now.

I close my eyes and sink further into the water bed. My mind and body drift away, swaying with each beat and movement. I count my breaths. In and out. In and out. Slowly … slipping down the dark tunnel of sleep. Almost there.

Crack.

My eyes burst open, and for a second I think I imagined it. It doesn’t come again. I hold my breath, straining to listen as hard as I can until I feel like my eardrums might pop, but there’s no following sound. That should make me feel better. It should have me sighing and snuggling back into bed, ready to try and force myself back into a sleep that I know I need.

It doesn’t.

Carefully—or as carefully as one can in a fucking waterbed older than me—I scoot across the mattress to the hard rim, locking my fingers over the edge and hefting myself up and out of bed. The wooden frame of the bed creaks and I freeze, pausing to listen again to my surroundings. Again, there’s nothing. That only makes my anxiety ratchet up another notch.

Someone’s here. I know it. I can sense it.

Ace said this might happen someday. He and Ivan made sure I’d be prepared. Unfortunately, my “preparedness” is across the damn house, locked in the safe.

As quietly as possible, I shift myself the rest of the way out of the damn bed. My feet hit the floor and I crouch down, lower than the windows of my bedroom just in case someone is looking in from the outside. I creep along the wall to the open bedroom door and peek down the hallway leading to the living room and kitchen area.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. My heart races a mile a minute. My breath seems louder than a damn foghorn. I’ve forgotten the God forsaken heat and the broken air conditioning unit. I’ve forgotten everything except the sense of impending danger that lingers in the air.

When I strain again, listening for anything more—all that greets me is the sound of the swamp outside. Frogs croaking. Bugs chirping. The trailer is on stilts—a necessity for those who live so far into the swamps and shores. I should feel safe. I mean, how the hell else would someone try to break in but through the front door? And who would ever actually break in there? A ladder would be too loud to reach the windows. Loud enough, at least, that I’d hear it. Right?

Even as I try to convince myself of my own paranoia, I make my way into the kitchen. My feet move from cheap carpet to linoleum. The clock on the microwave is dark and it’s then that I realize why I’m so on edge.

It’s not just the silence in the trailer that leads me to hear nothing but the critters and wildlife outside, it’s the dead … cold … quiet.

There’s no electrical buzz. No dull whizzing of current passing through the various connections in the house such as the lamps, the lights, the refrigerator. Everything is off. The microwave’s clock is dark because someone has cut the power and I am in deep shit.

My heart thuds against my ribcage. I don’t wait to find out if he’s already in the house. Something tells me if I don’t get to the fucking safe and right fucking now, I won’t make it. I release my breath and give up on being quiet and stealthy, diving across the room and moving at a sprint as I head for the front hallway past the front door.

Just as my foot hits the living room, the front door crashes inward—the cheap hollow wood breaking rather easily under the booted foot of a masked man. I freeze, mid-stride, flying back to avoid a piece of wood as it breaks free and zooms past my head.

What was it that I said? Who would break in through the front door? This guy apparently. This … big … massive … guy.

Big really is the first thought that comes to mind. The man that steps into my shitty trailer is built like a fucking mountain. Wide shoulders and a barrel chest. And he’s standing between me and the gun Ace and Ivan left me. There’s no getting to it now. There’s only one thing left to do and that’s get the hell out of Dodge.

My survival instincts kick into overdrive and I whirl around, my feet nearly skidding on the linoleum as I hit the kitchen at a dead run, trying to make it back to the master before he catches me. The whole house trembles with the thundering of footsteps at my back.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Double fucking shitty shit SHIT.

My fingers lock onto the door to the master bedroom and I slam it closed behind me, flipping the flimsy lock in record time and then turning to grip Mama Luda’s wardrobe and shove it up against the wood to buy me a little bit of extra time. The damn thing is so heavy that I have to get around the outside, turn and plant my feet on the wall and shove it into the door just as the man on the other side slams into it, rocking both me and the wardrobe.

Fear. Panic. Horror. Shock. Emotions race through my system as well as some top-grade adrenaline. It almost makes me feel like I’m high. My body is moving, and I can’t even feel my skin. On bare feet, I race across the room. I snatch up my cell phone, a spare pocket knife, and the car keys to Mama Luda’s 1970 F250, and shove them into the pocket of my sleep pants, thanking God above that I never buy pants without real pockets.

I reach the broken air conditioning unit just as the sound of the wood splintering echoes behind me. I don’t even take a second to look and see what he’s done. I don’t have the time anymore. I grip the edge of the unit with one hand and reach underneath with my other, yanking out the cord before I shove up the window and push the whole damn thing out.

My breath is getting louder and louder as more wood splinters apart. I urge my body to move faster, gripping the edge of the window and swinging my leg over. Looking down, I flinch, pausing just long enough to reach across to the bed. My hand locks on the bed, gripping the sheet and tearing it loose. Hanging there, my movements jerky and fumbling, I tie a piece of the sheet to one of the bedposts just as the wardrobe goes flying back and the man enters the bedroom.

“Don’t—”

He doesn’t even manage to finish a sentence in that deep, growly voice of his before I’m already launching myself out of the window.

A scream locks in my throat as I fall through the darkness. My fingers tighten on the edge of the sheet, but I only fall a good six feet and am left dangling another four or five above the ground as the man’s masked head pokes out the window and his hands lock on my lifeline.

“No no no no.” I gasp in outrage and fear as he begins to pull. I feel my whole body being lifted back towards the open window. Is he fucking serious? I can’t let this happen. I look up and then back down. The house sits a good ten feet off the ground and I knew the sheet wouldn’t reach. I need to … I don’t like it but I need to take the fucking fall. Closing my eyes, even as he yanks the sheet, and me, I suck in a breath and force my fingers to release the one thing keeping me from falling completely.

My back hits the ground with a sharp thud just before my head connects as well and all of the air rushes out of my lungs. It feels like forever, but can only truly be a second or more, that I lay there, trying to take stock of myself. My back hurts like hell and I have no doubt there’s going to be bruises later, but now isn’t the time to be whining about nicks and bruises. Besides, I’ve had far worse in my lifetime. It’s my head that I’m worried about. There’s a soreness at the back of my skull, and I feel disconnected from my body for a brief moment. Too long of a moment that I don’t have time for.

I force myself to sit up, coughing as oxygen finally re-enters my lungs. The world tilts on an axis that I apparently have no connection to because instead of immediately righting itself as I struggle to get my legs underneath me, it just keeps going. Dizziness assails me. Probably a concussion. My stomach rebels at the spinning and I barely manage to take a step forward when I have to stop and double over.

The old can of ravioli that I had for dinner comes spewing back out in chunks of white and red and brown, all over the swamp grass that litters the underside of Mama Luda’s stilted trailer. All I can think is, I really don’t have time for this. There’s no doubt that tall, dark, and scary is coming down after me. Considering his actions in the trailer, it’s clear he’s no ordinary home intruder. He’s here for one thing and that thing is me.

No sooner have I finished emptying my stomach than I catch the hard, stomping footsteps racing down the steps. Normally, I love being right, but of course, the one time I wish I was wrong … I’m not.

I take off running before the world even stops spinning. After upchucking my dinner, it’s a little better, but I’m not running at my top speed. I’m stumbling and racing through the swamp, cutting around the back of the trailer, hoping I can fake my masked pursuer out as I round the trailer, heading towards where Mama’s truck is still parked.

My bare feet sink into the squishy ground, slowing my movements down even more than my aching head and sore back. Ground critters and the sounds of the dark, wet swamp rush up to meet me. The chirping of various creatures and bugs fill my ears, louder than ever before when all I want to do is focus on my escape.

Something slams into me from behind, shoving me forward and I eat mud. My face slaps into the wet ground and grass sticks to the underside of my jaw as I turn my head, gasping for breath and realizing that it’s him.

Fear takes over as my arms are yanked behind my back. “Fucking stubborn brat,” he curses as something cold and metal locks on my wrists.

“Stop!” I scream, struggling under him. My hips twist and turn under his big frame. I yank forward, crawling without the use of my arms—so really, sliding like a snake through the muck and grime. I don’t even care how I seem right now. Survival is so much more precious than dignity.

The man above me grunts and locks his hand around my bound wrists, halting any further movement, but that doesn’t keep me from struggling. Why? I don’t know. To be honest, if I were thinking clearly, I’d recognize that never in the history of someone being kidnapped with the potential for being brutally tortured and murdered has a victim ever screamed “please don’t do this to me” and the perpetrator just listens.

It’s not like this guy is just going to realize how unnecessary this whole thing is and sit back and go, “Wow, ma’am, you’re right. I don’t know what I was thinking. Here, let me get those cuffs off you. So sorry for disturbing your sleep. I’ll make sure to pay for the damages to your home, too.”

Yet, here the fuck I am. Screaming and telling him to stop like it might actually do something. And it’s so fucking stupid. Realizing the futility of it, I just stop, sagging into the ground with a sigh of mixed resignation and frustration.

“Given up?” the guy asks.

Anger arches up through me. “Fuck you!” I spit out. No, I haven’t given up. It’s just a … strategic break. A temporary retreat. The second my head’s no longer spinning out of control, I’m gonna whoop this guy’s ass and make him regret ever attacking my trailer and dragging me out into the dark night.

My stomach cramps, but I push down the desire to puke again as the man above me chuckles, sending something hot and wicked through my system. It’s only then that I realize what kind of position I’m really in. My shirt has ridden up in my escape attempt and resulting ground tackle and though I can feel mud sliding along my lower belly, the fact still remains that I’m showing a lot of naked skin. His body is throwing off a hell of a lot of heat and I can feel something pressing against the outer curve of my ass through my thin pajama pants.

I squirm beneath the thighs encasing me and almost as if out of amusement, the guy lets me flip over to see his—well, not his face per se, but the mask he’s sporting. I turn my face to the side and spit out some of the grass and dirt that made its way into my mouth. Within the ski mask he’s wearing, his lips purse. I narrow my eyes.

“What the hell do you want?” I demand. “In case you’re wondering, I don’t have money.”

He scoffs. “Of course you don’t,” he replies. “You wouldn’t be living in a fucking shack in the middle of the woods if you did.”

“Hey—Ah!” I gasp and let out another shout of disbelief as he suddenly lifts himself off of me and yanks me forward off the ground, effectively depositing me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. A jingle sounds and my keys slip out of my pants pocket. As they hit the dirt, my kidnapper looks back but doesn’t so much as stop as he continues towards the driveway and then further down the road. I look up, watching the silver of the keyring glint as it sinks beneath the mud, taking with it the last of my hope of escaping here and now.

4

BRAXTON

DAMN FUCKING WOMEN. If I’ve learned anything from the women in my life—like Avalon and even Rylie—it’s that they never do what a man expects. This one is no fucking different.

She’s a fiery little thing—a fighter. I knew she would have to be if she were in Ace’s inner circle. Just how much, though, was a bit of a shock. Even now, as I cart her down the driveway towards the road where my truck is waiting, she’s fuming. Her limp struggles are like pesky little swats, but they grow in number, never letting up, making her that much more annoying.

What was it again about redheads? I wonder absently before shaking my head. No. Regardless of her hair color or predisposition, she won’t be able to escape this. She won’t be able to escape me.

“You know this is really unnecessary,” she snaps as her body sways over my shoulder. I grunt, hefting her up a little higher just to hear her small intake of breath as she fears I’ll drop her. My lips twitch in amusement when she curses low under her breath. A moment later, she’s back at it. “Did you hear me?” she demands. “I said this is unnecessary. Why are you coming after some chick living in the swamp? I don’t have any money—which you already admitted you knew—and it’s not like I know anyone with money—”

“Quiet,” I order, cutting her off as we reach the road. I already double-checked before I decided to take her from her home, but the reason she’s no longer trying to scream her head off is because she lives in the middle of fucking nowhere. Her nearest neighbors are a good mile down the road and this little hut across from her driveway is as empty as her fucking house was. How does a chick even live with the barest living essentials? I shake my head. Doesn’t matter and I don’t care. What matters now is that I’ve got what I need to lure Ace Volkov out.

I quickly jog across the road and around the bend of the building, reaching into my pocket and hitting the button on the key fob that unlocks the doors.

“What—” My baggage cuts herself off as I circle to the front of the car and yank the door open, shoving her ass inside. “Wait!” She cries out as her body convulses. “Fuck!” I blink down at her, shocked. What the hell…

“Shit!” I snap, jumping back and out of the way as she pukes out of the side of the car. It’s nothing more than bile, though, and a few small red chunks of whatever it is she ate for her last meal. “What the hell is wrong with you?” I demand. “Are you sick?” The second she’s done, I step back into place—I’m not ready to allow her to make a run for it and there’s no telling if she made herself sick on purpose just to get away.

My fingers lock onto her chin, and I yank her face up. The dull moonlight illuminates her pale features and I pause. The pictures hadn’t done shit for her complexion, I realize. They’d made her look washed out and haggard. Maybe she had been, but even now—with the dark circles I see under her eyes and the dazed look—I recognize just how fucking beautiful she is. Heart-shaped face. The smattering of freckles that map out across her cheeks and nose and even up to her forehead. The rose-colored lips. The long, dark lashes that contrast with just how white her skin is. She’s like a fairy come to life.

Fairytales are real, Brax. They’re just hard to find. I shake my head hard, shoving that ghost-like memory away. Josie isn’t here. She’s fucking dead. And I need to take care of business.

“How many fingers am I holding up?” I demand, shoving two in the girl’s face.

She blinks, appearing confused, and wavers in the seat. “F-four?”

“Damn it.” I cup the back of her head. She must have hurt herself jumping out of that damn window. She won’t be any good to me if she’s dead. I need—I stop thinking as something wet touches my fingers. At first, I think it’s water or mud—hell, both of us are caked in it from the little chase we had around her trailer—but when I pull my hand back, there’s red mixed in with the mud. How hard did she hit her head? Does she have a concussion? “Do you feel like you’re going to throw up again?” I demand.

It takes her a moment to answer, but when she does, it’s nothing more than a shake of her head as she sways back and forth in the seat. I curse again and reach around, gripping her handcuffed wrists and sliding the key inside. The second I unlock them, though, I don’t give her a chance to push me back—sick or not, she is not getting away from me—I have them resecured together and locked into the bar across from the passenger seat above the glove box. She doesn’t say a word as I reach beneath her seat, find the lever and push it all the way up until she’s not bent in half. Quickly securing her seatbelt, I slam the door closed and pull out my cell phone, dialing up a familiar number.

“Hey, what up, man?” Abel’s voice slides through my ears as I round the front of the truck. “Where you at? You done with your little project or what?”

“Do we have a doctor on standby?” I demand.

He pauses and then replies, “Not since the old men croaked. I’ll get one. Someone that won’t talk about anything we bring to him. What do you need?”

“I need him to check out a patient,” I say. “It’s important, Abel. This is the key.”

“Key to what?” Abel sounds confused, and he should be. This is something I’ve been keeping from both him and Dean—and most importantly, Avalon. I didn’t want to get their hopes up. I didn’t want them to ride the rollercoaster of disappointment that I’ve been faced with these last several months myself. Catching up to Ace only to realize he’d escaped me once again. Every end to each string I’d tried to unravel had brought me to unwelcome conclusions that I knew couldn’t be true. Most of them claiming that Ace Volkov was dead, but there’s no fucking way that’s true. Now I’ve got something that might lead somewhere. I stop in front of the driver’s side door and peer into the dark window. I can’t see her due to the tint, but I know she’s there. My target. My precious little bait.

“The key to finding Ace Volkov,” I admit finally.

There’s silence on the other end for a moment. I don’t have to see Abel’s face to know that he’s shocked. When he speaks again, the jokester is gone, and all that’s left is the cold, hard reality of being who we are. “Bring them in,” he says. “I’ll have the doctor ready. What’s your ETA?”

“Give me a day or so,” I say. “I’m driving back. I’ll probably have to stop halfway to get some shut eye, though.” Being up for two days straight hasn’t done shit for my concentration.

“Do you need me to send the jet?” he asks.

“No. Even if we take the private jet,” I say. “I’ll still have to record her as a passenger. I don’t want anyone else to know about her just yet. Just us.”

"So, the key is a girl, huh?” he says. I roll my eyes. I can practically see the eat-shit grin on his face. “Fascinating. It always is, isn’t it?”

I pinch the bridge of my nose through my mask and tip my head back. “It’s not like that.”

“Yet,” he shoots back just as quickly. Before I can growl at him, however, he’s already moving on. “Anyway, I’ll have that doctor ready. Just keep me updated on your arrival. He can be at the house in—”

“No,” I say. “Not at the house. Take him to my place.”

Silence, and then, “You’re taking her to your place? Are you planning on staying with her?”

“Who else is going to?” I reply. “And I don’t want to take her to Carter’s. That’s our place. She’s not important. She’s just bait.”

“Right. Okay then,” Abel says. “I’ll have the doctor ready. He can be at your place as soon as you get in. Give me a thirty minutes heads up.”

“Just get me the doc,” I say. “You don’t need to stop by. She’s probably got a concussion and I need to know what to look out for—that’s all this is.”

“Hold on, Rylie just walked in, let me—” Abel’s voice grows fainter for a moment and his tone drops from serious to something else that I know is only reserved for his girl. He says something to her and I can dimly hear her reply. A moment later, though, I’m shocked to hear Rylie’s voice come over the line clearly.

“Brax?”

I drop my arm away from my face. “Yeah?”

“Abel says you’re dealing with someone with a concussion,” she says. “I just looked up some symptoms for you. Just make sure you wake them up regularly. Give them water. Have they felt nauseous?”

“She’s already thrown up,” I say.

Over the line, Rylie blows out a breath. “That’s not good. If it happens again, you may need to take her to a hospital or something. If she doesn’t throw up more than what she already has, though, then you might be okay until you get home. Are there any other symptoms?”

“She seems pretty out of it,” I reply.

“That’s normal,” she says, then I hear Abel’s voice in the background. “Abel’s going to find a doctor for you when you get back,” she continues. “Just keep an eye on her, though, and feed her again. As long as she doesn’t have any seizures or repeated vomiting, I expect she should recover just fine.”

A small smile turns up the corners of my lips. And to think she’d been practically terrified of the three of us up until a couple of months back. “Alright, thanks, Rylie.”

“No problem, here’s Abel.” Crackling sounds in my ears as the phone is exchanged once more and then Abel comes over the line.

“Keep me updated, man,” he says. “Don’t worry about us. We’ll get everything ready here.”

“Thanks. See you soon.”

“Later, man.” I press end call and reach for the driver’s side door handle, popping it open and sliding inside.

In the passenger seat, my cargo is already passed the fuck out. Immediately, my hand reaches out to wake her—concerned that her sleep isn’t a natural one—when she rolls her head towards me and a soft snore erupts from her. Pausing, I clench my hand into a fist and retreat to pull my mask off my head. Even if she wakes up now, it’s not like I can keep her from finding out my identity in the long run. The mask was merely a precaution in case there’d been anyone in the area. Behind the dark-tinted windows of my rental, it’s relatively safe to take it off.

I watch her for a moment more before starting the truck. She may be innocent in all of this, a voice in the back of my head reminds me. The likelihood of her innocence is high, but that doesn’t mean shit to me. It shouldn’t. In the world that I live in—an eye for an eye is a given conclusion. Ace took something from us once, and now it’s time for payback. This is only the beginning. By the end of it all, Clover La Roux is going to regret that she ever met Ace Volkov.

5

CLOVER

I’VE LIVED in some pretty disgusting places. Woken up to the smell of burnt coffee and weed for breakfast. Slept on flea-infested motel mattresses without pillows or blankets, crappy couches that had been left out in the rain a time or two. And though each place held something new and shittier than the last, it hadn’t come as any surprise that I’d never felt safe in any of them.

Somehow, between moving from place to place with my mom, I’d taken up running. Pushing myself to the brink of physical exhaustion is a different kind of release. It allows you to slow your mind and just be in the moment where your feet are the only connection you have to the Earth, and even that can be a tenuous connection. Every time I got overwhelmed in the past—when my mom’s needs far outweighed my own and I had to face the fact that I was more of a parent to her than she was to me—I’d dealt with it all by going for a run.

It wasn’t so much about the running that made me calm down, but something about focusing on something—even if it was just putting one foot in front of the other—that calmed me. I haven’t had that in a while.

Since I’ve lived with Mama Luda, I started running less and less. My anxiousness declined and I finally felt like I’d landed on solid ground. In the months since her death, however, that old anxiety resurfaced and I picked the habit back up. And now, the desire to run away is at an all time high—one that I have to fight every second.

When I open my eyes to pure white sheets and a hazy stream of sunlight pouring in from a set of double glass doors to the side of the bed I’m in, though, safety is the only thing I can think of. Perhaps it’s the clean smells that surround me or the coolness of working air conditioning sliding over my bare arms, but that old anxiety has faded.

Did Ace come back before my kidnapper had a chance to drive off? Did he take me somewhere new? Are we starting over? Where’s Ivan? There’s a load of questions that go unanswered as I lay there in the softest bed I’ve ever touched in my life. Even the pillow beneath my head smells expensive. Like those cheap watered down ocean breeze shampoos at the dollar store, but better.

It’s the first time in months that I’ve felt well and truly rested. My nausea is gone and though there’s still a low, dull throb of a headache at the back of my skull, it’s bearable. I roll over and as my arms arch up with a stretch, the jangling noise of metal clinking against metal takes me from still half asleep to wide awake. The bubble pops. My muscles tense, and the anxiety is back.

My eyes snap up to the headboard of the bed that I’m in and I realize that my assumptions were wrong. I’m not safe at all. If the handcuffs that encircle my wrists along with the long chain attaching them to the brass headboard are a hint to anything, I’m still very much a prisoner.

The door to the outside opens and a man steps into the room. My heart drops into my stomach. I know without asking who he is. The tall, broad build. The muscular chest and wide, flat hands carrying a gym bag are all a clue. The reason for my fear, however, is the absence of the mask he’d worn the night before. I can see his face and that can only mean one thing—he’s not planning on letting me go any time soon. I’ve seen enough TV shows and have heard enough stories from Ace to know that it’s never a good thing when a kidnapper reveals their face. My palms begin to sweat and I wipe them against the silken sheets.

The man’s head turns as he tosses his gym bag onto the floor at the edge of the bed and looks up, his eyes locking with mine. A breath sticks in my chest. Those eyes are dangerous. Beautiful. Daunting. A ring of reddish-brown circles the pupil but the rest is a strange mixture of gray and flecks of various other colors. Even knowing that this man means me absolutely no good, I can stop and recognize just how stunning his features are. Though it might be the last thing I ever do, I acknowledge it.

“You’re awake.” Two words, spoken in that same deep baritone. There’s no question, just a statement.

“Who are you?” I ask.

He shakes his head and I blink when something wet lands on my ankle. I glance down at where my foot is stuck outside of the sheets and then back up as he scrubs one of those wide palms through his hair and I realize that’s where the wetness came from. He must have just gotten back from the gym and showered because, although he’s wearing a sleeveless workout tank and basketball shorts, he smells like more of that ocean breeze shit. I force myself not to take a deep inhale lest I seem like a fucking addict trying to get a whiff.

“You don’t need to know who I am,” he states.

“Fine,” I snap, frowning as I scoot back enough to sit up. “Then why did you kidnap me?”

He walks across the room to the desk on the opposite wall. He pulls the chair out, whips it around, and takes a seat, straddling it backwards as he surveys me. Instead of answering me, however, he glares me down—like I’m the fucking one who yanked him out of his bed in the middle of the night, forced him to climb out a window, and then locked him to the headboard of a suspiciously comfortable bed who knows where.

“How do you feel?”

I blink, shocked by his question. “Why?” I narrow my gaze on him even as I cross my arms over my chest. Dimly I realize that I’m no longer wearing the same clothes I fell asleep in. My cheap pajama pants and shirt have been replaced with an oversized men’s shirt. Thankfully, I still feel my underwear on beneath it. I try not to think about who changed me because even as I cut a look at my kidnapper, I’m pretty sure I already know.

“Do you feel like throwing up?” he asks. “Are you seeing double?”

“No and no,” I reply. “Why do you care?”

He sighs. “I’d rather not have to clean up puke,” he replies. “You probably got a concussion last night.”

That’s right—I remember now, throwing up right after I’d jumped out of the window and then again when he’d stuffed me into his getaway vehicle. I arch a brow at him. “Did I throw up on you?”

“No.”

“Pity.” I should’ve aimed better. I’ll remember that for next time.

His lips twitch but before I can tell if it’s amusement or irritation, his head turns at the sound of a knock on the door. When he faces me once more, it’s with a glare. “Don’t bother screaming,” he tells me before I can say or do anything. “No one here will give a fuck. They get paid enough that looking in the opposite direction of a woman in distress is easy. You’ll only serve to wear yourself out and to piss me off.” He stands and that look of his hardens. “I would recommend you don’t try to piss me off.”

And just like that, he leaves me on the bed, handcuffed to the headboard as he goes to the door of what I recognize now is a hotel room. A really nice hotel room. What kind of kidnapper brings their victim to the fucking Ritz?

Soft voices filter back to me from the short hallway to the side, where my captor is speaking to someone. I debate my options. Do I listen to him and keep my mouth shut? Doing so could show him that I’m not a threat. Maybe he’ll start to let his guard down. I think back to what Ivan taught me. Sometimes, even if it’s hard, waiting and watching is the best option. Right now, I think it’s my only option.

If this man was going to kill me, he probably would’ve done it while I was passed out. Then again, maybe he likes torture. But who comes to a nice hotel to torture someone?

My thoughts are in such an upheaval that I don’t even realize that the conversation with my captor is over and he’s back in the main room, this time carrying a covered tray. He sets it on the end of the bed, just out of my reach, and lifts the top. Immediately, my mouth begins to water. Thick slices of ham and bacon, perfectly golden hash browns, and pancakes, along with two full glasses of water and orange juice wait to be consumed.

“Now, then,” the man says, retaking his seat. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

A small growl threatens to escape my throat even as my stomach rebels at the smells coming from the tray. Asshole. He smirks and I know he knows exactly what he’s doing. Torture it is, I see.

“Where is Ace Volkov?” The question that shoots out of his mouth both shocks me and at the same time, it doesn’t. What doesn’t shock me is that this is about Ace—I knew he did dangerous things for dangerous people, but the surprising part is the fact that this man knows his last name. As far as anyone should be aware, Ace’s last name should still officially be his American name. That can only mean one thing. This man has connections.

Ignoring my hunger, I sit back further against the headboard and pull a pillow into my lap. “Who?”

The man frowns. “I know you have a connection to him,” he says. “Don’t even try to pretend like you don’t.”

“I’m sorry, I think you’ve kidnapped the wrong chick,” I say. “I don’t know an Ace Volkov.”

His eyes narrow on me and those gray irises darken. “You really want to play this game with me, sweetheart?”

I grit my teeth. “I’m not playing a game, asshole.” Lie. Liar fucking liar. I turn my face away from him, scanning the room for more information, but it’s all utilitarian. Fancy utilitarian, I’ll give it that, but still just the basics. There’s not even any extra shit on the nightstand to my right. Nothing that I can use to unlock these cuffs when he inevitably leaves. I really don’t want to have to break my thumb.

As my thoughts wander, the man waiting for an answer loses his patience and suddenly his dark form is over me. Hands slap the bed on either side of me, making the tray clank and jiggle with the movement. My eyes shoot from it back to the shadow hovering over me.

“Do you have any fucking clue what I’m going to do to you if I don’t get my answers, Clover?”

I blink. It’s the first time he’s said my name. And coming from his lips, it sounds … I really don’t want to acknowledge the way it sounds. I tip my chin up and my head back. “You know my name, but I don’t know yours,” I say. “That’s not very fair.”

Those hazel gray eyes of his bore into me, threatening and overpowering—knocking the breath from my lungs, but I’ve been in situations like this before. Maybe not exactly this—but I know what it feels like to stare death in the face. If I flinch, he wins, and I hate fucking losing.

“Give me Ace Volkov’s location.”

“Give me your name.”

Back and forth. We’re like two tennis players volleying from one side of the court to the next. Neither of us relenting. My chest tightens as my heart rate starts to pick up speed.

“If I give you a name, will you give me Ace Volkov’s location?” he asks.

I shrug. “What makes you think I have it?”

He grits his teeth, and with what appears to be reluctance, his lips part on his answer. “Braxton,” he says. “Braxton Smalls.”

Braxton. I knock the name around in my head, trying to remember if I’ve heard it before, but it’s not ringing a bell. He stares at me, waiting. “Clover La Roux,” I say, giving my American name as I wait to find out what comes next.

He growls. “I know your fucking name,” he states. “What I don’t know is where Ace Volkov is.”

“That makes two of us,” I say honestly.

I jump as one of his arms shoots right by my head and his fist slams into the wall above the headboard. The whole bed trembles with the sudden violence and my head tips back as I look up into the face of my captor. I’m playing a very dangerous game here, I realize. Though he hasn’t done anything to me yet, there’s something sinister in his expression that lets me know he won’t hesitate to do so. Sweat collects at the base of my spine. My skin grows flushed.

“I really don’t know where he is,” I admit. “He hasn’t been back in months.” Three months to be exact, but I suspect giving less information at this moment in time is better than giving more.

“You know how to get ahold of him.” Braxton doesn’t phrase it as a question, but as a hard belief. I hate that he’s right. I also hate that he likely already has the means of getting ahold of Ace. Because I’d sensed it as soon as I woke up; my knife and phone are gone from my pockets and that burner is the only way I’ve been able to get ahold of him since he left. I’ve got his emergency number memorized, though, so maybe it’s not as bad as it seems.

“I don’t—” Brax’s other hand arches up and encircles my neck, stopping my sentence.

“You keep telling me things I don’t want to hear,” he says, a warning.

I swallow roughly, feeling his fingers tighten their grip. “That doesn’t make them lies,” I say.

His thumb presses against my jugular, his eyes falling to where he’s got me in his grip. "I don’t think you understand the situation you’re in, Clover La Roux.” There it is again—the way he says my name is so fucking intense. Hell, the way he looks at me is nothing but intensity. It’s like he can see not just inside of me but right fucking through me.

Something warns me that I can’t let this man think of me as easy prey. Some men lose interest with weak-willed people and it’s easier to kill the boring ones. He strikes me as the opposite. If I want to survive this—survive him—I need to think of a plan and fast.

“What do you want with Ace?” I demand, pushing against his hand as I stare back into his eyes.

One corner of his lips tilts up. “You want to know what I want with him?” Braxton repeats the question, his face sliding closer until I can smell something like a spicy aftershave on his skin. It’s heady, almost drug like. I want to shake away the effect it has on me, but I can’t move my head with his hand on my throat. The next best thing is to hold my breath. So I suck in one last lungful and stop breathing as I nod.

Braxton leans closer and my lungs tighten in rebellion, the need for oxygen overriding my stubborn insistence to not breathe in that scent of his. His lips graze my ear and my heart stops in my chest at his next words.

“I want to find him and pay him back for what he did to my family,” he says. “I’m going to rip him limb from limb, pull out his intestines and string him up. That’s what I want, Clover.” He pulls back and I gasp for breath, oxygen refilling my lungs along with that enticing scent even as his deadly words invade my head. “And you’re going to help me. You’re going to tell me exactly how to get to your boyfriend.”

I pause. Boyfriend? Who? Ace? He thinks Ace is my boyfriend? I shake my head against his grip, but he tightens down, mistaking the movement for a denial of something else.

“Yes, you will,” he growls. “Or you’ll be the one paying for his crimes.”

No. He doesn’t understand. Ace isn’t my boyfriend, he’s my … realization dawns and his words finally sink into my consciousness. He’s going to kill him. If this man actually gets his way, if I lead him to Ace, it won’t just end with a fight. It’s not money he’s after. It’s revenge.

Now, I have to figure out how to get out of this. I can’t tell this man—I can’t tell Braxton—where Ace is. I’m not even sure if I should tell him the truth. That he’s mistaken. Ace isn’t my boyfriend. He’s my brother.

I made an oath eight months ago—on the darkest night of my life. The very night I’d fallen from the innocent grace I’d built back up. Some people think you lose your innocence when you lose your virginity, but that’s not true. True innocence is lost when you wake up from what you think is a walking dream covered in the blood of someone else.

Eight months ago, the leash on my internal monster had slipped loose, and after so many years, I finally cracked. Again. Only this time, I killed a man. What scares me more than that act, though, is the fact that I haven’t felt a single shred of guilt since. Guilt for not feeling guilty, sure. But for the actual deed of murder … there’s nothing. And I know if I could go back in time, I’d do it all over again.

Because at the end of the day, he took something from me, and I vowed that no one would ever take it from me again. I will sacrifice anything and everything to make sure to keep what remains of my family safe, and hopefully, Mama Luda and her god willing, I’ll never turn into that monster again.

6

BRAXTON

I WATCH HER. And I want.

I want to kill. I want to maim. I want to slice deep beneath her flesh and see what pours out—lies or secrets? Which will matter more?

She is the key. I know it. Yet she’s given me nothing, absolutely nothing but doubt. Does she truly not know anything?

I’ve kidnapped her. Taken her from her shithole of a home. Handcuffed her to a bed. Threatened her and still, she stares at me with those haunting moss green eyes of hers, offering neither of us any reprieve. It’s enough to drive a man to the edge of madness. A madness I know all too well.

Across the room from where I sit, moonlight filters through the gauzy curtains and illuminates her vulnerable, sleeping face. How the fuck can she sleep in this situation? Perhaps it’s my own fault. I suppose normal kidnappers don’t take their hostages to thousand-dollar-a-night hotels, but then again—I like my comfort. I fucking deserve my comfort after all the suffering I’ve had to go through. And it’s not like I treat my prostitutes any worse.

If I think about it—she’s just like them. She wants something from me. Only instead of money, it’s freedom. Freedom she won’t be getting back any time soon if she continues down this path.

It’s midnight now, and after passing the day with her, trying all manner of ways to convince her to give me information on Ace, I’ve come to the realization that it’s not going to happen by the usual methods. I know what I have to do. I just really don’t want to cross that line because I know the second I put my hands on this girl, there will be no going back.

I’ll take her to the brink and I’ll push her right the fuck over the edge. What’s worse than the fact that I can do all of that and more—is the fact that I want to. I want to break her. I want to do it because it’ll alleviate some of my own internalized anger, but more so because I want to see her cry.

As if she hears my fucked-up thoughts, the girl on the bed turns over—rolling across the pale sheets back and forth, whimpers escaping from between her lips as she tightens her fingers on the pillow clutched in her tiny fists. Lost in a nightmare. Another reason to cut her open. I want to see that, too—all of her fears. And if necessary, I’ll use them, bring them to life to get what I want.

She’d been so brave in the face of me during the day—kept her gaze steady, rarely looked away. It’s dangerous, that spirit of hers, because it only makes me want to break it that much more. See it shatter into a million tiny pieces. Now, in the dark of the night, trapped within a dream of her own making, she crumbles. Her face scrunching up tight as her eyes flit back and forth beneath her eyelids. A lone tear escapes from beneath her lashes, sliding down her pale, porcelain cheek and into the dark ruby hair laid out across the white sheets and pillows. My shorts tighten over my groin and the thrum of my pulse picks up speed. Like I’m some sort of addict catching a whiff of their drug of choice. And it is.

Dacryphilia. A fucked-up person’s way of exhibiting control over someone else when everything else feels out of whack. Or in scientific terms—getting sexually aroused by seeing someone cry. Doesn’t matter the method. Pain. Pleasure. Mindfucks. As long as a woman cries, my dick gets hard. Seeing her do it makes no difference. My body reacts the same as it would for the women I pay.

Only, unlike them, someone might actually come to save this girl. And I fucking hope he tries.

A low, quiet groan rumbles up my chest and I lean back in the chair I’m sitting in, watching my captive sleep. I scrub a hand down my face even as I itch to give Viks a call. If anyone can remind me why I shouldn’t give in to this dark need inside of me, it’s him. There is a time and place for each action, and now is not the time to cede control to that side of myself.

Instead, I finish rubbing my face down and let my palm drop to the side, my hand hanging over the arm of the chair, and return my attention to the object of my current fascination and irritation. I stare at her, curious to know what she could possibly be thinking. She also didn’t even flinch when I put my hand on her throat. She merely stared back at me expectantly, demanding a name to go with the face of her captor. Even now, she sleeps on, lashes fluttering as her nightmares steal her away.

What am I going to do with her? Take her back to Eastpoint? That seems to be my primary option. But what then?

Her file sits on the dresser, calling to me, as if a collection of pictures and paper and records can lead me to an answer. I know better than most that other people’s perceptions of a person’s life can only ever scratch the surface. That was made clear with Ava first and later Rylie. People change. They grow stronger or weaker when faced with obstacles. Some overcome. Some survive. And some take flight like phoenixes from the ashes of who they once were.

Who knows what kind of person this girl is now? Who knows what she’s done that hasn’t been written down by a bored dude with a pair of glasses perched on his nose? I don’t know, but I fucking want to. I want to know all there is to know. To crawl inside of her and wipe her clean, destroy her as I mean to destroy the man who thought he could hurt my family.

There’s really only one way to find out how to get into a person’s head that doesn’t result in me damaging this girl beyond repair. I could lock her up, torture her for information—but if she has none then that’ll get us nowhere. What she is, at the very least, however, is precious little bait. If my intel is correct—and I paid well enough that it fucking should be—then Ace will eventually come back for this girl. The next best thing she can do for me is lead him straight to me.

Instead of chasing my own ass as I have been for the last several months, it’s time to think smarter. Use her. Lure him out. Then kill him. That’s the goal. That’s the plan. Maybe it’s wrong to bring an innocent into the mix, but at the end of the day, he fucked with those I protect. He’s lucky he’s lived this long after the fact.

Oh yes. My eyes light on my captive as she sniffs in her sleep and turns over, the sheets drawing up and uncovering her long, freckled legs. Clover La Roux is my ticket to catching Ace Volkov and when I do, I’m going to make the bastard wish he’d never been born.

7

CLOVER

I WAKE up and remain perfectly still. I hadn’t meant to fall asleep last night—especially not with Braxton watching me and demanding answers I’m unwilling to provide. I’d intended to stay up all night, but this hotel bed is just so damn comfortable, and it’s been so long since I had a really good night of sleep. Too long, really. A full eight months if I’m being honest. Living alone is not good for me. I can’t sleep with just the sounds of silence and wildlife. I need to know that there’s another soul beneath the same roof—proof that I’m not what I’ve always been. Alone.

Fully aware now, I keep my eyes shut as I strain my ears to listen to the space around me. There’s movement across the room, the soft slide of fabric against skin. I peek my eyes open just a sliver and my jaw drops in shock. My kidnapper—Braxton—stands against the far wall, his shirt off and his back to me. His very dark and inked back.

Thick, black lines trace up and down his spine—twisting and turning, morphing into beautiful imagery. Swords and feathers. Wings and monsters. Staring at the combination of ink on flesh entrances me so much that when he slides a shirt over his head, cutting off the sight and covering the gun he’s got stuck into the back of his jeans, it makes me gasp in relief. I hadn’t realized that I’d stopped breathing, but the second it’s gone from my vision, my body sucks in the oxygen like a starving creature.

Braxton turns towards me and I slam my eyes shut, squeezing them tight—but not too tight in the hopes that I don’t give away that I’m already awake. I must not do a good job, though, because a moment later, his presence falls over my body. I hold very still, my breath catching in my chest, as he leans down and the heat of his breath touches the side of my face.

“You’re not a very good actress,” he says. Dangerous shivers threaten to overtake me and I don’t know how—perhaps by sheer force of will—I manage to keep them contained. “I know you’re awake.”

My eyes slide open slowly and I turn, meeting his cold gaze. For long seconds, neither of us says a damn word.

The corner of his mouth tilts up and I feel caught. Not just captured and dragged away from my home, but suddenly I become a fish out of water, a bird falling from the sky. I become nothing more than flesh and bone and human while he is a god. The whole of my being is in his hands and he knows it.

That frightens me more than anything else he has done or could do.

"Get up,” he orders. “We’re moving today.”

“Moving?” I parrot as Braxton pulls away from me, taking with him that intoxicating scent, and my heart finally calms somewhat. “Where are we going?”

Unsurprisingly, he doesn’t give me an answer right away. I sit up, realizing that the cuffs are gone. Absently, I rub my free wrists and slide to the edge of the bed, pulling back the covers so I can push my feet over the side of the mattress and stand up on my own. Braxton turns, propping himself against the hotel desk, waiting and watching me with contemplation.

“If you want to survive,” he says, “your best bet would be to give me Ace’s location or, if you truly don’t have it, to give me a way to get it.”

Survive. His word, not mine. I’m not so naive to think that he doesn’t plan to do anything with me if he can’t get his way. “I can’t do that,” I say quietly.

“Can’t or won’t?”

Easy. “Won’t,” I tell him. “Ever.”

He tilts his head to the side. “Why?” It’s not angry but curious. As if he can’t possibly comprehend a reason behind my denial, behind my actions. “Why are you protecting him?”

Because I have to. Because I love him. I’m not sure if this guy would even understand something as complex as love, though. Love is when you care about someone far more than you ever could for yourself. I owe Ace my life and if I have to give it up to keep him safe—even though I know it’d piss him off—I will. It’s not like he’ll be alone. He’ll still have Ivan, though I know they don’t keep in touch as often as he does with me. It’s comforting to know that long after I’m gone, he’ll still have at least one family member left.

I’d do anything for Ace. Anything. As that truth crosses into my mind, an idea formulates. It’s reckless and I’ll probably be turned down but … I lift my head and let my eyes rove over Braxton’s face—waiting, wondering, curious. The saying goes—curiosity killed the cat. Most forget the following—satisfaction brought it back. Will he kill me? Or satisfy me? And who says it has to be one or the other?

“What if…” I swallow, my mouth turning dry as I become increasingly aware of how much of a shit idea this is.

It’s not going to work, I tell myself. But then what if it does? I won’t know until I try. My options are low. It’s this or … violence. And I promised myself I wouldn’t go back to that.

Everyone has a chapter they don’t want anyone else to read. I’m no different. As much as I love the Russian name I received when Ivan and Ace came into my life, she comes with … differences. She’s more prone to murder. That is not who Mama Luda wanted me to be. Protective, yes. Strong, yes. A cold-blooded killer? Never.

I may not be clever, but I’m far from stupid. The muscles in my fingers twitch. Evgenia’s easy solution is here staring me right in the face. My shoulders slowly lower as I take in a deep breath. There’s one undeniable way to keep Ace—and Ivan—safe.

I could kill this man. Right here and now. At least, I could damn sure try.

Evgenia Volkov would. Clover La Roux wouldn’t. Regardless, I have to try my idea. If a nonviolent option can be taken, then I’ll do it. No matter what the option is. Once I’ve exhausted the opportunity, only then will I let Evgenia out.

“Even if I could tell you, I never will.” His gaze darkens and his lips part. Before he can say whatever threat he’s mustering up, however, I keep going. “But I could offer you something else instead.” I shoot my shot, knowing full well that it’s going blindly into the dark. “What if you took me instead and stopped looking for Ace?”

Braxton’s whole demeanor changes. His body tightens all over and the muscles of his forearms bunch tightly as he crosses them over his chest. “What makes you think you’re worth more to me than Ace?” His question is careful, but it isn’t an immediate no. I take hope from that.

“I’m not Ace’s girlfriend,” I admit, swallowing roughly before I say my next words. “I’m his sister.”

Braxton’s eyes widen ever so slightly and then narrow. “You’re lying,” he snaps.

I scoff. “Why would I lie about that?” I roll my eyes, the very idea preposterous. “We have different mothers, but the same dad. Ace is my brother and he loves me. I don’t know why you want him, but if you’re just trying to get revenge, you can take me in his stead, can’t you?”

Please say yes, I beg silently. It’s a Band-Aid for this problem, a temporary solution. One I know won’t last forever, but if he just agrees, it’ll give me time to think of a better way out. Maybe it’ll even give me time to warn Ace.

“My plan is to find Ace and kill him.” Braxton’s words are cold, exact. There’s no question of whether or not he could kill my brother. He can, and if he has his way, he will. “You taking his place would mean you die.”

“Is that really all it would mean?” The question is a challenge and I tip my head back, meeting his gaze. I think that pisses him off, though, because Braxton pushes away from the desk and strides towards me, dropping his arms.

He doesn’t stop until he’s standing over me, a veritable mountain. “What exactly are you proposing, Clover?”

“M-me.” I stumble over the word, nervous anxiety creeping up my throat. “Without the dying, of course, but otherwise—fair game.” Fuck, I want to run. My legs are practically bouncing with the need. I force it down. His nearness throws me off, makes me not quite as brave as I was two seconds ago.

“You?” he clarifies.

I nod.

“To do with whatever I want?”

Again, I nod.

“So, you’re saying I could fuck you … break you … make you bleed and you would accept it all? For him?”

“Yes.” Maybe not in the same words he used, but I know that offering myself to him in the hopes of keeping Ace safe even if only for a brief reprieve will mean that I give everything to him—everything that he wants, that is. If he even wants anything. A few minutes ago, there was a doubt within me if he would even accept such a ridiculous offer, but from the way he’s looking at me now—watching me with bone chilling eyes, careful consideration, and no small amount of interest—maybe this will work.

I’m almost too terrified to hope.

“It would hurt less if you just gave me what I really want,” he states. “Tell me where Ace is. Give me information on him and you can go free.”

I don’t know what it is, but something tells me this might be a last-ditch effort on his part to save me—not that he appears to be the savior kind of man. Even if it is, though, I can’t. I won’t. My hands clench into fists at my sides. Fire burns in my blood, but I shove it down. “No,” I repeat. “Now, do we have a deal?”

Braxton’s lips stretch into a smile, one so wicked and cruel that it makes shivers dance up and down my spine. “You asked for this,” he says, reminding me that this was my idea and not his. If it ends poorly—which the probability of a bad ending is high—I’ll have no one to blame but myself. Still … there’s a sliver of hope, a small hint that maybe this could be my saving grace. I can do this.

“You should be scared of me, little girl.” His words are dark. His meaning is clear. And the truth is—I am scared of him. I’m not wholly stupid. I understand darkness when it looks at me with those deep, penetrating eyes. “I’ll do things to you that you’ll never forget.” Even as he speaks, his fingers trail along my neck. A threat. A warning. An enticement. This time the shiver comes on full force and there’s no way to push it down.

Mama Luda always said I was a poor liar. A girl who wore her heart on her sleeve. But that was back when I had a heart. What’s left of it is dangling from a chain on my wrist, dried out and broken. There’s honestly not much left to damage. So, yeah, maybe I should be scared. Maybe he’ll kill me in the end, but I have to try.

For Ace. For Ivan. For the people who pulled me out of the gutter and brought me home and raised me and loved me. Dangerous though their lives may be.

It’s just a body, I tell myself as he steps closer and that spicy scent of cologne or aftershave—I can’t tell which—fills my nostrils. It’s not like I’m selling him my soul. In the end, the body decays and dies. And, hell, it’s not like parts aren’t already halfway in the grave before we get there.

“Do we have a deal?” I repeat on a shaky breath.

“You for your brother?” He still sounds like he can’t quite believe the truth. Honestly, I can understand. Ace and I look nothing alike. He looks like our father, while I … look like the woman who couldn’t take care of herself much less a child she gave birth to.

“Yes.”

“If I agree to this,” he says. “That means you have no recourse to run from me. I can do what I want when I want. Are you really ready to handle the consequences of that?”

I press my lips together, and my chest tightens as if all of the air in my lungs is being squeezed out through a thin tube. “I won’t run.” No matter how much I fucking want to. “You’re welcome to do what you need to in order to assure yourself—”

“Oh, don’t worry,” he cuts me off. “You won’t be capable of that after I’m through with you. I’m just making sure you’re aware that this deal you’ve offered truly leaves you at a disadvantage. Are you really willing to take on your brother’s debt to me for his life? You’d be the one paying for his crimes, after all. What if I decide to kill you? I could, you know. Easily.”

I swallow reflexively. “Are you planning to kill me?”

A long, slow pause of silence stretches between us. With each second, my body tightens—winding up and up and up until…

“No,” he finally says. “I’m not.” Then he smirks. I glare at him. The asshole knows exactly what that long pause did to me. He did it on purpose.

There’s no remorse in his gaze. No note of sympathy, even. I am simply a means to an end for him, and he has to know that I would do anything for my brother—who else would offer such a crazy deal to protect her family?

Braxton leans down further, invading what little personal space I have left as he cages me in against the hotel bed. My insides recoil, knowing that I’m in the presence of a truly wicked predator. Someone who could easily snap me in half and the only thing that could keep me from death is … her. My other half. The one I locked up deep inside of myself, swearing to never let out again.

This deal, too, is a distraction from him. He hasn’t realized it yet—but the phone he took is the key to finding Ace. It has no numbers in it. Ace made sure I had his memorized. It’s the burner number itself that will get an answer, though. Ace doesn’t respond to calls he doesn’t recognize and he would recognize that burner. All Braxton really has to do is torture me for the right number—one thing I’ll never give him.

“Yes or no?” I finally say. “Do you accept the deal?”

“It only lasts so long as I have you,” he responds. “You run, and Ace is dead. You break the deal, or refuse me, and Ace is dead. You—”

I blow out a frustrated breath, cutting him off. “Yes, yes, I get it—I do anything that goes against you and Ace is dead.” And I know—I’m fully aware that Brax intends to find Ace, but for now this is the best I can do. It’s, for all intents and purposes, a stay of execution. As long as he has me, Ace is safe. What happens later … well, I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. There’s no more time now. “Do you fucking accept or not?”

His hand flies up to my throat and I gasp as my back suddenly meets the mattress and his massive figure is stationed over me, his legs encasing both of mine on the bed as he leans down, squeezing just enough to let me know he’s got me right where he fucking wants me. “I accept your deal, Clover La Roux. Now open that pretty, sweet mouth so I can make sure your offer is worth my time.”

8

BRAXTON

SHE’S CRAZY. Practically certifiable. What rational-brained person would come up with the idea of offering themselves in exchange for their “brother’s” safety? I shouldn’t accept this deal of hers, but I can’t help myself. Few people interest me, but Clover La Roux has piqued my curiosity. I’m dying to know if she’ll really go through with it.

If she does, she’s as fucking insane as I think she is.

I’m kind of hoping she is.

It makes me a fucking bastard too, accepting this ‘deal,’ because I’m not planning on giving up my hunt for Ace Volkov. I’ll continue to track him down without remorse. He’s my prey, and she’s just collateral. Collateral that I have no problem wrecking if it means digging the knife into Ace just a little bit deeper

As I hover over her, though, I can’t help but think how sweet it will be when I finally find the fucker and he comes to realize that his little sister gave herself to me willingly because she thought it would save him. Nothing will save him. Not even a pretty-faced redhead with eyes wider than the stars and innocence etched into her skin.

It’s not a bad deal for me if I think about it. He’ll be dead either way, but until then—she’ll think she’s buying him time and I’ll have a beautiful chance to make him suffer before he dies. I can’t wait to see the look on his face when he realizes the truth. She thinks she’s protecting Ace and I know I’m fucking him over. It’s better than what he offered Ava—which was nothing. No escape. No mercy. Only pain and torture at the orders of whoever controls him—but just as painful.

Hell, if I do this right, then she’ll be the perfect lure to capture him. Bait is what she was meant to be in the end anyway—this will only speed up the process.

“Wait!” she arches back against the bed and looks up at me with wide green eyes. “You want to do it right now?” She looks shocked that I’d even suggest it, and if that’s how she’s going to be this is never going to work.

I lift up away from her and lower my hands to my jeans, unbuttoning the top as I stare down at her slight frame. “Yes,” I say. “Right now. You wanted this, remember? Or did you not realize what this would include?”

“You said we were leaving,” she replies almost accusingly.

I arch a brow down at her. “I recommend you lose the attitude, Clover,” I say as I unzip my pants. “And open your mouth for my cock.”

Her sharp eyes turn upwards as she glares at me. “I can still suck you off and be mad,” she states. “You could’ve waited until we got to wherever we’re going next.” Her nervousness is almost cute. I still can’t quite believe that she’s not fucking Ace but related to the bastard.

“You offered this to me,” I point out as I reach beneath the waistband of my boxers and withdraw my quickly hardening cock.

“I know!” she snaps before mumbling under her breath. “You don’t have to remind me.”

I resist the urge to chuckle. How is it she can make my cock rock hard in a split second and in the next make me want to laugh? No one makes me want to laugh ‘cept maybe Abel or Avalon. Clover La Roux is a fucking anomaly.

This will work, I tell myself. She’s just a means to an end. The pathway to the man I’m after. And she thinks she’s saving him by sacrificing herself … as if he’s someone who deserves to be saved. That thought makes all my amusement dry up.

“If you don’t want that shirt ruined,” I begin. “I’d take it off.”

She frowns. “How are you going to ruin my shirt?”

Staring down into those mossy green eyes is like staring into the depths of the swamp I yanked her out of. They’re so dark and deep, one toe in risks me losing myself forever. I push down my jeans and boxers and then relish in the widening of those stunning eyes of hers as she finally gets a look at my cock.

“Holy fuck…”

“I expect you to swallow—after all, we’ve made a deal and I want my payment upfront—but there might be excess.”

Her hands clench against her folded legs. “I know we’ve already agreed to this and all,” she says. “But I’m gonna be for real with you—I don’t know how the fuck that is going to fit in my pussy much less my mouth.”

I stroke the body part in question from base to tip, watching as her gaze follows the movement. “Don’t worry, Clover,” I say. “I’ll fit.” I’ve had enough practice.

She shakes her head and I move forward on the bed, sliding up her body as my free hand goes to the back of her head to hold her steady. She gasps. “You can’t say no,” I remind her. “Unless…” I pull my cock back and keep it just in front of her face, not touching but still very much present, “you’d like to rescind that offer of yours to take your brother’s place.”

Brother, I silently repeat with no small amount of disgust.

Clover swallows and for a moment, my chest tightens and I feel the creeping awareness of my own dying hopes. I have no clue why I thought she’d be any different from anyone else. Girls like her are always all talk and no follow through.

She might like Ace, might even care for him, but even she’s not willing to go this far in the face of the truth. Perhaps it will be best if I just lock her up for the time being and use her in other ways to get my prey to come out of hiding.

“No.” Clover lifts her arms, and I nearly ascend from my fucking body when one of her tiny little hands clasps my cock at the base, encircling it. She’s short, but by no means petite. Underneath me, however, she seems fucking tiny. Her fingers can’t quite wrap the width of my cock. They don’t touch. “I can do this.” I can’t tell if that last comment is more for her or for me, but regardless, my increasing libido doesn’t really give a shit.

She’s made her decision and so have I.

I slip my free hand down behind her skull and hold her in place, squeezing her neck and directing her exactly where I want her to go.

“Then no more stalling,” I say through clenched teeth. “Open your fucking mouth and take me inside.”

Clover swallows again and then slowly, her lips part and she leans forward, expectantly. Maybe a better man would hesitate or even push her away before it’s too late—before the path that shouldn’t be crossed is in the rearview—but I am not a better man. Never have been. Never will be. I shove the head of my cock past those perfect, naturally plush pink lips of hers and groan as I sink inward.

She struggles to take me, just as she predicted, her hand clenching against my base off and on as she takes me into her mouth. If she had claimed previously to have been experienced with this, I would’ve known within the first few seconds that it was a lie. Even experienced cocksuckers have a hard time taking me, but they always seem to make it work. That is not the case with Clover. Her eyes tear up and she gasps for breath as my cock goes deeper.

Those tears don’t serve to help her. In fact, the more she cries, the harder my cock grows. The sick, delicious arousal I feel at her pain rises within me. It wrecks her face, turns her cheeks from pale and smooth to red and bloated. The freckles on her skin seem to blend together as she glances up at me—almost beseechingly. If she’s looking for help or even mercy, she’s looking in the wrong direction.

I don’t know if it’s her willingness to play the sacrifice or the dark edge of amusement I find in fucking my enemy’s little sister, but I want this. Now that I want it, I’ll have it. Whenever the fuck I feel like. Because now she’s mine.

“You can take it,” I urge, practically panting with the effort it takes not to just shove all the way inside and choke her to death. “Just a little more.” That’s a bold-faced lie. I’m only halfway into her mouth, and I don’t plan on stopping until I’m in her throat, but I can’t have her backing out on me now.

Her eyes, already red-rimmed and glassy, glare up at me. Her normally ivory colored skin is now flushed a bright red. Embarrassment? I wonder. Or irritation? My lips twitch. Even that, I find amusing.

“Swallow,” I tell her with a cruel grin. “It makes it easier if you swallow against me.” She should take my words as they’re meant—a help to her—because it doesn’t matter whether she tries it or not. Now that we’ve started, and I can feel the tightness of her throat squeezing around the head of my cock, there’s no way I’m stopping until my cum is sloshing around in Ace Volkov’s precious sister’s belly. That sickly vile image makes my dick pulse against her tongue. This is going to be so fucking good.

She tries to pull her head back and my anger resurfaces hard and fast. My hand clenches against the base of her skull, my fingers digging into her scalp as I fist her hair and hold her still, unable to move, unable to back away. Her gaze widens and shoots back up to mine. Fresh tears leak out of the corners of her eyes, rolling over the sides of her cheeks, making a mess of such a pretty face.

“Do not try to pull off my fucking dick,” I growl at her. “You better figure out how to breathe, sweetheart, because I don’t like stopping something once I’ve started it.” Both sexually and otherwise. “Learn to take me, and take me whole, swallow my cock like I told you to, and drink my cum. When we’re done, I’ll release you, no sooner. Try to fucking back away from me again and I’ll call this whole fucking deal off, do you understand, Clover?” I glare down into her pretty face.

“I can go after Ace,” I warn her. “In fact, I’d prefer it. I still want to kill him. You’re the only reason I’m not actively hunting your brother, Clover, but one wrong move from you, and I’ll void our deal and go after what I really want. You’re nothing more than a fascination for me right now. A distraction. You are distracting me so that he can live another day. The second I’m no longer satisfied, I’ll have him found and his neck sliced within a week.”

Lie. If that were the case I would’ve found the fucker by now. She’s my only lifeline at this point, but she doesn’t need to know that. I press onward as her brows lower and she glares up at me through watery eyes. A cruel smile stretches my lips.

“Or perhaps I could kill you,” I remind her. “I’m always ready, Clover. It’s your choice. Do you stay on my cock like a good girl and suck me dry?” I let a beat of silence pass and then, “Or do I go looking for Ace Volkov?”

9

CLOVER

DO you stay on my cock like a good girl and suck me dry or do I go looking for Ace Volkov?

If I ever had any question about how much of an asshole this guy is, now would be the proof that he’s probably way more than I can logically handle. He’s testing me. Shoving his cock in my face and demanding that I suck it. I’m not so naive that I don’t know that he wants to make sure I’m not going to back out of this. I just have to prove to him that I won’t be doing that—not when it’s my brother’s life on the line. I’m the one who came up with this idea anyway.

He’s thicker than I anticipated and practically strangling me. He stretches my mouth wide enough to make the corners of my lips burn and my eyes prick with the little bit of pain. Irritation. Anger. Frustration. They all swarm me, making it hard to hold back the tears. It’s an annoyance that I cry when I get mad, especially since tears and the embarrassment of being an angry crier make my skin burn.

I’m not sure what I expected from Braxton, but it certainly wasn’t a tree-trunk-sized dick in my face two seconds after I offered my deal. The heat beneath my skin flames to life and probably stains my whole body a flushed pink. Redheads blush hot and I’m no exception.

His words are harsh, unforgiving. I close my eyes briefly, trying to focus on breathing through my nose as he pushes forward and the head of his cock hits the back of my throat. My legs clench together as a familiar rush races through me. My eyes widen in shock even as more tears slip over my cheeks, sticking to the sides of my face. No fucking way, I think. I cannot seriously be getting turned on by this … can I?

I reach up, locking my hands on his jean covered thighs, and hear a groan rumble out of his chest. The rough fabric scrapes at my palms as I sink my nails deep and belatedly, I wish he was naked so he could feel the piercing pain of it skin to skin.

Right now, it feels like he’s just fucking a sex toy, and I’m that sex toy. A blow-up doll or one of those fleshlight things guys in high school used to talk about when they thought girls weren’t listening. The place between my legs grows warm, softening. I close my eyes tightly, trying to ward off the arousal. It feels wrong. It feels disgusting to find his harsh treatment even minutely attractive.

The hand at the back of my head holds me roughly—each and every tug of his fingers in my hair pulling close to my scalp lighting me up like nothing I’ve ever experienced before. Despite how hard his cock is, he doesn’t move with any sort of twitch like he’s actually enjoying himself. He just pushes in and pulls out in a boring movement. There’s no stuttering of his hips.

Not every woman enjoys giving blow jobs, but every woman enjoys the feeling of power that comes with doing so. Right now, I have no power. A bubble of irritation forms within me. Do I have the right to be angry over the lack of power? The dynamic I’ve just agreed to? Probably not. But I can’t help my own emotions sometimes, and right now—I hate him.

I open my eyes and look up at him. As if he can sense my frustration and thoughts, he smirks down at me. I clamp my lips tighter around his shaft and suck, pulling him deeper despite the discomfort. I want to see more from him than this cold facade. My nails sink deeper into his thighs until I swear they pierce right through and I can feel his flesh beneath my fingertips.

His jaw tightens and he bares his teeth the harder I suck, pulling him into my mouth until spots dance in front of my vision. Fuck breathing. I don’t need it. What I need is to see this man come undone. Wild. Unhinged. I’ve just given myself no other recourse than to play his sex object for however long this deal lasts, but that doesn’t mean I can’t fuck with him while I’m lying beneath him. The corners of my mouth tip up at that thought even as the salty flavor of his cock drips over my tongue.

Braxton saws forward, no longer just hitting the back of my throat, but pushing into it—threatening to cut off my airflow once more. The fingers laced through my hair don’t let up. He keeps me anchored to him, unwilling to give even the slightest inch as tears trace down my hollowed-out cheeks.

Fine, I think. He wants to play it that way? We can play it that way. I’m not one to shrink away from challenges and Braxton Smalls is the biggest challenge I’ve ever faced. He thinks he can scare me away with this but it’s not happening.

I push my tongue against the underside of his shaft, licking up and down his cock as he thrusts back and forth into my mouth. His eyes darken. Even around his cock, I smile. I can’t help it, and he has to feel my smugness because in the next second, his hand becomes impossibly hard against the base of my skull and he shoves his massive fucking dick straight down until I can’t breathe at all.

Fresh tears stream down the sides of my face as my eyes bulge with shock. I shouldn’t be surprised. He seems the type to need constant control and I tried to take that from him. I don’t care. I take the violent movement to the best of my ability, nails scoring his thighs as I count down the breaths I could be taking but no longer have the ability to.

Panic chokes my throat as he smiles down at me. “Is that all you got, firebird?” His voice is a growl full of raw eroticism. I glare back at him even through my watery vision. All I can see is his face—the sharpness of his eyes, the way his dark lashes frame them. Even the specks of brown and gold in those otherwise gray irises.

Spittle dribbles out of my mouth as he pulls all the way out, leaving me gasping for precious oxygen as he waits for my response. “Is that all I’ve got?” I reply with irritation, and then before I can get a hold of my temper, I let the next words fly out of my mouth. “Why don’t you fuck my throat and find out?”

Stupid, idiotic challenging bitch, I think to myself a split second after the words leave my wet and worn lips.

Brax’s lips stretch into the cruelest grin I’ve ever seen on another human being and he fists his cock with one hand, holding it up in front of me. I half expect him to slap me with it, but he doesn’t. Instead, he just keeps it there and directs my gaze to it with its massive presence. It’s wet with my spit. I can still taste his pre cum on my tongue.

“What a fucking great idea,” he replies.

I really should’ve kept my fucking mouth shut.

Braxton moves over me in one fluid movement, presenting his cock to my lips before I can reverse the dumbass challenge I just laid down. He chuckles as my eyes widen. “Be careful what you wish for, firebird,” he warns right before he chokes me with his massive fucking dick.

I swipe at the head as it passes over my tongue, swallowing roughly as he wastes no time in moving back to my throat. More tears leak down the sides of my face and Braxton’s hips move up as I reach around, gripping his ass, pulling him closer as he swells within my mouth.

My pulse is thundering in my ears—impossibly loud as it drowns out damn near everything else. He’s so big and it’s hard to breathe around his thick shaft but, somehow, I manage to not pass out. That, itself, is an accomplishment.

Braxton thrusts back and forth, faster and faster with each movement. I squeeze my eyes shut as the soft underside of his cock rubs against my tongue and the inside of my cheeks.

“Fuck, it’s not enough,” he mutters a split second before ripping himself from my mouth. He palms his cock. “Get up,” he orders.

I’m panting, sweating, overheated and a fucking mess, but I follow the command, stumbling up from the bed as my head swims from the fresh oxygen entering my lungs. Maybe I should be insulted by his comment, but I’m not. I’m too fucking wet and hungry. He may say it’s not enough, but I felt the small pulses on my tongue, the quick spurts of pre cum that still linger in the back of my throat. Lie all he wants, I know the truth.

Brax points to the space in front of him. “Get on the floor.” My knees hit the ground and I’m surprised by how soft the hotel carpet is—I’d half-expected that no matter how nice a hotel seems, it’d still leave my knees raw and bruised after this, but I doubt that’ll be the case.

My eyes turn upward. “Open your mouth,” Braxton growls.

For a brief moment, I consider not doing what he says—but there’s really no point. I hate to think that I want this as much as he does, but there’s no denying the tingling sensation between my thighs or the flush of my skin. He’ll probably be like every other fucking asshole and get his rocks off and I’ll be left to take care of matters on my own.

Brax fists his cock as his free hand grabs at the back of my head once more. I’m yanked forward and my lips are spread painfully wide as he pushes me down onto his massive dick. I swallow on reflex and he groans—finally releasing a noise that tells me the truth. He does like this. From there, it doesn’t take me long to realize why he wanted the position change. On the bed, he couldn’t go as far as he wanted to. Now, he slides all the way down into my throat in no time at all. There’s no resistance for him as I fight against my gag reflex, but each swallow against his length has him tightening his hand in my hair, twining his fingers in the long strands as he thrusts in and out of my mouth.

Seconds later, he clenches his fist against the base of my skull and releases a low groan. “Swallow,” he orders through gritted teeth as a jet of cum erupts. Even as the word leaves his lips, he pulls almost completely out of my mouth, until the head of his cock is pressed just inside my parted lips and lets his cum coat my tongue. I swallow the thickness of it all, and when he pulls out—there’s still some left. It drips down onto the borrowed t-shirt I’m wearing, soaking into the fabric above my breasts as I cough, gasping for breath.

His eyes turn downward, taking in the sight and I realize now what he meant by excess.

I lift my head and look up, knowing I probably look like what he thinks I am—a whorish mess. Face covered in his cum and my tears. Hot and wet. I should be ashamed. I should be humiliated.

But as he stares down at me, meeting my gaze because I refuse to look away—I finally see what I wanted. Heat. Passion. Life. There is a man behind the monster after all, and even if he doesn’t want to admit it, the man wants me and that means I have a true chance after all. A chance to survive long enough to alert my brother to what’s happening.

Braxton jerks back away from me as if he realizes he was standing over me for far longer than he intended. “I told you to take off the shirt,” he snaps.

“I didn’t think you meant it,” I reply, my chest still heaving up and down as I try to catch my breath.

“Well, that’s not my fucking problem.” He carefully tucks himself back into his pants and zips up. “Get up and get dressed.” His hand goes out, gesturing towards a stack of clean clothes folded on the desk that I hadn’t noticed before. “We’re leaving in ten.”

“Can I use the bathroom at least?” I ask.

Brax turns away and moves across the room. I frown at his back. It’s as if he can’t stand to look at me. I reach up and wipe at the tears still lingering at the corners of my eyes. “Ten minutes,” he repeats.

I guess that’s a yes. Either way, I’ll take it as one. And this … I look back as I reach for the clothes on the desk and head for the bathroom … I’ll take this as a win as well.

10

CLOVER

IS this what sex trafficking is like? I wonder absently as Braxton leads me out of the hotel. It’s a legitimate question because it’s astounding to me how easily I’m whisked from the hotel room to the parking lot without anyone questioning anything. I mean, I assume he got me inside in much the same way, except I’d been unconscious at the time. Then there’s also the fact that Braxton and I are close enough in age for no one to suspect a thing—and like he said, they get paid enough not to care. But how much is that? 100K? 200K? A year? A month? What is the price tag on a person’s morals to allow them to completely ignore a girl who has no business being in such an expensive place being dragged around by the big hunk of masculinity that is Braxton Smalls? Whatever it is, I wonder if they can get me a job after this is all said and done.

“Alright,” Braxton pulls me to a stop at the tail end of a dark SUV with tinted windows.

I release a whistle between my teeth. “What happened to the truck?” I ask.

He cuts me a look and continues as if I hadn’t spoken. “You’ve got a choice,” he snaps. “You can either be good and keep your mouth shut, in which case, you can ride in the front or if you decide to give me any trouble, I’ll hogtie your ass and dump you in the back. Which will it be?”

“Wow,” I deadpan. “Both are such good options. How will I ever make a decision?”

He pulls out a length of jute rope from his pocket. “The trunk then,” he says.

Was he keeping that rope in his pocket this whole time? I thought the bulge was just his massive dick. Guess not. “Ugh, fine,” I snap. “I won’t do anything.” I hold my hands up in an innocent ‘you’ve got me, copper’ gesture. “See? You didn’t even have to tie me up to get me out of the hotel without screaming for help.”

“It wouldn’t have done you any good anyway,” he says, tucking the rope back into his pocket.

“Do you always carry that stuff around with you?” I ask, pointing to his pocket as he tucks the rope out of sight.

Again, I’m left with no answer as he takes my arm and pulls me around to the passenger side of the SUV. He pops the door open and gestures inside.

“What a gentleman,” I say with a forced smile as I gauge the distance between the seat and the ground. I reach up, locking my fingers around the ‘oh shit’ handle, and heft myself up into the seat, turning and planting my ass down as he slams the door behind me. I bet he’s the fucking life of the party … if the party was full of dead people.

When he opens his own door and climbs into the driver’s seat, I’m snickering at my own joke as I buckle my seatbelt, and he shoots me a dark look before cranking the engine. I scan the road and area, spotting the sign labeled Vandalia, GA as we pass through. He must’ve driven up from Florida while I was passed out.

“So,” I start, “how much further until we get to your secret hideout?”

“No talking,” he says.

I frown. “How long are we going to be in this car together?” I ask. “You don’t want to talk like … at all?”

“No.”

“What about playing ‘I spy?’” I ask. “Everyone plays that on road trips.”

“No.”

“Do you kidnap people often or am I special?”

“No.”

I throw my head back against the seat with a groan. “Is ‘no’ the only word you know?”

“No.”

I give up, turning away with a huff as I stare out of the window at the passing scenery. Perhaps, I admit, I should be a little bit more anxious about where he’s taking me, but something tells me that with our deal in place—and Ace far from his reach—he won’t try to kill me. Not for now, at least. Besides, I’ve never been one to dwell on things I can’t change—until eight months ago anyway. But I’m not going to think about that now.

I adjust the strap of my seatbelt, pulling it away from my chest only to have it snap back against me. I mess with the dial of the radio, turning it on then switching stations a few times until I find nothing on and shut it back off. Long minutes stretch by, the pavement beneath the SUV disappearing as the miles pass.

Finally, I give up on doing anything to pass the time and just turn, intent on observing my kidnapper. Since we’re kind of trapped in this car for an undetermined amount of time that only he knows, what else am I going to do?

I start with the bridge of his nose, noting how it actually isn’t as straight as I originally thought. In fact, there’s an obvious bump to it that I’m shocked I haven’t noticed until now—like he’s broken it more than once. Still, the small flaw doesn’t detract from his otherwise perfect looks.

Even though he’s not looking at me, I can pick out a lot from his side profile. The thick dark brows that push down over his eyes as he stares through the windshield, directing the vehicle across lanes. His lips purse and his jaw tightens. He’s got a nice jaw, I have to give him that. Very angular. Very cut.

He’s got a handsome face that’s so unnerving because it’s like a beautiful flower hiding its poison. He's got the boy next door looks, the innocent air, but the personality … is so different from the packaging that it almost gives me whiplash. Sometimes, I look at him and can’t believe he looks like he does and yet acts like a fucking gangster. But that’s what he is—a very dangerous gangster motherfucker. I still have the bruised lips to prove it. My gaze narrows on him. It’s always the handsome guys that are the craziest, isn’t it? But then again, attractiveness is in the eye of the beholder, so what does that say about me?

“One question.” It’s been so quiet in the interior of the vehicle, that when he does speak, it takes me by surprise.

“What?” I blink at him.

“If it’ll get you to stop staring at me, you get one question,” he states.

“I’m not staring,” I lie, looking away.

I feel rather than see him look my way, or maybe it’s because I hear the soft creaking of his fingers tightening on the steering wheel in the otherwise quiet space. Braxton snorts. “Yes, you were.”

I’m not going to fight him on it. Nope. Nada. Not happening. Yet, somehow, the next words out of my mouth aren’t a question. Instead, I end up muttering another negation of his comment. “No, I wasn’t.”

“Ask your damn question,” he repeats.

“Just one?” I clarify.

“Yes.”

“Well, look at that, you really do know more than the word no.” He doesn’t respond. Of fucking course he doesn’t. I contemplate what to ask. “I really only get one question?” I press a moment later when nothing in my mind has jumped out at me.

He cuts a look my way. “Is that your question?”

Something tells me if I say yes and then try to ask another, he’ll have me duct taped and hogtied in the trunk before I can scream for mercy. “No?”

Silence descends between us once more. I roll my thoughts over in my head. If I only get one question then … what would be the best to ask? Why is he doing this? What did Ace do to him to elicit this kind of vitriolic reaction? No, I’m sure I’ll figure that out sooner or later. I don’t want to waste this opportunity.

“Can I…” I begin, unsure if he’ll be a dick and make this count as my question. I stop. As long as I don’t phrase it as a question, it should be okay, right?

Braxton doesn’t look my way. “Can you what?” he snaps. “Ask a damn question? Apparently not when you’re given the chance.”

Dick. I glare across the console at him. “I’m going to take a rain check,” I inform him.

Piercing eyes cut towards me. “A rain check?” he growls, voice full of irritation.

Good, I think. That’s better than him ignoring me. I snuggle down into my seat and cross my arms over my chest. “Yup.” I pop the end of the word in a pleased breath of air. “I don’t know what to ask and since you’re only giving me one question, I don’t want to waste it on something stupid. So, like I said, I’ll take a rain check.”

There’s a beat and then he mutters, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

My smile remains in place even as he falls silent once more and the vehicle continues down the highway, the outside scenery passing by in blurs of shapes and colors. Braxton Smalls may not realize it yet, but I’m not going to be an easy captive. We might have a deal, but that deal only extends as far as sex and him not going after Ace. There’s no telling how long it’ll last. It’s a temporary fix, a Band-Aid. And as I take another glance at my kidnapper from the corner of my eyes, I have to acknowledge, it’s a tenuous one.

11

CLOVER

15 YEARS OLD…

THE SOUND of heavy breathing wakes me. The strangest thing, though, is that I went to bed in an empty room and I don’t breathe that heavy unless I’m running. My body jerks up as something hard and heavy lands on the edge of my bed—or rather the threadbare hotel mattress I’ve been sleeping on since my mom got us kicked out of the home of her last no-good boyfriend.

Fat-fingered hands grip my wrists when I move them up to block the blow I think is coming. But there’s no blow. Instead, the hands encircling my wrists slam them back down against the mattress and a pot belly comes down hard over my abdomen, followed by the tell-tale feel of a squirmy little dick inside cheap cotton briefs.

“Oh yeah, you’re gonna be a good one. Redheads are always a lot of fun.” The rank smell of chewing tobacco and rotting teeth hits me square in the face.

“What the fuck?” I’m still half-asleep, not really comprehending what’s going on until I turn my cheek and realize that mom’s there and she’s passed out on the opposite bed, her eyes glassy and unfocused.

No, she’s not passed out. Is she … dead?

“Bitch fucking OD’ed right when we got to the good part, but you’ll do, won’t you sweetheart?”

I need to check on her. What if she’s just … faking it? She’s not that good of an actress—even my teachers can tell when she bothers to show up to meetings that she’s high as a kite. For the first time in my life, though, I try to convince myself that she’s actually going for a fucking Academy award or something.

Pinned to the bed as I am, however, I can’t just get up and go over to her. No, first I have to deal with this fucktard that she brought back with her.

“Get off me!” I snap, bowing up as I try to toss the fatass that’s landed himself on top of me to the floor. Of course the differences in our height and weight make it more than a little difficult.

“Come on, there, sweetie,” the guy coos as he leans in for a kiss. I turn my face away and my cheek is met with the disgusting wet feel of his tongue. “Just a few quick minutes and you can have all the money your mama was gonna get.”

Is it sad that this dude knows that he’s not a long-laster or does he get points for at least knowing he’s pathetic in bed? Doesn’t fucking matter. I buck against his body again. “You’re disgusting, get off!” And I wouldn’t take money for a fuck no matter how fucking long it’s been since I’ve actually eaten anything. It can always get worse and I know that once you start down that path, there’s no getting out. I’d seen too many girls drop out of school in this piece of shit town because they could get fast cash by doing a few favors for Donny down by the mini mart. I’m not going to be one of them.

The man above me groans and shoves his hand down the front of my sleep shorts. I yelp as his bulbous fingers find their way into my pussy. “Dry now, but you’ll be wet by the time I stick my dick in ya,” he says.

My breaths start to come in fast spurts. I turn my head back to my mom. “Mom!” I yell. “Stop it! Get up! Get him off me!”

“Didn’t you hear me?” the man says at my words. “I said the bitch OD’ed. Don’t worry I’ll call someone after I get this. I’ll take care of everything. If you need a place to stay—”

“Get the fuck off of me, you sick fuck!” I scream, cutting him off.

My blood rushes through my veins. My head is spinning. No, she’s not dead. She can’t be. She’s a shit mom—always high, always bringing back randos to fuck, but deep down … she’s not a bad person. She still tries. When she’s not fucked up, she loves me. She’s just sick and I swear to God or the universe or whoever the fuck will listen when I get out of this, I’m gonna help her get clean. If she just stops fucking around this stupid shit hole town everything will be so much better.

The man pulls away and, as if hope has any place in this hellish hotel room, I dimly think he’s finally found a conscience and isn’t getting ready to rape a fifteen-year-old girl. But I’m stupid because in the next instant his hand comes down and he slaps me across the face.

“That ain’t no fucking way to talk to a paying customer,” he gripes.

Customer? I think. What fucking customer? “I’m not a whore…” I say, but he doesn’t seem to hear me. He starts grunting and trying to shove my shorts down, muttering about how ungrateful bitches are and how he wouldn’t even be doing this if that bitch—and I’m assuming he means my mother—hadn’t promised him things and gotten him all riled up.

Oh no, I think as a calm that rarely descends over me finally makes its way into my system. Inside, I’m rioting.

Everyone is capable of bad things, but me … when this calm comes, I’m capable of terrible things. Things that I wouldn’t do normally. And I hate it. It always feels like an out of body experience, and the closest thing I’ve ever managed to relate it to is that dumb book I once read in the public library. What was it called again? Oh, that’s right. The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. A man with one body and two people living in it.

That’s what I am—one body with two different girls residing deep within. One, there’s me. I’m normal. Angry a lot. Hungry even more, but still fairly average. Then there’s … her.

I never know what to call her because if I think too deeply about it, I know I have to recognize that she is me. That is hard to come to grips with because the things I wouldn’t do are things she enjoys. Things I’m not even capable of are her first actions.

While I would ignore a bully on the playground. She would break their noses. I would put out a burning candle, she’d hold it up to the curtains and watch the house burn down.

The last thing I think before my body completely loses all feeling is. Oh, shit. What is she going to do this time?

“Are you finally giving in?” the man above me asks.

I want to squeeze my eyes shut and shy away from what is about to happen, but she never lets me. Like I said—it’s like an out of body experience. I don’t get to look away. I watch her, me, like I’m trapped in a freakish box unable to move away. That box, though, is my own fucking body.

“Get off of me,” she snaps. “Or I’ll make you.”

“Yeah?” The man laughs. “Sure you will, sweetheart.” He gets my shorts halfway down my thighs and then buries his hand into the place between my legs.

Her hand drifts up and cups the back of his skull, and without even a second’s hesitation she yanks him down at the same time she shoves her head forward. Forehead to nose and I know I’m going to have a splitting headache tomorrow.

“You fucking bitch!” The fat would-be rapist screams as he stumbles off the bed, covering his nose as he tries to staunch the flow of blood with his fingers.

She reaches down and pulls up my shorts without an ounce of emotion other than irritation and barely suppressed rage. Standing up, she moves over to the bed and presses two fingers to my mom’s neck. Sickness wells up within me. There’s no pulse. She’s … not faking it.

Out of the corner of my eye, I—she?—spots the man across the room as he comes flying at me—her—us? It’s so fucking confusing feeling like I’m not working my own body and that there’s someone else doing all of the thinking, all of the movement.

My body goes down hard on the scratchy, old carpet between the mattresses and the man shoves his hand against my throat, pressing down. “You listen here, you little cunt,” he spits in my face. “You’re gonna spread your legs like a good little whore and let me get off. Then you’re gonna get on your knees and clean my cock and apologize for being so feisty with me. You understand? Maybe I’ll leave you a couple of twenties as compensation—but right now I’m not feeling too generous. I don’t like that stunt you just pulled.” He must be high as hell. On what, I couldn’t say, but it’s clear he’s not feeling the broken nose the way he should. It must have just been an initial shock for him.

“No.” The word comes from my lips, cold and hard.

The man doesn’t listen, though. Instead, he ignores me and starts ripping at my clothes first and then his and … oh no.

Adrenaline races through my system. The hand has left my neck. She bares her teeth and reaches up, gripping the fat man’s head with both hands. Bile curdles in my stomach as she bites down hard into the fleshy part of his throat and yanks her head back.

Skin splits. The man screams. Blood pours down his chest. Droplets hit me in the face and then down my half-naked chest. I’m gonna puke. I’m gonna vomit. I’m gonna pass out. But she doesn’t. She merely tosses him off of her and then stands on shaky feet. I can feel the man’s blood dripping down my lips as he rolls back and forth on the ground.

Something heavy hits the hotel door. My head jerks up. Cops?

No. The door slams inward as the man releases another scream of pain. Two massive men enter, one larger than the other—but both are wide with stern pale faces and crops of blonde hair.

“What is zis?” the bigger man says. I scan him up and down, noting the scar above his right brow and the dark gray of his beard.

“He was trying to rape me.” My voice comes out monotone—almost sounding bored. “I stopped him.”

There’s a brief moment of silence as the man looks down at the fatass and the gaping wound in his neck then back to my face which I know is covered in his blood. “Ace.” One word and the younger man at his side takes a step forward, gripping the offender by the back of his neck and dragging him from the room.

My shoulders tense as I’m left alone with the other man. Fatass, she could handle, but this one? I’m doubting either of us could handle.

“I am sorry,” he says.

“For what?”

“I took long time to find you,” he says. The way he speaks is strange for many reasons. One, because his words are accented, and he doesn’t use all of the correct words that I know should be there. And two, because I don’t know what he means.

“Who are you?”

The man isn’t looking at me anymore, though; he’s looking at my mom. His lips twist and he steps up to the bed. I freeze, waiting to see what he’ll do, but all he does is lean down and do the same thing that I had—presses his fingers against her throat and sighs in what seems like a sign of remorse when he feels no pulse there. When he looks back up at me, it’s with clear, ice blue eyes.

“I am your papa,” he says. “And I have come to take you home.”

“I don’t have a father,” I say.

He nods. “I know zis.”

“Then how could you be mine?”

He shrugs. “You have my blood, solnyshka,” he says and then chuckles. “You would not be able to rip man’s throat out if you did not.” The strange man with the strange accent and even stranger words holds his hand out. “Now come, I think it is time I introduce you to your Russian babushka.”

I reach up, taking the hand that he holds out to me. “I’m Clover,” I say. I don’t know why, but if this man is my father as he claims, I feel like he should know my name.

The man’s cheeks tighten beneath weather worn skin as he smiles. “You are Clover no longer, little one,” he says. “You are Evgenia, solnyshka.”

“Evgenia?” I repeat the name, confused.

He nods. “Da. Is your Russian name. Good, strong name for girl.”

I don’t know why he thinks I need a new name, but I don’t mind it. In fact, having another name might work for this. For us. For her. I can still stay Clover and she … she can be Evgenia. My other half. The darkness inside of me that I can never escape.

12

CLOVER

“WAKE UP, WE’RE HERE.”

I jerk up, nearly banging my forehead into a familiar jawline at the deep, baritone voice that slithers over my ears. Braxton moves away from me, leaving my passenger door hanging wide open.

My vision is blurry and I quickly reach up, rubbing at my eyes before I take in my surroundings. We’re in some sort of underground parking garage. Although there aren’t a ton of cars in the vicinity, the ones I can see are all top quality. Benz. Ferraris. Teslas.

“Move your ass,” Brax curses from the tailgate as he opens up the back and retrieves his bag—the same one from the hotel. I guess someone had loaded it for him because he wasn’t carrying it out when we left. Must be nice to have people do shit for you.

“Where are we?” My voice is croaky—sleep still heavy on my body. I step out of the vehicle and lace my fingers together, stretching up onto my toes. The shirt I’m wearing lifts up and the cool waft of air grazes my lower stomach. When I drop back down, Braxton has already slammed the door shut and is staring at me with a dark look. “What?”

“Let’s go,” he says, turning and striding off.

I move to take a step towards him and pause, glancing around. His back is turned and there’s no one around. I’m in a nearly empty parking lot with a lot of space and an exit. I could just … run. I could get away—right here and right now. What’s stopping me?

Almost as if he hears my thoughts, Braxton stops several feet from the elevator, and—with his duffle bag, full of who knows what, thrown over his shoulder—he cocks a brow at me. “What are you waiting for?” he asks.

Adrenaline spikes and shoots through my system. If I run now, I’ve got a head start. He’ll likely drop his bag and take off after me. Will he catch me? Several seconds pass. I don’t move. Then, the corner of Braxton’s mouth quirks up. That’s when it hits me. He does know what I’m thinking, and this is a test. He’s given me the opportunity—even if I’m far from home in a place I don’t recognize, I’ve been on my own enough, I’ve been practically homeless enough that it won’t stop me. It’ll barely even hinder me. Something tells me that he knows that as well.

So, why? I think. Why the test?

I consider him for a little bit longer as my heart races inside my chest. I can hear my breath in my ears. The echo of his shoes against the pavement as he takes a step towards me. As if to warn me not to run. As if to warn me that no matter how many chances he gives me like this—he’s not afraid. He’s confident in his ability to catch me. Each and every time.

I take a step towards him, feeling invisible chains dragging me his way. Then another and another until I’m standing right in front of him with my head tilted back. “What are you waiting for?” I practically spit at him, my own anger at my powerlessness shining through.

That smirk of his blossoms into a full grin. “You, firebird,” he tells me. “I’m waiting for you.”

I turn and slide around him, stomping towards the elevator doors. I slap my hand against the button to call the elevator and when the doors slide open, I gesture inside. “Your carriage, your highness,” I say dramatically.

That smirk of his doesn’t dissipate as he approaches. His free hand comes out and grasps the back of my neck as he leads me inside with him. So much for that idea, I think. Getting him inside the elevator before I take off.

I swallow as he keeps his fingers locked around my neck. Maybe coming from someone else it’d feel like an owner leading their pet, but from him … it feels different. More erotic somehow. When Brax leans forward, his lips brushing my ear, I have to repress a full body shiver.

“Top floor, Clover,” he says. “The code is…” I reach forward and with trembling fingers, I hit the new button, typing in the code he gives me. When the elevator doors close, a sick sense invades my mind. The kind of sense that warns me I’ve just signed my death warrant.

That sense turns out to be correct because as the elevator lifts the two of us up, past several floors, Braxton’s hand loosens on my nape. When the ding announces our arrival, he pushes me out into a wide open space surrounded by windows and pillars. “Welcome to your new home, Clover,” Brax announces. “Welcome to the Tower.”

He might not say it, exactly, but I know what he’s really saying. Welcome to your prison cell. As pretty as it is, a gilded cage is still a cage.

As it stands, my current prison is beautiful. The windows span across two massive walls looking out over a city I’m unfamiliar with. Lights twinkle in the distance and I move closer, not having realized that night had fallen. How long was I asleep for? How many hours?

I press my hand to the cool glass, ignoring the rest of the space. I don’t like it. It’s too empty, makes me feel vulnerable. Back in the trailer, the walls were close together and the things Mama Luda had collected filled up every available surface. Her old leather recliner sat in the living room. The water bed from twenty years ago dominated her old room. And there were pictures on the walls. Pictures of me and Ace. Pictures of Ivan in his youth. Pictures of her.

There are no pictures of people here. Only cold, black and white photographs of various objects that don’t relate—chain link fences, what looks like old churches, and wild animals.

“Clover.” I manage to hide my jump when Brax speaks my name, turning in time to watch him carry a small box to the L-shaped white couch that sits in the center of the living room. “Come here.” He gestures to me.

I scowl, my upper lip pulling back in irritation. “I’m not your dog,” I tell him.

He arches a brow. “No,” he agrees. “I’d trust a dog. I don’t trust you.” Touché. I stride towards him. Brax places a hand on the coffee table in front of him. “Sit.”

I blow out a breath and step in front of him, between those strong, powerful thighs of his, taking a seat right next to his hand. Without lifting his head, his lashes move up and he meets my gaze. He doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Then, he reaches for the box, flips it open, and retrieves whatever it is he has in there.

Braxton bends down and I feel the sensation of cool metal sliding against the skin around my ankle. “What’s that?” I ask.

“This,” he says, clipping together the anklet so that it stays on my leg, “is a little gift from me to you.”

Anxiety eats at my nerves, and I narrow my eyes on him. “Why do I feel like this is more than a present?” I ask.

He looks up at me, and smiles. Fucking shit. That smile is a dangerous thing. “Probably because you’re a little smarter than you look,” he says.

I ignore the insult and shake my leg at him. “What is it, really?” I ask.

“See this little wire?” Braxton slips a finger into the silver links around my ankle. I don’t notice it at first, but once he’s pointed it out—I do see a tiny little wire. So discreet and pale, it easily blends in with both the color of my skin and the silver of the anklet.

“Uh, yeah?” I prompt.

“Well,” he says, moving his fingers down it until it comes to the small charm hanging from one of the links. “It’s connected to this baby. A little something I like to call—”

“A tracker?” I guess, hoping I’m right, hoping like fuck it’s not what I really think it is.

His smile doesn’t leave his face. “Not quite,” he says, shattering my hopes into a million tiny little pieces. “An insurance policy.”

“Is it a bomb?” I ask. “Did you put a fucking bomb on my goddamn leg?” My voice gets high pitched.

He chuckles, the sound wickedly low and it should really disturb me how I still find it kind of enticing when I could be standing there with a pack of miniature C-4 on my fucking ankle ready to blow at a moment’s notice. I mean, a charm that small? Maybe it won’t actually hurt. It couldn’t be big enough to blow off my foot right? Not even enough to kill. It’s barely the size of my thumbnail.

“Consider it your new leash,” he says. “It’s a shocker.”

“A what-er?” I snap. He shrugs. “Explain.” I squeeze the word out through clenched teeth.

He gives me one of those frowny-smiles. The kind people get when they think about something for the barest of seconds and find it funny. I don’t like it on his face. I don’t like it at all. “Nah, you can figure it out,” he says. “Just know that if you try to run from me, all I have to do is press a little button and no matter how far from me you are … you’ll regret it, firebird.” He chuckles again and my stomach clenches. “You’ll really fucking regret it.”

“I have to shower at some point,” I blurt out.

“You’ll be able to shower with it on,” he says. “

How? I think, staring down at this pretty monstrosity. Even though it’s not all that heavy, it feels like he literally attached a weighted ball and chain to my ankle. I shake my leg cautiously and then freeze as the little locket bumps against my leg. My eyes snap up to him.

“It’s not going to go off with a little water or movement,” he informs me.

I relax, but only marginally. He’s crazy. Who the fuck puts a god damn electric-shock-shackle on a girl’s leg?

“Oh and by the way,” he says as if he hasn’t already freaked me out enough. “If you try removing it, it’ll go off. Not sure if you’ve ever had 50,000 volts going through your system, but I assure you—it’s not pretty or fun.”

Correction: He’s a fucking psychopath. A certified, deranged motherfucker with a license in ‘what the fuck.’

13

BRAXTON

THE TOWER IS MY PLACE. Dean has the Carter Estate. Abel has the Frazier Mansion—the party palace. I’ve got this. A sky-high building in the center of Eastpoint with a bird’s eye view of the world around me.

Viks used to own the building, used to live here, just like he used to run Urban—though back then it went by a different name. Now, the place is mine. As soon as I saw it, I knew I had to have it. It’s practically an impenetrable fortress, reminding me of all those history classes in high school—the only class I ever actually paid attention to. A lot can be learned from other rulers’ mistakes. Castles were built on hills for a reason.

Some might say the higher a man is, the harder they fall. I say that the higher a man is, the closer he is to being a god. The advantage of knowing when someone’s coming, though, is an added bonus.

I stand against the glass, drink in hand, as my little prisoner stomps about. Her anklet jangles against her leg with each movement kind of like a bell on an animal’s neck. My lips twitch and I hide the action by turning away from her, instead, watching her reflection in the glass as she shoots me dark looks and heads through an open doorway towards the bedrooms in the back.

I was worried that I might find her presence annoying—better to just tie her up and leave her to rot in one of the rooms until I can fully understand the clusterfuck of a situation I’ve created—but in actuality, it’s amusing. The jangling is almost soothing in a way. Knowing she’s there in the background eases the constant sense of anxiety and the need to know where she is and what she’s doing every second. I don’t have to wonder—she’s more than happy to stomp and bang around my penthouse making as much noise as possible, no doubt to try and irritate me. It has the opposite effect.

My constant thoughts of her must conjure my little captive because she appears in the doorway once more, emerging from the depths of the penthouse. She sends me yet another scathing look before she heads to the open kitchen and starts slamming open cabinets and pulling out pots and pans.

I turn away from the lights of Eastpoint and focus my direct gaze on her. Her red hair has been thrown up in a messy, haphazard bun that’s fuzzy around the edges. Instead of the normal, slick buns of the girls I go to school with—and have known all my life—her hair is littered with flyaways. There’s not a drop of makeup on her freckled face. The pink of her skin doesn’t come from a designer package but from her own anger. For someone who bargained for her brother's life with her body, she doesn’t seem to care much about maintaining it.

My groin tightens when I recall the feeling of her blunt little nails digging into my thighs as her throat squeezed my cock so fucking tight. Ace Volkov’s little sister… I suppose with a body like that she doesn’t need to care about the maintenance.

The elevator dings and I straighten away from the glass, cursing internally. Without rounding the corner to the opening, I already have some inkling of who could be intruding. There’s a short list of people who know where I live and even fewer who have the entry code.

“Brax!” Abel steps around the corner, stopping when he spots Clover in the kitchen, pots and pans set out on the counter. “Is this your little gift to me?” He grins, but it’s far from the sexual, ‘I’m gonna fuck you, but it’s okay, you’ll like it’ look he’s given many women in the past. Instead, it’s all teeth and gleam—a predator’s intention to hurt someone.

I down the rest of what’s left in my glass and set it on the counter before stepping in front of her. “I told you I’d call you.”

Abel switches his attention to me and his expression relaxes but only minutely. “Yeah, but I didn’t know when that’d be. I got a notification that you were home, so I thought I’d pop over to see how things were going.”

Notification—meaning Rylie had told him. Why’d he have to go for the smart chick?

“So, you’re just here to check on things then?” I arch a brow and cross my arms over my chest. “Consider the check-in complete. Unless you’ve got that doctor I requested, then you can go.”

Abel grins and rocks back on his heels. “Now, man, you didn’t think I’d come alone, did you? We brought the doc like you asked.” Almost as if on cue, the elevator dings again and the doors slide open. We? I hope to fuck he didn’t bring Ava.

Thankfully, it’s just Dean and another man I can only assume is my requested doctor. Dean steps out of the elevator, holding the arm of a sour faced skinny man with curly black hair and a pair of glasses so thick it’s hard to read his expression. “Dr. Riviera,” Dean introduces, shoving the man forward, “at your service.”

“Wow.” My spine stiffens as I feel the feminine warmth of Clover’s fingers touch my spine as she slides into view. “You really do have friends, that’s a shock.”

I can feel the pounding of a migraine start up behind my eyeballs. I jerk my chin to the side, gesturing for Dean to take the doc into the main room. He nods and hefts the man’s arm higher, shoving him past the three of us and into the living room. Abel keeps his gaze locked on Clover.

My own eyes cut down to her. She stands at my side, head tilted, as she meets his lasered attention. “Problem?” she prompts him. I can’t tell if she’s brave or fucking stupid.

“Just one at the moment,” Abel answers, glaring at her.

“Oh?” She glances up at me. “It’s me, isn’t it?”

I scowl and release my arms to hook a hand under her elbow. “Living room.” I bite out, using my hold to push her towards the direction that Dean and the doc went. “Now.”

“Anyone ever tell you that you’ve got a way with words?” she asks, sarcasm dripping from her tongue as she moves on her own, taking a step towards the big open space beyond the pillars.

“Mouthy,” Abel comments.

“You’ve got no fucking idea.”

I follow the girl as she heads into the living room. “Can I please be informed as to why I’m here?” Dr. Riviera demands, huffing as Dean finally releases him.

“Treat her,” I order, gesturing to Clover who stands at the center of the room, arms crossed, looking less irritated now and more confused.

“Why?” she asks, looking towards me.

“Concussion.”

The doctor glances between the two of us before turning to Dean. “If I treat her, will you allow me to leave?” he asks. “I have to get back to the hospital. I’m on call tonight.”

“Not anymore,” Dean says. “You’ve been switched out for the night. We want you here, so here you stay.”

“I’m not a private physician,” Dr. Riviera snaps.

Dean crosses his arms over his chest and the sleeves of his black t-shirt stretch tight. “You are now,” he states. “Now, check on your patient. If you have any issues or need anything, then you can call us.”

“You’re leaving?” The Doctor is young but doesn’t carry himself so. The arrogance of years in the medical field are clear as he straightens and stares back at Dean.

“No,” I answer for him and the doctor’s attention reverts to me. “We’ll be on the balcony.” I turn to Clover. “You. Behave.”

Her eyes roll.

Abel crosses the room, practically snarling at the girl as he thrusts his shoulder out and bumps her out of his way. She curses and flips him the bird behind his back. My lips twitch again. Dean turns and follows him. I’m the last one out, catching the glass door to the balcony and holding it open as I turn back.

“Don’t bother trying to run, Doc,” I say. “The elevator needs a code to come and go.” My eyes move to her. “And the same code that got you in here, firebird, isn’t the one that will get you out.”

With that last warning, I step out into the breezy night and let the door close behind me.

14

BRAXTON

THE BURNING END of Dean’s cigarette flares to life, briefly illuminating his face as he takes a slow drag and then blows out a long stream of smoke. I hold my hand out and he slaps the pack of cigs into it. I take one out and put it between my lips. Abel hands me his lighter and with a flash, the flame warms my face as I hold it up against the end before inhaling the nicotine, I’m in desperate need of.

“What were you planning to do with her when you brought her here?” Dean asks.

Guess there’s no warming up to it. He jumps right in with two feet. I inhale harder than I need to, letting the toxicity infiltrate my lungs. My head goes slightly fuzzy and then the rest of the world finally seems to slow the fuck down. I take the cigarette out from between my lips and release a breath.

“I hadn’t exactly considered anything beyond getting ahold of her,” I admit. “But circumstances don’t always end up the way we expect them to.” As if to prove that, I scan back towards the living room as Dr. Riviera looks over the girl sitting in my house. She looks bored out of her mind and the doctor looks irritated to be there. “I need her if I’m going to lure Ace out.”

“I don’t like it,” Abel says. “I don’t like her being here. Why’d you let her free like that? You should at least lock her up or something. What if she escapes?”

“And what?” I look at Dean as he leans against the railing of the balcony and turns his head so that his next stream of smoke wafts out onto the wind. “What exactly could she do to hurt us, huh?” I snort. “She has no power and she knows it. Besides, she’s perfectly fine locked up here.”

“Are you going to keep her locked up here?” Dean asks. “Even when you’re at school? Practice? You know the season isn’t over. Coach is already pissed that you’ve missed a full week of it. You’re gonna be benched at the next game if you keep this shit up.”

I turn and place my back against the railing, flicking my ashes onto the tiled flooring. “He can’t afford to bench me this season,” I say, though I don’t elaborate on why. The three of us already know—Dean may still be on the team, but there’s really no telling if Coach will even let him play … or if Dean’s body will hold up after what happened at the beginning of last summer.

Once again, I find my attention trailing to the windows. That whole fucked up situation is the reason I’ve got a captive in the first place. “She knows where Ace is,” I say. “I’m sure of it.”

“And you think she’ll tell you?” Abel scoffs as he crosses his arms across his chest. “That’s why you brought her? Why didn’t you just torture her for the info and toss the body? It’s not like we haven’t done it before.”

The light glints off of her red hair as she turns her head, the doc pressing his fingers to her throat and then moving back to the nape of her neck. A sinister slither of irritation crawls up my spine. His hands on her skin make my skin feel tight.

“She’s not going to tell me where he is,” I say.

Dean cuts a look my way but doesn’t say anything. “Are you fucking kidding me?” Abel snaps. “Then why is she here?”

I don’t know, I think. What was the point? Abel’s right, I could’ve tortured her for the information I need. Everyone has their breaking point and I doubt she’s any different. I thought about it at the hotel. I’d stopped because I’d needed rest from all the driving, and because she still hadn’t woken up and it was getting … worrisome. Not that I would or should be worried about someone like her. Perhaps in another timeline, she would’ve been another face that passed me on the street. But not in this one. In this one, she’s my enemy, or rather, the sister of my enemy. The man who tortured Avalon.

“She made a deal with me,” I hear myself say the words as if they’re coming from another mouth. As if they’re not from me at all.

Dean’s brow arches. “What kind of deal?”

When Dean speaks, it’s not in anger. There’s barely any sign of the volatile rage I know he carries around with him as he talks. In fact, he’s practically emotionless. Why isn’t he acting like Abel? This chick is the sister of the man who tortured his girl. If I were in his shoes, I’d opt to torture and kill her too. The only reason I’m not is because I know if I kill Clover then there goes the last link to finding Ace. If she’s gone, who else is there that I can track down to get to him. It took months just to find this much. I’m not a patient man. Not like Dean at all.

“Her for her brother,” I say.

Abel gapes at me. Dean doesn’t say a word. He simply looks at me and waits, trusting and knowing. That’s why he’s not freaking the hell out, I realize. He’s not yelling or cursing or threatening this girl’s life because he knows—if he wanted her dead, she would be. He trusts me enough to take care of it. And even with all of the fucked-up desires in my head, the uncharacteristic need I have for these men to trust me blossoms like a flower in winter. I don’t just want that trust, I need it. It’s what keeps the last shred of humanity I have tethered to me.

“There’s no fucking way,” Abel says, shaking his head in disbelief. His arms drop to his sides and almost as if his anxiousness can’t stop, he shoves a hand through the longer strands of his hair and grips it. “You’re not that kind of man. You wouldn’t choose pussy over vengeance.” His hand drops and he glares at me, as if daring me to disagree.

One corner of my mouth turns up. Of fucking course not. I put my cigarette back between my lips and inhale just to piss him off. The cherry red end of my cigarette burns bright and then dims just as quickly. He waits, albeit impatiently as the veins in his arms start to stand out. I give it another thirty seconds before I answer him and confirm his belief in me.

“She thinks I’ve agreed to it,” I tell them, blowing out a cloud of smoke into the dark night. “She thinks it’s a temporary stand down, and no doubt, she’s probably trying to figure a way out.”

“Then why the hell would you agree to it?” Abel demands.

“Because so long as she thinks it’ll save him, she’ll stay put,” I answer. My gaze goes back to the girl in question. “She thinks that bargaining with her body will keep him alive, even if only temporarily.”

“You’re not giving up the hunt.” Dean doesn’t speak with a question in mind. It’s a statement of fact. A reassessment as he follows my attention to stare at the small creature sitting on my couch.

“Ace will pay for what he did to Ava,” I say. “I promise you that. Until then, though…” Her head lifts and she meets my gaze, those moss green eyes of hers darkening as she frowns at whatever the doc says to her. “I think it’ll be fun to show him when I do catch the son of a bitch that anything he loves, I can take away too. Her innocence is as good as gone.”

“She’s probably not a virgin, man,” Abel says to me.

I snort and flick my ashes over the railing this time with a shake of my head. “Virginity doesn’t signify innocence, dumbass,” I say. “Just because a chick lets a dick inside, doesn’t mean they’re not innocent. She’s as innocent as they come. She has no clue what the world can do to her, what I can do to her.”

“You’re going to break her,” Dean says.

I nod. “Into a million little pieces,” I agree. “And when I finally catch up to her brother, I’m going to grind his face into the shattered remains as I gut him.”

I can feel the intensity of both of their gazes—Dean’s and Abel’s. All of Abel’s earlier animosity appears to have calmed considerably at my words as he, too, looks back into the windows of the penthouse and observes our captured prey. They’re both quiet for several long moments and finally, Abel speaks. “Can I offer a piece of advice?”

I glance his way and wait.

He doesn’t look at me but continues staring into the living room as he opens his mouth. “Don’t get too close to the things you intend to break, my man. If you’re really going to destroy her as you keep hunting Ace, I know what you’re going to do.”

“Oh?”

Finally, he returns his attention to me. “I’ve seen you do it before to girls at school that piss you off—to some of the one’s we fucked—you know how to turn it off and on. You’re good at it. I admire that about you. Can’t say how many times I watched you turn that good guy act on only to turn around and stomp on their hearts when they pissed you off. You think I don’t know why you went to escorts after a while?” He shakes his head. “I know you. Fuck, we both do.” He gestures to Dean. I glance his way, but Dean’s face doesn’t betray a single thought in his head. “I know that the best way to break someone is to make them vulnerable. You get off on it. Ain’t nothing wrong with that, but don’t let yourself get too hooked.”

I arch a brow. “Have I ever?” Dean and Abel exchange a look and I scowl. “She’s nothing to me,” I snap. “Just a means to an end. I’ll keep her here and fuck her. Then when I finally track down Ace, I’m going to do it right in front of him before I slit his throat.”

Dean nods and then pinches off the last of his cigarette, stabbing it into the waiting ashtray on the crystal table sitting by the doors. He puts one hand in his pocket and reaches for the door handle before pausing and looking back. “You know we’re always here for you man,” he says. “You do what you want. Regardless, we’ll still be here.”

“Are you saying you don’t want me to hurt her?” I ask him seriously.

Dean’s lips turn down. “No, that’s not what I’m saying at all,” he replies. “As far as I’m concerned, Ace is the enemy and anyone who protects him is just as guilty. Just remember though, Avalon’s gonna want to know and I’m not gonna keep it from her.”

Abel snorts. “She probably already knows,” he says. “Rylie doesn’t keep shit from her.”

“With good reason,” I point out.

A phone goes off and Abel pulls his cell from his pocket. “Speaking of my riot girl,” he says as he opens the phone and smiles down at the screen. “She wants mint chocolate chip ice cream so we gotta make a pit stop on the way back.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Thank fuck Ava doesn’t want kids.”

I shake my head. “As if you could share her.”

“That’s just fine with me,” Abel says. “If I have it my way, Rylie’s gonna be pregnant and barefoot all the fucking time.”

Dean throws his head back and laughs and I can’t help but chuckle along with him. It feels good to finally let it out. Some of the tension. But most of all, it feels good to know that there are some people out there that are gonna be there for us. Our world has expanded and this once small circle of brothers that we were is no longer so fucking small. We’ve got Avalon and Rylie and now … a little one we’ve got to protect.

As if my thoughts of the girls remind me of the one sitting in my space, my attention returns to the glass windows and the redhead sitting on my couch, scowling at something the doc says to her. Unlike my boys’ girls, she is not one I intend to protect.

If it were anyone else I were after—someone who hadn’t come after my fucking family—I might admire the resolve in her, the willingness to do whatever she can to protect her own. I know I’m capable of and willing to do the same. This comes down to which one of us is stronger, which of us is more willing to fall the furthest into the depths of hell. And if that’s the case, it’s no question which of us will come out as the winner. I was born in hell and I intend to raze it to the fucking ground before I let someone get away with hurting my family.

15

CLOVER

“ARE you here against your will as well?”

I nearly burst out laughing at the doctor’s question. It comes seconds after the glass door closes behind the three amigos and Braxton is on the other side looking back at me with an enigmatic expression.

“It’s complicated,” I tell the doctor as he takes a seat on the coffee table and gestures for me to sit on the couch in front of him.

I, too, take a seat and he blows out a breath. “My pager and work phone were taken,” he confesses, “but I still have my cell phone. I keep it in my scrubs rather than my lab coat. I can excuse myself to go to the bathroom and call the cops.”

Poor guy. He really has no clue what he’s gotten tangled up in. Why did they grab him and not someone else? “Bad decision,” I say, shaking my head. “I wouldn’t even bother. Just check me over and tell the big one I’m good to go and they’ll let you go back to your life. Probably.”

He stares at me and then reaches up, removing his glasses for a second to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Listen, I’m sure you think they’re good to you—or better than someone else might be but no one should be abused.”

I bite down on my lower lip to keep from laughing. What a good man. They definitely didn’t choose right when bringing a doctor into this. He probably thinks I’m some sort of domestic violence victim. I shake my head and pat his shoulder.

“I’m fine, doc,” I say. “Really. We’re not even together. Like I said, it’s a complicated relationship, but I’m here of my own free will. I promise. Sorta.” It’s more of a dubious free will at this point, but really no other way to explain it. “Besides, you’re just here to check and make sure my concussion won’t leave me permanently brain damaged.”

That has him sitting up straighter and putting his glasses back on. “Concussion?” he parrots. “What happened?”

“I fell out of a window,” I say. “Or rather, I climbed out but the ground was a lot further than I anticipated.” I offer him a sheepish grin, but the man merely frowns.

“Lean forward,” he orders.

I blink and do so as his fingers find the back of my head and feel around, pressing in a few areas. “Any sign of dizziness? Nausea?”

“I threw up right when it first happened,” I admit.

The doctor pushes my head back and then pulls out what looks to be a pen from his white lab coat. A piercing light hits me right in the fucking eyeball and I flinch away. He moves the light from one eye to the next. “Pupils dilate fine,” he comments more to himself it seems than to me. “Have there been any other signs? Forgetfulness?”

“I don’t think so,” I say.

He sighs and puts the penlight away. “The vomiting concerns me. I’d really like to do a CAT scan.”

I glance from him to the men standing outside in a circle. “I doubt they’re gonna allow that.”

“It’s my advice as a doctor,” he presses. His hand touches mine and he squeezes, attempting to offer comfort. Itchiness assails me and I pull my hands back from his grasp.

“It’s fine,” I insist.

“It’s necessary to make sure you don’t have any severe damage,” he says. “Severe concussions can cause amnesia and seizures.”

“It’s only been a day or so,” I say. “I haven’t thrown up since and there haven't been any other symptoms. I’m sure he just wanted a second opinion to double check.”

“Any slurred speech?” he demands. I shake my head.

He inhales and blows out a breath before standing and I look up at him with a frown. The door behind him opens and the man who brought the doctor steps inside—he’s not as tall as Braxton, but he holds himself like he is.

“Any problems?” Braxton asks as he steps in behind him, followed by the last guy who eyes me like he’d like to slit my throat right here and now. I arch a brow and stare right back at him.

“I want to take her to the hospital,” the doctor snaps. “If she’s had a concussion and thrown up, I think an MRI or CAT scan would be—”

“Is it necessary?” Braxton isn’t the one to interrupt, but instead his dark-haired friend.

Braxton shoots a look my way, but I’m too busy scowling up at the doctor. Fuck, I hate hospitals. There’s no fucking way I’m going. “No,” I snap, answering before the doctor can. “It’s not.”

“She could have brain damage,” the doctor insists, ignoring my words. “Possibly a skull fracture. It’s better to double check.”

“Are there any symptoms that we need to be aware of?” Braxton steps in front of his friend and then moves over to the couch until he’s standing right next to me. The doctor sidles to the side, out from between the couch and coffee table and as far from the group of men that seem to invade and fill up what should be a large ass living room.

“Slurred speech,” the doctor says. “Amnesia. Headaches that don’t go away. One eye might appear bigger than the other.” Braxton’s head snaps down and he narrows his gaze on my face.

My lips twist and I shove his leg, intending to push him away, but meet a rock fucking wall. “I’m fine,” I repeat the words and turn my face away from him. A second later, warm, hard fingers grip my chin and rotate my head back.

Braxton’s face fills my vision. I growl. “Stop it.”

“I already checked for that,” The doctor informs him. “If she has a seizure, then we’ll know it’s more severe, but I still want to at least run a test to be sure.”

“She hasn’t exhibited any other symptoms for a while now, will she be fine as long as it was just the one time?” Braxton’s gaze finally leaves my face and his hand drops away.

The doctor frowns and rubs the back of his head. “If the vomiting was an isolated incident and there are no other symptoms, she should be fine, but that’s not a guarantee—”

“It’s fine then,” Braxton decides.

“But—”

“I know you’re trying to cover your own ass, doc,” the man who brought him interrupts with a cold look, “but don’t overstep. If she’s not in any immediate danger, we’ll forgo the medical inquisition. Your license won’t be rescinded for something like this.”

“I’m not worried about my goddamn license!” the doctor snaps.

The man’s face remains impassive, but when his attention turns to me, I feel something inside of me freeze up. There’s more than just a coldness in his expression. There’s a deep sense of rage. Something I recognize because I’ve seen it reflected in the mirror. “She’s not someone you need to concern yourself with, doc,” the man finally says, returning his focus to the doctor. “As long as she’ll live without lasting effects, that’s all we need to know.”

“She might still have—”

“What about birth control?” Braxton suddenly asks. Red hot embarrassment slides up the back of my neck.

“That’s not necessary,” I snap. “I’m already covered.”

Braxton’s eyes glance down at me. “How?”

If there was a way for me to peel off my skin without causing unnecessary pain and permanent harm to myself, I would. I one-hundred percent, absolutely fucking would. “I have an IUD.”

He narrows his eyes but lifts his gaze to the doc as Dr. Riviera grunts in outrage. “This is barbaric,” the doctor snaps. “Is she even—”

“Alright, and that’s your cut off point.” The shorter of the three men standing around us moves forward, taking the doctor by the arm. “We’re gonna head out and explain a few things about your new job, yeah?” The man looks back at Braxton. “You good, man?”

Braxton nods. I feel like I’m watching some dramatic soap opera unfold before me. Three mysterious men, close in age, and of all of them Braxton is the biggest and darkest—yet at the same time, it’s clear he doesn’t take a leadership position. He probably could, but his eyes go to the tatted up, muscle bound guy with dark hair as if he’s ensuring that everything he does is within the realm of approval. His approval.

Why? I wonder. Ivan and Ace always told me that men were simple creatures. They looked to someone more dangerous than themselves as role models, as leaders. Braxton should be the leader, though, shouldn’t he? What does that make this man? Is he more dangerous than Brax?

While the blond carts the sputtering doctor out, he shoots me a sinister glare. If looks could kill … well, I’d be six feet under, pushing daisies already.

I’m left alone with Braxton and … his other friend. To them, however, I could be nothing more than furniture because the man ignores my very existence and turns to Braxton, clapping him on the shoulder. “You need to come back to school,” he says. “And practice. Coach is waiting for you. We all are.”

Braxton looks at him and a steely expression crosses his face. His brows draw down low and his lips pinch into a semi frown. “Does it really mean much if you can’t play?”

The man shrugs. “We don’t know if he’ll let me play. I’ve been doing good in practice. I’m getting there.”

Furniture. That’s me. Clover La Roux. Just an invisible bystander. At least, I feel that way. Especially as the two of them continue to ignore my presence. The conversation they’re having feels private. I feel like I’m a peeping tom or something, watching the two of them. Until Brax brings the attention back to me.

“What are we going to do about her?” he gestures to where I sit and I stiffen as his friend cuts a look my way.

“Bring her or lock her up,” the man says. “I don’t care. You brought her here and you’re not exactly asking for my help. What you do with her is up to you. She’s your responsibility.” He blows out a breath. “You know I’m right, though; Ava’s gonna want to know about her. She’s gonna want to meet her. You might as well bring her to campus. She already knows that you brought someone back with you.”

“Does she know about her connection?” Brax asks.

Again, it’s like I’m just an object sitting here. That’s what I wanted, though, isn’t it? I offered myself up to him. Bargained for Ace with my body so really … to them, I am an object. Most women get objectified without their consent, but not me. Not stupid Clover. No, because she’s willing to give up all body autonomy for the sake of her family. I clench my fists at my sides. Even if I was given the chance to go back and alter my decision, I know I wouldn’t. I just have to shut my mouth and accept it. Even if it sits in my stomach like something foul and poisonous.

Evgenia wouldn’t have caved. The thought comes out of nowhere, so angry and full of self-loathing that it almost shocks me. I’m right. If I were to just give in to that other part of myself. The one that protected me as a child. The one that fought off playground bullies and adults who didn’t know how to keep their hands to themselves. If I just let her take over, everything would work itself out. Maybe I’d come away bloody and a little less human, but I’d be free, right? What is the price of freedom after all if it’s not coated in someone else’s blood?

I’m so caught up in my own thoughts that I don’t even realize when the two of them are done talking until a hand touches my shoulder, and I jerk back in shock. Braxton’s shadow stands over me and just as suddenly as he approached, he backs away.

Unable to stand the itchy, unwanted feeling of being looked down upon, I get up from the couch. “If you guys want to keep talking, I can head to the bedroom,” I say, but I’m already moving before I get an answer. I don’t want to wait around for one.

I turn my back on the two men standing in the living room of my new home and head down the hallway—forgoing my earlier intention to make food. My stomach sits at the bottom of my abdomen like a solid rock anyway now. It’s not like I’d be able to eat anything.

The door closes with a soft snick at my back and I press my spine to the wood. When neither Braxton nor his friend come for me, I assume that they’re just letting me go for the night. My knees go weak and I slide down the door until my ass hits the carpet. My arms band around my knees and I stare straight ahead, not seeing the plain obviously unused furniture of the room. A bed. A dresser. And a mirror. Otherwise, it’s empty. Kind of like its new resident.

Why is it, I think, that everywhere I go, everywhere I end up … I’m always a means to an end.

Even I have to admit, living with Mama Luda was never permanent. Loving, yes. Easier and better than a teenager trying to take care of a failing mother who was just a child herself. But kids are always supposed to outgrow their childhoods. They’re supposed to grow up and move on. They’re supposed to turn into people. Something I never am to anyone else.

A sister. A burden. A liability. A captive.

Rarely have I ever been given my own choice. It’s just survival. Plain and simple. I’m constantly yanked from one place to the next. A bartering tool for my mom when she needed someone to take charge. A possession to Ivan and Ace—though a well loved and cared for one. The only reason they ever searched for me and wanted me to begin with is because of the blood running through my veins. And even here—despite all that I owe Ace and what I’m trying to save him from—I’m still, once more, on the outside looking in. Just as I’ve always been.

Maybe it’s time I stopped trying to be anything else.

16

CLOVER

IRRITATION AMBUSHES me the minute my eyes open. Not the kind that someone feels when they wake up just before their alarm goes off and they still want that extra ten minutes of sweet, blissful slumber, but the kind of anger that has been collecting, slowly festering inside of them. Waiting to be let out.

Why? That is the question, isn’t it? And unfortunately, I don’t have an answer. All I know is that when I open my eyes and stare up at the unfamiliar flat white ceiling of Braxton’s guest bedroom instead of the yellow aged popcorn ceiling of the crappy, stilted trailer in the swamps of Florida, I have to acknowledge that my circumstances have changed once again without my consent.

It was all I’d been able to think of the night before after the meeting with the doctor and Braxton’s … friends. Even if the reminder of them comes from me, I can’t help the scowl that overtakes my face. I push it back and release a breath as I crawl out of bed.

Maybe I was repressing the irritation. Maybe I was putting on a facade for Braxton and his friends. Evgenia? Again, another maybe. She always seems to come out when I feel threatened. And now, I can feel her sizzling beneath my skin.

I take slow, deep breaths as I fix up the bed I slept in and then peek out into the hall. My stomach rumbles at the smell of cooked food. I haven’t eaten since the quicky pit stops on the road, and even then, I’m pretty sure Brax only fed me because he had to eat too. The crinkle of plastic hanging from the doorknob attracts my attention. I grab the bag and close the door behind me as I open it up.

Clothes, I realize. Good timing, too, because the clothes that I’ve been in for the last couple of days are starting to smell. Which also means it’s probably a good time for a shower. I head out into the hall and find the bathroom I’d peeked in on the night before. After a quick scrub down, I change into a pair of low-rise jeans and a t-shirt, scowling down at the anklet locked on my leg like a fucking modern ball and chain. It doesn’t look like any ankle monitor I’ve ever seen in my life. In fact, I have to hand it to my captor, it looks like an average piece of jewelry—small enough for me to pull pants over. Despite its pretty exterior, though, the fact that it sits like a threat against my skin makes my blood boil.

I take another one of those deep breaths and release it. Maybe my anger is just getting to me because I haven’t eaten in so long. The clothes are surprisingly a perfect fit. Not sure if Braxton is the one who went out for them himself or if he had them delivered, but they’re all high end, expensive brands.

It doesn’t matter what brand of clothes I put on my body, I remind myself. At the end of the day, my presence is mere leverage for keeping Ace alive. I’m just shocked Braxton isn’t leaving me to rot in my days’ old clothes. Then again, I did effectively sell my body, and I suppose he wouldn’t want to fuck a girl who smells like BO.

A fresh wave of irritation and helplessness washes over me as I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror. I finger comb my hair out, trying to unknot the various tangles and finally, with a huff, I give up—yanking the mass of red curls back into a bun at the top of my head, tying it all together with the fragile excuse for a hair tie I’ve got on my wrist. The damn thing is on its last legs, the elastic showing through. But with little else to stand here doing, I head out into the kitchen where Braxton is already awake and sitting down to eat breakfast.

He doesn’t acknowledge my presence—another sting to heighten my low buzzing anger. I cut across him and head towards the waiting coffee maker with half of the carafe still full of black liquid.

I find a mug in one of the cupboards and pour myself a cup before turning and planting my ass against the counter as he downs a plate of eggs and bacon. There’s still some left on the stove and I pinch a piece of bacon, popping it in my mouth before I sip on the coffee. As soon as the bacon touches my lips, my stomach rumbles. I grab a plate and quickly dish up what’s left over from his breakfast and down it like it’s the last meal I’ll ever get. Once I’m done, I set the empty plate back in the sink and pick up my coffee once more.

“So,” I start, “what’s the plan for today, huh? Will I be staying in my Tower or do I get leeway to come and go?”

Braxton’s eyes cut up to me and his brows lower. I half expect him to ignore my question, but surprisingly he answers it. “Dean suggested I bring you to campus, so that’s what you’re doing. You should’ve gotten shoes with the clothes I left for you.” He gestures to the hall with his fork. “Go put them on. We’re leaving when I’m done here.”

Dean? Ah, that must have been the guy he was with the night before. I look down at the stove and grab the last piece of bacon, popping it into my mouth as I lounge back against the counter—ignoring his obvious command.

“Do you do everything Dean tells you to?” I ask, lifting my lashes and looking straight at him. “Is he the one who’s really in charge?”

Braxton doesn’t respond. Instead, he stands up and strides around the counter until he’s right in front of me, plate in hand. He leans down, closer and closer until my mug is pressed between us—the only thing keeping our chests from touching. Then he tips his plate and lets the remainder of his food—food that any kid from my high school would’ve killed to have—into the sink and right down the garbage disposal.

The sharp scratch of the plate hitting the counter makes me jump and my eyes shoot to Braxton’s. “Go put your shoes on, Clover,” he says, placing a hand on the counter at my side and raising his brows. “Unless you’d rather I treat you like a real prisoner and lock you up for the remainder of your stay here.” One corner of his mouth tips. “I can’t say that it doesn’t hold a certain appeal for me.”

“I’m not into bondage,” I reply.

His lips twist. “Pity,” he comments.

My brows arch. “You are?”

Braxton’s scent hits me and overwhelms me. He must have taken a shower before I got up because the ends of his hair are still wet and I can smell his shampoo. It’s strong, but different from the ocean breeze scent from the hotel. My anger appears to be dissipating as I try to figure out the actual scent. It’s almost woodsy. Like oak and spices or something else.

“Keep pushing me, Clover, and you’ll find out sooner than you think,” Braxton says, interrupting my thoughts, and I realize that I’ve been leaning closer to him, trying to catch another whiff—like a fucking junkie. I pull back immediately.

“Surprising,” I say, forcing myself to act cool—as if I wasn’t just sniffing him.

His head tilts to the side. “What is?”

I look up at him through my lashes. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” Placing my mug on the counter, I lift my hands and push him back. “I’ll go get those shoes on and we can head out.”

Braxton doesn’t block my exit, but neither does he step back and allow me the freedom to move. So as I slide past him, our bodies are pressed impossibly close, and I feel the stirrings of something that I thought I’d warned myself against before. As I stride towards the hallway, I can feel the intensity of his gaze on my ass. I’m playing a dangerous game with him. I know it. He knows it. Inevitably, though, I can’t deny that I want to follow him. I want to know more about the man who’s trying to kill my brother. I want to know why and I want to know who he’s really doing it for.

More time around Braxton means finding out those things, and as much as Ace loves me and treats me like his little sister, he never tells me things. Everything I know about his work has been learned through hints and slips between him, Ivan, and Mama Luda. If I want to get information to warn Ace appropriately, then I’ll need every clue Braxton and his friends can provide. Against him, I’ll need any and every weapon I can find.

I find the shoes Braxton mentioned still in the bag, at the bottom in a box, and hurriedly pull them up, ripping off the tags and stuffing my feet inside before lacing them up. I then meet him back at the elevator minutes later. He stands, with his back against the opposite wall, his phone in his hand as he types something out.

“To the outdoors then?” I say, gesturing to the elevator as I stop at his side.

He cuts me a look and then turns, punching in a new code in the little keypad on the wall before hitting the elevator’s button. I tilt my head to the side. “Not trying to hide the code to leave?” I ask.

Braxton slides his phone back into his pocket. “I said that for the doctor’s benefit last night. Not yours.”

The elevator arrives and the doors slide open. He steps inside. I follow. “Not afraid that I’ll run off.”

He stares straight ahead as he hits the button for the bottom floor—the parking garage I suspect. “You want to run away?” His lips twist into a frown that’s more smile and amusement than actual frown. “Be my guest. I’ll be able to track you down, but even if I couldn’t—you leaving just proves one thing.”

The metal on my ankle feels heavier at his words, reminding me that I’m not as free as I might seem. I don’t want to ask, but I can’t seem to help myself. “What does it prove?”

He looks at me and those hazel gray eyes of his practically glitter with dark intention. I suck in my cheeks and bite down on my tongue even as my chest swells with air and holds, refusing to release it back out into the small space between us. “That you’re just like every other bitch out there,” he says. “Always out to save yourself. You leave and Ace is dead. That’s the promise we made, isn’t it?”

There’s a brief moment where I’m frozen until I realize the question isn’t rhetorical and he’s staring at me, waiting for an answer. “Yeah,” I croak out.

He smiles and for a split second, I swear to God he looks like the devil himself. “That’s the only thing keeping me here,” he says. “That deal of yours. The anklet…” He moves forward and automatically, I back up, my spine hitting the wall. They really make elevators way too fucking small, I think as he backs me into a corner and slaps a palm over my head as his shoe nudges mine—the same leg that currently holds the anklet he mentioned. “The anklet is insurance,” he says. “And if I’m being honest, I expect you to run.”

His gaze is penetrating, threatening. I stare up into it, feeling my chest start to hurt from the lack of oxygen. Fuck. What have I done? What have I gotten myself into? Who did I sell myself to? My mind goes into panic mode, like the mind of a rabbit caught in the trap of a wolf.

“If you expect me to run then why are you letting me out?” I ask, forcing air out of my lungs so that I have to breathe. “Why not just keep me locked up in your house?”

“Then how would I get to know you?” he asks, shocking me as his palm comes down, sliding along the wall next to my head until he pulls it back and his fingers graze my jaw. “I want to know what kind of girl would offer herself up to save her brother.”

He’s fucking with me. It’s the only excuse. There’s no fucking way Braxton Smalls is actually interested in getting to know me. My eyes narrow on him and I push his hand away, hating the way his skin on mine makes something deep inside of me light up. “You’re a fucking liar,” I spit back.

Braxton ignores the scowl on my face and the sharp rejection and instead lets his fingers move to my mouth as his thumb presses down into my lower lip, his nail digging into the soft flesh there. I wince.

“We’ll see, Clover,” he says. “We’ll see who the liar is at the end of this.” The words are both a threat and a promise.

Finally, he backs away, taking one step and then another and another until I feel like I can finally breathe without his scent taking over my mind. I remain in the corner of the elevator regardless, crossing my arms over my chest as I glare at the doors—silently praying that they open.

As my fiery emotions swell up within me, urging me to slam Braxton’s fat ass head into the side of the wall for making me feel things I really have no fucking business feeling, the elevator slows and my prayers are answered. The elevator doors open to reveal two women. It’s not their presence that surprises me, but Braxton’s response.

“Shit.”

17

CLOVER

COLD SILENCE GREETS Braxton’s curse. With the concrete walls, floors, and ceiling of the underground garage, there’s this gaping echo of nothing ringing in my ears. Braxton moves out of the elevator and, as if on autopilot, I follow.

“What the fuck are you two doing here?” His words are harsh, but he doesn’t sound particularly angry. My head tips back as I look at him—my attention spanning from him back to the two women. His brows are creased and his lips turned down, but there’s no irritation in his gaze. No rejection. Just … concern, a little bit of unease.

Strange, I think, and interesting.

This is a rare opportunity—one in which Braxton isn’t focused on me at all and I can observe not just him, but the women as well with leisure as my presence takes a backseat. My attention goes to the first girl.

She’s petite, small framed, and practically dripping with a confusing opposition of ‘protect me’ and ‘don’t touch me’ energy. When she turns her head, glancing at the girl at her side, I wince. Damn, some guy must have done a number on her, I think.

With her semi-purple faded hair drawn up into a low ponytail, I can see the hickeys hiding just within sight beneath the collar of her jacket. Some are new—the fresh purple and red bruising making that more than obvious—but some are older, the yellowing of her skin making me think they’ve had a few days to heal. Same guy? I wonder. Probably. She doesn’t strike me as the type of girl who jumps from bed to bed. Not with the way she’s covered up—head to toe black like her favorite store is Gothics R Us.

My analysis diverts to woman number two, but almost as soon as my eyes land on her, the girl’s head pivots my way and her razor-sharp blue-gray eyes meet mine. I blink in shock at the sheer amount of agitation and challenge rolling off of her. I meet her gaze head on, and almost instinctively the urge to take a step back rises up within me, but my feet remain planted firmly on the ground.

“This is the girl?” She arches a brow at me.

A thick muscled arm cuts down between us. I blink down at it before following it all the way back up to Braxton as he steps slightly in front of me, the entirety of his focus on the dark-haired woman. He’s protecting me, I realize. From her. Curiouser and Curiouser.

“Avalon.” The name on his lips is a warning and since it’s obviously not mine, I assume it’s hers.

“Braxton.” She repeats his name in much the same manner, not seeming the least bit cowed by his size or glare.

“Don’t,” he warns her.

Avalon looks from him back to me and I realize that the blue-gray of her eyes isn’t really that consuming. It’s mostly blue with gray and gold flecks. A pretty color for a woman clearly intent on leaving an impression—or maybe more. She steps forward, bumping against the arm that Braxton refuses to retract.

Initially, she seems tall for a woman—but no, upon closer inspection, she’s actually not that tall, especially not when she stands next to Braxton like that. He’s like a beast to her tiny form. The only thing smaller is her friend. And she’s so close now that I realize that Avalon is actually about my height. With the way she holds herself, however—shoulders thrown back, head up, and eyes facing forward—she appears taller.

All that big dick energy she’s carting around spreads out like an aura, advising people to back the fuck off before they get hurt.

Message heard loud and fucking clear. Unfortunately, though, the doors of the elevator have already slid shut and I doubt Braxton would appreciate me taking off. The anklet choking my foot like a damn chain, locking me to his side—or wherever he allows me to go—is a reminder that I’m not exactly here in the capacity of friendship. As if I could forget with the dark look Avalon keeps throwing my way. It’s clear she’s involved in whatever mess Ace left for me between these people.

As much as I love my brother, as much as I’m willing to sacrifice for him—for all he’s done for me—I can’t help but want to strangle the fuck out of him in this moment. Sure, this has made life interesting, but interesting doesn’t always mean intact. Right now, this chick looks like she’s ready to rip me apart, piece by piece, and then use my bones as a toothpick.

Avalon tips her head to the side, the thick mass of her dark hair sliding over her shoulder. “What’s your name?”

I tip my head in the same direction, mirroring her. “Clover.”

Her nose wrinkles and she snorts. “Weird name.”

“Not any weirder than Avalon,” I reply.

The girl at her side widens her eyes and jerks her head from me to Avalon and back again. Avalon doesn’t seem the least bit offended though. “You don’t look like a psychopath.” Weird comment, but okay. I can work with it.

“Do most psychopaths look like psychopaths?” I ask.

Braxton moves back, pushing me away as he steps fully in front of Avalon. “Ava.” I lean to the side, peeking around him as Avalon tips her head back and looks up at him. “Do you really think it’s smart, bringing Rylie out like this?” Avalon rolls her eyes as Braxton gestures to the other girl.

“Oh, my god, Brax,” she snaps. “She’s not an invalid.”

Rylie, for her part, crosses her arms over her chest and scowls. Though I note, she doesn’t say a word. Braxton frowns down at both of them. “Do the guys know you’re both here?” he asks.

“Why?” She smiles up at him, but it’s a smile of anything but amusement. “You think we need their permission, psycho boy?”

Her friend—Rylie—blows out a breath and reaches over, snagging Avalon’s arm as she moves forward to bump chests with Braxton. “Ava,” she warns, her eyes sliding from the two of them to me and back. “Don’t.”

Avalon sighs, but lets her arm remain in her friend’s grasp even as she looks up at Braxton. “I’m not gonna hurt her,” she says. “I just wanted to meet her.”

Braxton’s brows lift. “Really?” It’s clear that he doesn’t believe her words for a single second, and I’m inclined to agree with him.

“Of course,” Avalon replies.

“Are you sure about that?” I ask, still leaning around Braxton’s body. “‘Cause with the way they’re acting”—I gesture to both Rylie and Brax— “I should probably be running.”

Avalon’s attention falls back on me. She snorts and shakes her head. Her friend releases her arm and she crosses them over her chest as she regards me. “Running wouldn’t help you.”

“You’re not exactly reaffirming your last statement,” I say.

“Oh? What’s that?”

“You said you weren’t going to hurt me,” I remind her.

“Did I say that?” She smiles and steps forward, bumping up right against Braxton as he puts an arm between us once more. “Psycho boy? You mind putting that away?”

Braxton blows out a long breath and shakes his head; the fall of nearly black hair at the top of his head swipes across his forehead. “Sorry, Ava,” he says. I press my lips together as an uncomfortable itching sensation starts up at the nape of my neck. He actually sounds sorry—sorry he can’t let this chick tear my ass apart? Just who the fuck is she? “She’s under my protection for the time being,” Brax finishes.

For the time being? Right, because I’m just a means to an end.

Avalon doesn’t shove his arm down or try to fight her way past him. And despite the fact that I barely know this woman, I have no doubt that she could if she really wanted to. “Why?” she demands.

“It’s complicated,” Braxton says. “But trust me, Ava. You know I’d never fucking betray you.”

Avalon cuts her gaze to me. “I’m not worried about you,” she says, responding to Braxton even as she looks my way, scanning me up and down. Beneath my clothes, my muscles bunch—winding tighter and tighter until I’m sure one sharp movement or one sound will shoot me off like a fucking rocket. “I never will be, but her on the other hand…” There’s no question who the ‘her’ in her comment is referring to. Not with the way she’s staring me down like she’s trying to peel back the layers of my soul with her eyes alone. She arches a brow my way as if daring me to deny her next statement. “She can’t be trusted.”

Maybe not, I think, but I can sure be fucked, can’t I? I wonder if I should say anything. It’s right there on the tip of my tongue to tell her how her beloved Braxton—her obvious friend—had his dick down my throat only a couple of days ago. How, despite the fact that he came for my brother, he ended up leaving with me—making a deal with me. The girl who can’t be trusted. It’s petty, but I want to. The only thing that stops me from saying it, though, is Braxton as he blocks off the sight of her, once more stepping in front of me as he starts talking.

“You don’t need to trust her,” Braxton says. “All you need to do is trust me.”

“Braxton.” She sighs. “As much as I love you, I’m not a fucking idiot. I trust you—but you’re a man. Men have dicks and they, more often than not, think with them.” She reaches up and taps his cheek twice with the palm of her hand. “You might be smarter than the average douche, but pretty pussy has taken down stronger men than you.”

Shock rockets through me and my attention immediately swings to Braxton. Instead of being offended or insulted, though, the man just cracks a smile—a true, amused smile. “Is that what happened for you?” he asks.

She shrugs. “The all-powerful vagina,” she says. “It’s a fucking wonder drug.”

Braxton shakes his head. “I promise you, that’s not what this is about.” I press my lips together, but don’t say anything. I don’t have that right because he’s not wrong.

“Fine.” Avalon leans around and stares right at me. “Then I just have one warning for her.” Her hand finds Braxton’s arm, and this time, he steps slightly to the side—allowing this girl the room to move in front of me, unencumbered by his frame. I stand straighter, throwing my own shoulders back as she steps right in front of me.

“I don’t exactly know what you know about the work your brother does,” she starts, “but he fucked up. It sucks you’ve got to pay the price, but as long as you just keep your mouth shut and stay still—I’m sure this will all be over soon.”

“Is that a promise?” I ask, tilting my head to the side.

She smirks. “Sure, if that’ll make you feel better.”

“It doesn’t,” I reply.

“Then it’s a threat.” She shrugs. “The only thing I have to warn you about is this”—my eyes widen as she grips the front of my t-shirt, her nails sinking into the fabric and tightening as she drags me closer. Her face is only centimeters away. I can smell the mint from her mouth. “Don’t even fucking think of fucking with my family,” she snarls, getting into my face. “Braxton. Her”—she gestures to her girlfriend—”and anyone else you come in contact with here. You hurt them?” she arches her brows as if daring me to interrupt her. I don’t. Instead, I remain perfectly still and perfectly silent, letting her get it all out. “I will fucking gut you. Understand?”

I blink. Slow and leisurely. Like none of her words affect me. It’s a facade because, inside, I’m fucking trembling. She might look normal—like any tough chick with an ax to grind or a chip on her shoulder—but when she makes a threat there’s a hint of crazy in her eyes. I have no doubt that if she sees me as a threat to her people, she’ll make good on this promise of hers.

“Answer,” she commands, shaking me slightly.

“What do you want me to say?” I ask. “‘Yes, Ma’am’? You’re not my fucking mother, but I will say this.” I lean into her grip until our noses brush. “I have no intention of fucking with your family,” I inform her. “I’m here to protect mine.”

The two of us stare at each other for several long moments. Each beat making the anxiety buzzing beneath my flesh rise closer and closer to the surface. Sweat beads pop up along my spine and I pray she doesn’t sense just how freaked out I actually am.

Finally, the silence breaks with a laugh as Avalon uses her hold on my shirt to push me back. She shakes her head. “You’ve got balls,” she admits, still chuckling. “And I admire that, I really do—but man, your family fucked up messing with me and mine. Fine, you stay here. You protect your family.” She snorts as if the very idea is hilarious. “Just remember, though.” She points my way. “They were the ones who landed you here.”

I scowl, but the anger that wells up inside of me can’t go anywhere because at the end of the day—even if I love Ace—I still can’t deny her statement which leaves me watching her back with something akin to begrudging respect and the bite of weakness. Because, where I’m at now, there’s nothing I can do to change this situation I’m in.

18

CLOVER

EASTPOINT UNIVERSITY LOOKS like any other college—or at least, it looks like what I imagine colleges are supposed to look like. It looks like the entrance to purgatory. Big, tall columns at the front entrance. Students dressed in expensive clothes and designer backpacks milling about on the sidewalks, laughing and chatting as they head to their next class. Big, open green spaces where people lounge out under the morning sun. Tall buildings that look a hundred years old or more.

There’s not a single ripped seam or worn pair of jeans that isn’t artistically fabricated to look like it’s been around much longer than it actually has. Pseudo poverty never made any sense to me. Rich kids pretending to be poorer than they actually are as they spend Mommy and Daddy’s money at clubs and bars every weekend and vacation in the best resorts across the world. I’d seen more than my fair share during the summers of Port Charlotte when I’d managed to catch rides into town.

The South has its own history, a heavy one built on the backs of those less fortunate and raised in judgmental ignorance, but on rare occasions, I got to see the true dichotomy between people. Townies and Outsiders. Those who lived every day in the pits of the gutter and those who visited, vacationed there to feel cool.

Eastpoint is the exact opposite. Here, I am the outsider.

It’s like a whole different world than the one I came from. No, it’s not like a whole different world—I remind myself—it is. This isn’t a world I belong in. My presence is merely temporary. A trade off, for now.

Braxton steers the SUV into a parking lot behind the black Lexus that Avalon and her friend are in and parks alongside it. Across from the cars, the doors to a red Mustang convertible open and the two men from the night before step out. I steal a pair of sunglasses sitting, forgotten, in the console and unbuckle my seatbelt before sliding out of the vehicle.

I stop at the back, pushing the sunglasses onto my face—both to block out the brightness of the sun and to hide my eyes from the curious gazes of the people walking by. I feel like a sideshow with the way they’re staring. It takes me a moment, though, to realize that they’re not exactly looking at me so much as they’re watching the people around me.

Braxton. Avalon. Dean. Rylie. And the blond one who looks at me like he hates my guts. I list their names off in my head as I watch the way they move towards each other. The blonde opens his arms and takes Rylie into his grasp, cuddling up with her before kissing the side of her throat—now I know who left the hickeys, at least.

For several long moments, he loses himself in her. Hugging her against him, turning his face into her throat, and inhaling her. I press my lips together despite my shock. Considering how he and I met last night, I was sure he was just another playboy playing badass. It’s clear, now, however, that he’s only got eyes for the petite gothic girl, an interesting and slightly unexpected combination.

Avalon approaches the muscled and tattooed man—Dean—and instead of pulling her into him, he merely slings one muscled arm over her shoulders and lets her rest against his side as he lounges back against the front of the Mustang. I don’t really want to approach them. Their presence has an almost invisible barrier—a warning sign to others that this is a closed off space. That here, among these people, very few are allowed and if you think you don’t belong then you don’t.

Unfortunately, I don’t really get much of a choice. Braxton’s fingers latch onto my upper arm and he drags me away from the protection of the SUV and out in the open towards the others. Suddenly all of the attention that was previously meant for them is on me—the intruder. The students passing by all divert their gazes to me.

Sure, they try to hide their curiosity, but they can’t. One girl even stumbles as if she’s shocked. I peek up at Braxton from behind the sunglasses. What kind of reputation does he have? I wonder. Will I find out today? I can’t exactly imagine why they decided to bring me to school with them. It’s not like I go here. I don’t go anywhere. Not since I graduated high school.

“What’s the plan with her?” the blond asks, removing one arm from Rylie and gesturing to me. “Is she really gonna go to class with us?”

I grit my teeth. “She is standing right fucking here, asshole,” I snap, scowling his way.

He smirks at my response, as if he enjoys seeing my irritation. Dean reaches back and slides his backpack off of one shoulder, pulling out a folder and handing it to Braxton. “I had Barnes enroll her,” he states, ignoring me and my outburst. “There’s someone in each class with her.”

"I didn’t even apply to this place,” I say. “How can you enroll me?”

Dean slides a look my way before flat out ignoring my question as he returns his attention to Brax. “I didn’t have time to clear it with you, but do you think it’ll do?”

Braxton flips open the folder and scans the contents. Irritation flares inside me and I clench my hands at my sides. Avalon’s eyes track the movement and one corner of her mouth tips up before she arches a brow my way.

I release my clenched fists and instead, adopt a bored stance as I cross my arms over my chest and lean to one side, my foot tapping impatiently on the ground. It’s both infuriating and exhausting being in this limbo, but I signed myself up for this madness and I have to accept it.

I’m not exactly used to accepting things and just letting the world treat me as it will, and this is no different.

Surprisingly, my salvation comes from the most unexpected person. My savior is Avalon, herself, as she steps forward, leaving the relative comfort of her boyfriend’s side. She stops in front of Braxton and puts a hand over the file in his grasp, pushing it down as she grins up at him.

“Why don’t we just take her?” she suggests.

“We?” The blond’s head pops up as he glances from Avalon and then back to Rylie. “You want to take her with the two of you? You think that’s a good idea?”

Rylie, for her part, rolls her eyes. “I’m fine, Abel,” she snaps. Hmm, I think. So the blond’s name is Abel. I file that information away, right into the mental folder labeled ‘people to avoid’.

“What if something happens?” Abel replies. He looks to Brax. “Is it safe for Rylie?” Before Brax has a chance to answer, Abel snaps his gaze to me and glares. “Is it safe to let her loose on campus?”

Rylie grits her teeth and smacks him. “I’m fucking pregnant, not an invalid.”

My eyes fall immediately to her stomach as Abel reaches around her, cupping the area. It’s hard to see anything past the baggy clothes, but I suspect she isn’t far along.

“I’m not calling you an invalid, riot girl,” Abel replies, pulling her closer despite her obvious irritation with him. “But she’s not one of us.” His eyes cut my way and narrow. “We can’t trust her.”

“It’s safe,” Brax says. “I would never put Avalon or Rylie at risk.”

Brax flips the folder shut and hands it to Avalon who takes it and with a smile, tosses it behind her. Papers go flying and Dean grunts and rolls his eyes as he bends over and picks it all up—shoving it back into the folder. “Thanks, Baby,” he mutters.

Avalon points to me. “Well, now that we have that settled. You. Let’s go.” She hitches her backpack up higher and then starts walking.

My eyebrows shoot up over the top of the sunglasses and I glance from her back to Braxton, but he merely presses his lips together and doesn’t say a word as he pulls out his cell phone. I step in front of him, my shoulder to his chest, and when he still doesn’t speak, I keep walking. Rylie pulls away from her boyfriend—and baby daddy, I assume—kissing him quickly before hurrying to catch up with Avalon.

Avalon stops at the edge of the parking lot and turns back, waiting. Rylie moves ahead of me, despite her smaller stature. I’m halfway there when a sudden sharp sting burns up my leg.

“Fuck!” I snap, freezing as my whole leg locks up. My knees give out and I go down hard, the gravel digging into my skin past the jean fabric as I gasp for breath as electricity races up my calf and into my thigh. Sweat pops up along my spine. The muscles in my leg lock and release in sharp, rapid spasms. I hiss out breath after breath, fighting through the agony rolling through me as I yank my pants leg up to stare at the offensive shackle that is the source of my pain. My teeth grit together. The electricity fades, but my anger is only just starting. As soon as I know I won’t stumble, I force my way up onto my feet and whip around, glaring at Braxton. He stares back at me. There’s no amusement in his expression. No remorse for what he just fucking did. There is only emptiness.

“Just a warning, firebird,” he says. “You fuck with them and I’ll do a hell of a lot worse.”

What had I thought back in the garage? That he was protecting me? Ha. Yeah, I’d been fucking stupid. Any kindness I might have mistaken on his part is completely erased in that moment as he reminds me why I’m here in the first place. I’m not their friend. Not even a tagalong. I’m a fucking hostage. Nothing more.

“That was unnecessary,” I snap, gesturing down to my leg.

“I’d say it was very necessary,” Dean replies, speaking to me for the first time as he pushes away from the hood of the red Mustang as he steps up to Braxton’s side. “He’s proving to us that we can trust you around our girls. Not that I really had any doubt.” He grins as he stares past me, no doubt at Avalon. “I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t last two seconds against my baby.”

Yeah, maybe Clover wouldn’t. Evgenia, on the other hand … maybe it’s best, though, that they don’t know about my other half.

I let my emotion drain from my face as I lift my head and meet his gaze. The nerves in my leg still buzz and jump around, but I know that Brax didn’t use the full force of the anklet’s voltage. He’d said fifty thousand volts and though I’ve never been tased myself, I’d seen more than enough in my childhood to know that it’s enough to knock a grown man out cold.

Without another word, I turn around and start walking. Avalon doesn’t seem amused by what just happened—merely curious as she glances between me and Brax before shrugging and starting off again.

And like a dog on a leash, I follow. Maybe they don’t realize—or maybe they do and don’t care—that every dog has teeth and if things don’t let up soon, I might just say fuck the deal and use mine.

19

BRAXTON

“THAT WAS COLD.” Dean’s comment lingers in the silence left by the girls’ departure.

Cold. But necessary.

After all, it’s the only way I can be with her. If I allow myself to be anything else … she’ll be the same as the women I buy. Then again, isn’t that exactly what she is? Sure, she’s selling her body to protect her brother, but in the end—it’s all the same.

I click out of the app I had installed on my phone that allows me to track the anklet I gave her and slip it back into my pocket. “She needed the reminder.” After all, I can’t have Clover La Roux getting comfortable. She needs to remember who’s really in charge.

“I don’t like that look,” Abel says.

“There is no look.” I turn back to the SUV, hitting a button on my key fob and wait for the back to open up before I reach inside, snagging my gym bag. I’m not looking forward to Coach’s lecture, but it’s time. I need to stop running away and get back to normal. Well, as normal as any of us can be.

“I’m not crazy, right? There’s definitely a look,” I hear Abel whisper to Dean.

I roll my eyes. Asshole.

I hit the button on my key fob once more and wait for the hatch to close before locking it. “Come on,” I say as I stride towards the football field. “You said Coach wanted to see me?”

That’s all it takes. “Wait, seriously!” Abel whoops and then runs to catch up with me, Dean pulling up the rear. “So, you’re really gonna put off the whole vengeance thing and get back to football?” Abel asks.

“I’m not giving up shit,” I reply, shooting him a look. “I’m doing both.”

“She obviously doesn’t know that you’re lying to her.” Dean’s comment isn’t a question, but his words still have a way of drawing my attention.

“She doesn’t need to know,” I reply. He’s wrong, though. Clover isn’t an idiot. She knows that our deal is a facade. She’s only pretending she doesn’t see it.

“How do you think she’ll react when she finds out?”

I go quiet, my eyes turning straight forward once more, though I can still feel both Dean’s and Abel’s focus on me—waiting. I try to decipher what I know of Ace Volkov’s sister thus far. It’s hard to actually put into words. So far, all I know is one thing—she’s willing to sacrifice herself for the people she loves. Even if I don’t like her, even if I still plan on killing her brother, that, at least, I have to respect. How will she react when our facade falls apart?

“Doesn’t matter,” I say, replying to Dean’s question. In truth, I just plain don’t fucking know. She’s impossible to understand, and that only makes me want to cut her open and pull her apart to try and work her out of my mind. “She’s just a pawn in all of this anyway. If she plays her cards right, then she’ll live, but that’s about all I can offer her.” It’s all I will ever offer her. Survival.

I can feel Dean’s gaze burning into my face, and I sense that he wants to say something. Despite the fact that he knows he’s got the right—that he is one of the few people in this world I respect and listen to—he doesn’t. He simply faces forward once more and changes the subject.

“We have a surprise for you,” he says.

Abel bounds forward, leaving the straight line we’re walking in as he turns on his heel and starts marching backwards. “A big fucking surprise!” he announces, repeating Dean’s words as he spreads his arms wide. “You’re gonna shit your fucking pants when you find out.”

I snort, cracking a grin. “If you brought hookers to school, I’m gonna so fucking kick your ass,” I tell him.

Abel slaps a hand to his chest in mock outrage. “How dare you insinuate that I would do such a thing,” he replies. “I’ll have you know that I’ve been reformed.”

I lower my head and purse my lips. “Reformed? You?” My hair flops over as I shake my head. “Bullshit.”

“I’m a family man now, brother,” Abel informs me. “I gotta be good for the lil’ bean—be all role model-y and shit.”

“Lil’ bean?” I repeat. “Is that what you’re calling it?”

He shrugs and turns back. “What else am I supposed to call it? She’s too early on to find out the sex yet.”

“You’re going to have girls,” I tell him viciously. “All girls—and I hope they’re all like you.”

Abel’s head whips around and he gapes at me in horror. “Fuck no!”

At my side, Dean throws his head back and laughs. It’s a full belly laugh. One that I haven’t really seen between just the three of us in a long fucking while. It’s hard to believe that in the span of a year our whole dynamic has altered. We’re no longer three kings with a closed circle. We’ve got queens too. Avalon and Rylie have changed us for the better.

The conversation dies down, and Abel seems to let the insult of cursing him with little girls go as we make our way across campus to the football field where most of our team is already gathered for morning practice.

Coach Pierce stands at the edge of one side of the field with his arms crossed and a clipboard in hand. I know the moment he sees me because the man lets out a long whistle.

“Well, nice of you to show up to practice for a change, Smalls,” he calls out.

Dean and Abel both shoot looks my way before they head off, leaving me to hash things out on my own. “Sorry, Coach, I—”

Coach holds up his hand, stopping me from continuing. If any other man had done the same, I might’ve laid them out, but Coach Pierce isn’t any other man. He arches a brow at me and shakes his head. “If any other player came up to me after missing over a week of practice with no call or warning, I’d sack his ass,” he says. “You know that, right?”

“Yes, Sir.”

He doesn’t say anything more for a long moment—his gaze moving over my face and down as if he’s seeking out a physical reason for my absence. There’s not one. At least, not one that he’d accept. Finally, he sighs.

“I’m just gonna ask one thing,” he states.

I wait.

“Are you okay, kid?”

I blink, shocked by that. I’d expected him to want to know where I’d been, to demand answers that I can’t give him. My lips part, but I don’t have an answer. I’m too startled by the question I hadn’t seen coming. A lecture, sure. A kick in the ass, absolutely. But not … that.

Coach Pierce uncrosses his arms and reaches up, clapping me on the shoulder in an uncharacteristic move—at least uncharacteristic when it’s done towards me.

“I know you and Frazier have been having some troubles after what happened last summer and Carter is working overtime to get back on the field, but I want you to know that you three can always come to me if you need something. If this is about your fathers, I can make some leeway, just inform me next time before you take off.”

Discomfort slips through me. Flashes of memories swarm my mind—blood dripping from my knuckles and the overpowering stench of death in my nostrils. Avalon’s screams. Abel’s panicked breaths. Sirens. I close my eyes, squeezing them shut and forcing away the memories that are not as distant as I’d like them to be.

I force a smile. “Thanks, Coach, and again, I’m sorry.”

He nods. “Yeah, you will be if you’re not ready to go at our next game. Go to the locker rooms and get changed into your practice gear. We’re starting up in about twenty minutes, so you better hustle.”

That’s all it takes and he’s moving away, calling out to one of our other teammates. My heart thunders inside my chest. Sweat clings to my back and something dark slithers out from the crevices of my soul.

I turn and head off, breaking into a jog as I spot Abel and Dean waiting at the entrance to the locker rooms. “He give you problems?” Dean asks as I pass by them and the doors close at our backs.

“No,” I say. “He doesn’t know the truth—thinks it had something to do with the old men.”

Neither of them respond for a breath and then, “Maybe that’s for the best,” Abel says.

I snort. “He still looks at us like we’re kids,” I mutter.

Few people still treat me as a child in this world, even less after Aunt Josie’s death and the death of mine and Abel’s fathers. It shouldn’t come as any surprise though that Coach Pierce is one of them. After all, he’s seen me, Dean, and Abel through the last four years of our lives—to him, we are children barely on the cusp of adulthood. Not monsters already thrust into the darkest parts of the world before we were ready.

“Probably because, to him, we are,” Dean says.

No one disagrees. We can’t. And deep down, I think all of us are at least a little bit grateful for Coach Pierce. Despite the fact that we could have his head or his job should he do anything we don’t like, he’s never kissed our ass, and he’s always told it like it is. He expects quality performances on the field and we give it, each and every time.

I blow out a breath as we enter the locker rooms and I head for mine in the back left hand corner, dropping my gym bag at my feet as I peel my shirt over my head. Abel takes a seat on the benches, doing the same as Dean moves to his locker and we prepare for a day on the field.

“What about this surprise you two said you had for me?” I ask fifteen minutes later as we head back out onto the field in our practice gear.

Abel snorts and slaps my back. “Oh don’t worry, bud, you’ll find out soon.”

“Real fucking soon,” Dean agrees as we hit the green and head towards the collection of our teammates all standing around in front of Coach Pierce. It’s neither the coach nor the rest of the guys that capture my attention, however, but the blond-haired asshole who stands in front of all of them right alongside Coach.

I whip my head to the side and take in Dean’s widening grin before I look back to him. Marcus spots me over the crowd and mirrors Dean’s expression as he lifts a hand. “Fuck,” I say shaking my head as a smile takes over my face. “How the fuck did you assholes manage to keep this a secret?”

“If you hadn’t been taking off on your own, you would’ve known,” Dean tells me.

Abel laughs. “Best surprise ever, isn’t it?”

I shake my head and cross my arms over my chest as Coach Pierce finishes his practice pep talk before he introduces one of our new wide receivers.

If Marcus Summers is coming to Eastpoint, then things are certainly up for change.

20

CLOVER

I AM AN OBSERVATIONIST. Always have been. Probably always will be. Where other people are more than happy to step into action and the limelight, I like to stay a step behind and watch the chaos unfold with an almost detached familiarity. It’s safer, and considering the chaos in which I was born and raised, it makes sense that I’d avoid it at any given opportunity.

It doesn’t take any time at all to conclude that Avalon is not like that, not at all. She’s the type of person who dives headfirst into something and says “fuck you” if someone tries to stop her. How do I know that? Because she wanted to take me from Braxton and he let her. Just like that. There is a lot to tell about a person from their actions, but even more from how people respond to their actions.

As we walk across campus, I’m viscerally aware of the attention we’re drawing. It’s so obvious that even if Avalon were stupid, which I know is impossible considering Braxton cares for her—and Braxton Smalls is not a dumb man himself—she would still notice all of the eyes on her. The difference between her and me—and even her little friend Rylie—though, is that she just plain doesn’t care. She ignores their stares, and I’m getting the sense that she’s also the type of girl who’s been stared at her whole life. I mean, she’s stunning after all. Long black hair. A clear face, little make-up. Avalon Manning is a natural beauty. People’s response to beauty, no matter the age, is always the same. Envy. Lust. Desire. The men want her. The girls want to be her.

Then there’s me. The only thing I want from her is information.

“What are you waiting on?” Avalon grasps my arm and drags me along with her, disrupting my perusal of her. “Let’s go.”

“Go where?” I ask, more curious than anything else. I glance down at the hand she’s got locked on my arm, but don’t try to pull away.

Braxton is cruel enough to kidnap a woman, intimidate her, trap her with the threat of her brother’s demise—but he’s still a human at the end of the day. Which means he has a weakness. If nothing else, that is a consolation prize to me—the one person who is at risk in all of this—and this chick is someone he respects and cares for. It would be in my best interest to do as she says, if for no other reason than to get more insight on the man I’m bound to. To find out what that weakness of his is.

“Ava!” Behind us, her little friend hurries to catch up, her shorter stature leaving her just a few steps behind. “That’s not the way to class!”

Avalon stops and turns, waiting for her. “I didn’t say we were going to class,” she replies. “I said we were taking her with us.”

Rylie stops when she joins us, her chest pumping up and down as she hitches her bag further up her shoulder and frowns. Her eyes dart to me and back. “You’re not going to torture her,” she states. It doesn’t sound like a question, but the normal part of me—the part that doesn’t get kidnapped and threatened regularly—wonders if it is.

“I just want to ask her a few questions,” Avalon says. Rylie’s gaze narrows. Avalon rolls her eyes. “Chill, Ry. I was just gonna take her to the coffee shop and sit her down for a chat. Totally public and everything.” Avalon smiles my way. Perhaps to anyone else, it might seem a casual and friendly smile, but I see something more beyond the surface. I see darkness in her eyes—darkness I’m all too familiar with. It’s not a friendly smile but one of warning.

“I don’t know if you just saw what Braxton did,” I say, gently prying my arm away and noting that she lets me go without a fight, “but I’m not exactly going to run from you.” I look down at my leg pointedly before meeting her gaze once more. “He didn’t tell me to keep anything to myself, so go ahead,” I say. “Ask your questions.”

Avalon arches a single brow. “Just like that?” she asks. “And you’ll answer.”

“I don’t see why I wouldn’t.” I have nothing to hide from her.

“Ava…” Rylie’s gaze bounces back and forth between us, nervous energy practically rolling off of her in waves. “Do you think they’d like this?”

I don’t have to ask who ‘they’ are. I have my suspicions. Watching Braxton with his friends, it’s clear that they’re well aware of the kind of man he is. He doesn’t even try to hide his nature with them. Whatever he’s doing this for—whatever my brother did to him—I have a feeling they’re just as involved if not more so.

“If they really didn’t want me to ask her questions,” Avalon says, looking to Rylie as she speaks, “they would’ve kept her at Brax’s Tower instead of letting her come to Eastpoint.”

A part of me wonders if that wouldn’t have been the safest choice. My head turns, however, as Rylie replies. “Eastpoint is their domain,” she argues. “They probably felt like they could keep a better watch on her here.”

“Like they kept watch on you?” Ava counters.

Rylie huffs out a frustrated breath. “Never mind,” she snaps. “It’s your ass if they’re mad. Let’s go.” She shoulders her way past us and storms off in what I assume is the direction of the coffee shop Avalon mentioned.

Ava chuckles and follows after her. And as their third-party add-on, so do I—still watching our surroundings. The further we walk, the more I notice that people give us a wide berth—no, not us, but Avalon. They watch her with wary eyes, and I have to wonder what she did to make so many people fear her. Whatever it is, I’ve got to hand it to her—it’s impressive the kind of power she holds over them.

The campus coffee shop is empty at this time of day—mildly surprising considering it’s still fairly early and I have no doubt that despite the class differences, people here still rely on caffeine to get them through the day like any regular person. Their fix is just sprinkled with bullshit and sold for a high dollar.

“Will you grab me a Frappuccino?” Rylie asks as she twists her hips and winces, her face paling.

Avalon goes on full alert. “Are you okay?”

Rylie shakes her head. “It’s fine,” she says, despite the fact that her upper lip curls back and she puts a hand on her stomach. “I just gotta go to the bathroom real quick.”

“Nausea?” She doesn’t wait for Rylie to reply. “Do you want me to come with you?”

“So, what? You can hold my hair?” She blanches. “No thanks. I’d rather upchuck in peace—without the commentary or the statistics of student pregnancies.” Rylie shakes her head and takes off, hurrying towards the back corner of the coffee shop with a distinct ‘bathroom’ sign hanging above the alcove there.

Avalon sighs and moves towards the counter. I stand behind her, letting my mind wander as my gaze tracks around the room. I note the small individual tables set up along the massive windows peering out towards the campus green areas and the tall industrial beams that span the distance of the shop, painted dark to give the whole place a warm vibe.

“What do you want?” I start as Avalon turns back to me.

“What?” I blurt.

“Drink?” she says, gesturing for me to hurry up. “What do you want?”

“Oh, uh, coffee?” I say. “Black.”

She arches a brow but shrugs and makes the order, swiping a card and denying a receipt before moving away. Once again, I’m left to trail behind her as she finds a table in the corner of the shop, as far from the door and the counter as physically possible. We take our seats and she leans back, crossing her arms over her chest as she openly observes me.

My lips twitch. Most people aren’t super comfortable with silence. I can’t count the number of times social workers and cops had used this exact tactic on me whenever some well-meaning Samaritan had realized that I wasn’t exactly being taken care of in the way children should be and I’d been picked up and interviewed. While they had intended to prove I was being neglected, I’d learned that keeping my mouth shut was the only true way to be sent back home. My mom might’ve been a bad parent, but she wasn’t a bad person. She’d loved me, but more importantly—she’d needed me. Just as Ace needs me to make this work now.

Avalon, however, grows frustrated with the silence in no time at all. Minutes pass and one of the baristas comes over, depositing three drinks on the table before scurrying back to her place behind the counter.

“Well?” Avalon prompts as I lift the coffee cup to my lips and sip the liquid. It’s bitter but surprisingly good—with a hint of something spicy in the undertones. Definitely different than pre-ground Walmart coffee.

“Well, what?” I look back at her, waiting.

“Are you going to tell me anything?”

I shrug. “You haven’t asked me any questions,” I remind her.

She scowls, but before she can open her mouth and say anything more, a chair skids across the tiled floor, and Rylie sits down, snatching up her melting Frappuccino like a lifeline. “Did you grab any snacks?” she asks.

“Here.” Avalon shoves her card at Rylie. “Get whatever you need—baby maker.”

“Gee, you’re too kind.” Rylie deadpans.

“If I don’t feed you, Abel will bitch about it later,” Avalon replies.

Rylie doesn’t deny the statement—and it’s funny how one little comment makes one thing perfectly clear. Even if they seem to irritate each other, Avalon cares about the opinions of the others. The same is likely true for Braxton.

Which makes me wonder? Are they his weakness? Or are these girls?

“Stop it,” Avalon says as Rylie stands up and heads back to the counter, card in hand.

“Stop what?” I ask, curious.

“Trying to figure us out.”

I blink, more than a little surprised that she’d so easily pinpointed my thoughts. As far as I knew, I wasn’t the type to broadcast it in my facial expressions. She arches a brow, regardless, as if daring me to deny the claim. It’d be stupid to do so.

“Why?” I ask instead.

She snorts. “Because you’ll never get it,” she replies.

“It?”

She lifts her drink and takes a long slow sip, not responding until she’s enjoyed the annoying beat of silence. Perhaps she’s just as sadistic as Braxton is. She’s got the attitude down, at least, as well as the arrogance. “People always think they can try to figure out our little group,” she finally confesses. But it feels less like a confession and more like a statement of fact. “People refuse to believe that not everything has a clear-cut explanation.”

“And you’re one of those things?”

She smirks, setting her cup down. “We all are—even preggers back there.” She nods to where Rylie still stands in front of the window of baked goods that accompany the coffee menu. Avalon leans forward, propping her elbows up on the table as she regards me, and for some reason, I get the distinct feeling that she’s trying to look past this face of mine and deep into my soul.

Everyone has a side they’d rather not show to others. I’ve always prided myself on being able to sniff it out. The smiling principal with two point five kids, a happy marriage, and a dedication to God—a creepy perv who loved to look down his female students’ shirts. People, whether they want to believe it or not, are not as complicated as they’d like to believe. They’re not unique. They’re the same words—just different fonts.

Sitting across from Avalon, watching her watch me makes me realize that she’s written in a completely different language. At first, I thought she was ignoring the stares people throw her way—the way Rylie seems to. Then, the more I analyze Avalon—examining her for clues and information—I think she truly doesn’t notice it. Perhaps it’s something she’s so used to that she’s learned to tune it out.

Make no mistake, I know she’s aware of it. I know from the way her eyes cut to a few that linger too close—likely curious as to what we’re talking about—and that’s really all it takes for them to skitter away, frightened little rabbits in the face of a true predator.

Now, I’m the one she’s up against. She’s staring back at me so deeply that I’m almost afraid of what she might find—or rather, who she might find. Something tells me, though, that if Avalon has her way, she’ll not just find Evgenia, but she’ll bring her out to play. And as if thinking of my darker half has a way of making her rear her psychotic head, another feeling slides through me. I lift my coffee as if it’ll hide my inner thoughts.

If Evgenia meets Avalon, I have a feeling she’ll like the fuck out of her. If that doesn’t spell danger, I don’t know what the fuck will.

21

CLOVER

“HAVE YOU EVER BEEN CLUBBING?”

I pull the coffee cup away from my mouth so quickly, a drop flies out and lands on the edge of my lip. I wince at the burn, reaching up and wiping the spill away. “No.” The spot on my lip still burns where the coffee hit even as Rylie returns, her arms laden down with multiple brown bakery bags. She sets down the first two before opening the third and shoving what looks like a croissant into her mouth.

Avalon turns to her. “I think we should take her to Urban,” Avalon says.

Rylie pauses, mid bite, and her brows lower over her eyes as she slides her gaze to the side. “Why?”

“She’s never been,” Avalon announces.

Rylie’s brows lower even more as her confusion grows. “So?”

Avalon smirks. “So, I think it’s the perfect way to welcome her to Eastpoint.”

I don’t know what makes me say it. If anything, I should be happy that she’s trying to ‘welcome’ me. After all, if I befriend this girl then the likelihood of me finding out Braxton’s weakness increases. And while a part of me wonders if that’ll ever happen, another part of me—a more determined part—swears that I’ll do whatever I have to in order to make sure my brother is safe from him. Despite all of that, though, my mouth opens, my stinging lips part, and something completely different than I expect comes out.

“We’re not friends,” I say. “In fact, if anything, I should be considered your enemy, right?”

Avalon shrugs, but her eyes glint like steel as she turns her face back to me and leans over the table, resting her elbows on the edge as she steeples her fingers together and lets her chin rest on them. “Sure, I suppose,” she agrees. “You’re related to our enemy. And the friend of an enemy is an enemy and all that.”

My lips twist and I push the coffee away, my stomach doing these weird flip thingies. “Then what’s with the welcoming committee?” I prompt. “Just act how you normally would. I’d prefer that over the pseudo-friendliness.”

Avalon snorts. “You think I’m being friendly?” she asks.

“You’re not acting like someone who wants information from me,” I point out honestly. “You said you brought me here to ask me questions, but you haven’t figured out a damn thing.”

“Haven’t I?”

A scowl takes over my face as I sit forward. “You haven’t asked a damn question.”

“What if I don’t need to?” Avalon asks.

I blink. “Then what was the point of getting me away from Braxton?”

“That’s it,” she says with a shrug. “To get you away from him.”

“What?”

She’s not making any sense and my confusion only continues to mount. She laughs—at my expression or at my confounded question, I’m not sure. Whatever I’ve done, though, amuses her. Greatly if the stretch of her lips across her beautiful face is anything to go by. I’m not gay, not even bisexual, but I can see the beauty in other people without being physically attracted to them.

If I think about it, Braxton attracts me on multiple levels. Thinking back to that night in the hotel, I have to admit—even if it’s only to myself—that it’d been more than a little hot. His control. His desire as he’d poured it all over me, into me, on top of me like he was trying to burden me, to scare me, to make me run away—it had been heady. Like a new kind of drug I’ve never experienced before.

The way his gaze had zeroed in on me, seeing me—into me, through me—the way no one ever has before is a memory in my mind that I know I’ll hold with me for the rest of my life. If I even survive this place. Something tells me that, despite the clean corners and the fancy coffee and the designer clothes the students wear, Eastpoint is more battleground than any grungy backwoods shithole town I’ve ever been in.

The places of my past had used cannonballs and old, rusted weapons whereas Eastpoint is like a fine, perfectly sharpened blade. It’s a scalpel, and so are the people who live in it. They’re sinister. Dangerous.

What have you done, Ace? What the ever-loving fuck have you gotten me involved in?

Even as I silently recite the question, I recognize it’s far too late to stop it now. Avalon watches my expression, her eyes sliding over my face as if she’s trying to pinpoint every single little note of contention or fear.

“You’ll tell me everything I want to know about you, Clover,” she says quietly. Not a threat, not a warning, but a statement of fact. “And you won’t have to say a damn word.”

I hear what she’s not saying. The questions she might have wanted to ask me are already being answered. One by one, I’m letting myself slip through the cracks and she sees each and every beat of my personality. Perhaps even the one I hide deep inside. My hands clench automatically, the desire to fight my way free of what feels like a cage coming forth. She sees that, too, and it makes her lips twitch as she smirks, sits back, and grabs her drink.

“It’s coming, girl,” she tells me. “So, why don’t you just sit back and let it happen? Go to the club, drink, let loose, and just let it all go.”

“I’m your captive,” I remind her through gritted teeth. “The only reason I’m here is for—”

“Ace,” she interrupts, rolling her eyes. “Yeah, I know.” She looks down at her cup for a moment and then runs a single finger around the rim. “Or at least that’s what you tell yourself.”

“It’s the truth.”

She shrugs. “Sure, it could be. I’m not denying it’s at least partially the truth, but tell me something, Clover. If you got away from us—if you got away from Brax—where would you go? Back to that trailer in Florida? Or to your brother? Do you know where he is? Or are you all alone in this world? Are you bored?”

Did I think I might like this chick? I must have been out of my fucking mind. Her questions dig deep, slip beneath my skin until they’re like these small insect-like little annoyances that make me question things. My reasoning. My own mind. I don’t like that. Not at fucking all.

I have no answer for her. Not even a damn one for myself either. So, I sit back in the chair and clamp my lips shut, crossing my arms over my chest, an unintentional protective movement. Avalon chuckles darkly and tips her cup in my direction.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” she says, the sound of her tone sarcastic and dry. “Stick around long enough and you’ll find those answers you’re looking for. You’ll find out just what kind of people your brother fucked over, and by the time you do figure it all out—I have a feeling that you’ll regret ever stepping through those pearly gates.”

Rylie sits up and glances between us. She presses her lips together and shifts from side to side in her chair as her hand comes out, moving towards another bakery bag with careful movements—as if she’s afraid to move too fast, lest she disturb the two animals before her.

Underneath my flesh, there’s a distinct buzzing. Electricity running through my nervous system—firing off those electrons or neurons or whatever the hell my high school science teacher had claimed kept all of us humans alive and moving around. Usually, I can ignore the irritating feel of my own body vibrating, but right now, the need to peel all of it away and find the off button is damn near overpowering. I don’t like the way Avalon is looking at me. Like she fucking knows everything about me. Like she’s got me all figured the fuck out and she hasn’t even asked me one dumb question about me and Brax.

Because there is no me and Brax, I realize a moment later. I’m not here as his girlfriend. I’m just his consolation prize. He came for my brother, but he found me instead. And until something changes, all I’ll ever be is collateral. This situation that I find myself in right now is only temporary. This bubble will eventually pop. Before it does, though, I need to find something. A weakness. A bit of information. Something to protect Ace, but also myself.

I force my hands to steady as I reach for my cup of coffee once more. I lift it to my lips, keeping my eyes on Avalon’s as I tip it back and swallow the last of the now cold, bitter liquid. When I set it back down on the table, I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and give her a plain look, arching one brow.

“You want to go to the club?” I repeat. “You want to get me drunk and see how I’ll act?” I lean forward. “Try it. In fact, let’s have a drinking contest when we go. You and me. Whoever gets drunk first loses. Whoever loses grants the other one favor.”

Avalon smiles. I’ve thrown down a gauntlet, but she wanted that. She enjoys this little banter. A part of me does as well. Maybe she was right. Maybe I was bored in Mama Luda’s trailer. Being alone after so many years of having others relying on me is debilitating.

I hate that about her and … I have to respect it too. I’ve never felt so paper fucking thin in front of anyone else. Not my mother. Not my father. Not Mama Luda. Not even Ace. I’ve always managed to keep a level of control with my family. Even if it was only ever of myself. A short time with Avalon makes me feel like she already sees everything I’m trying to hide which makes me wonder. Does Braxton see it too?

“You sound like you’re confident of your win,” she replies, tilting her head to the side.

I am, but she doesn’t need me to say as much. “If I don’t, you’ll get a favor,” I remind her. “Are you really going to back away from that?”

She laughs. “And a chance to torment my favorite psycho?” Avalon shakes her head, her dark hair falling over her face as she does. “Not a chance in hell. I’ll take that bet.” She reaches out and holds her hand out, palm up.

I take her hand. Her fingers close around mine and her lips curve up another centimeter. “You’re going to be fun,” she tells me. “And I think you’re going to drive Braxton fucking insane.”

Good. I can drive him as crazy as he drives me.

22

BRAXTON

SCALDING hot water pours down over my back, sliding through my hair and plastering it to my temples and neck. It washes away the sweat from practice, but more than that, it soothes the aches in the raised lines beneath the ink on my back. I soap up my hands and run one around the back of my neck, ignoring the itchy feeling sticking to my flesh.

Who knew this day would take such a twisted turn? Marcus’s return is unexpected, though definitely not unwelcome. We haven’t seen each other since last spring break when he came to the beach house. Even then, we’d been distracted when Avalon had taken off on us. Knowing he’s here, now—not just for a visit—to stay feels like another piece of myself has fallen into place.

None of us had been surprised that he’d chosen Hazelwood over Eastpoint. A sister school though it may be, the distance was hard. We understood, though. Unlike us, he had nothing but his mother and sister, and being their protector had done its own damage. Enough damage that he’s since cut off his socialite of a mother and though he still loves his sister and watches out for her … sometimes remaining distant keeps the people we care about safer. Marcus had needed to get away from the East coast to let his own anger settle. Still, I’m glad to know that the next time we graduate, we’ll graduate together—just like we did from high school.

The good memories from before aren’t enough to erase the reality of the now, though. Soon enough my thoughts return to Clover.

It’s been hours since I saw her. Hours since Avalon took her away to do only God knows what. But even if I come back and find that Ava’s killed her and buried the girl’s body somewhere, I know I have no right to feel upset. Still, it doesn’t make the irritating discomfort of not knowing where she is or what she’s doing go away.

I finish washing myself, turn off the shower, and reach for the towel hanging on the hook just outside of my stall. Wrapping it around my waist, I slick back my hair away from my face and make my way through the locker room. My teammates joke and laugh in varying forms of undress as they talk about the practice and the upcoming games. I make a beeline for my own locker and pull out my phone.

“We need to have a party,” Abel says at my back as I pull up the tracking app to check Clover’s location. “A welcome back party.”

The app shows that Clover is still on campus—at the coffee shop, and she hasn’t moved for a few hours. She might’ve chanced taking the anklet off, I think. If she tried, though, I’d know. The app would buzz and send an alert. There’s no flashing red message. Just the ever-present red dot, blinking and letting me know her location every second of the day.

“Welcome back?” Marcus replies to Abel with a laugh. “Did you lose a few brain cells on the field today? This is my first and last year at Eastpoint.”

“Ironic that it’s also the first year that your sister entered college,” Dean says. “Is there a reason you decided to transfer now?”

“It’s…” I glance back as Marcus’ voice trails off. He dips his head as he slips on a new shirt, “complicated, I guess.”

“Does it have anything to do with your mom’s new boyfriend?” Dean asks.

“Husband.” Marcus spits the word in irritation as he places his arms through the sleeves of his shirt and yanks it down, covering his chest. “And no. I already had this in mind. Honestly, I expected Rori to come here. I know she applied to both Hazelwood and Eastpoint. She was closer to this place up until a few weeks ago. Doesn’t make any damn sense to me.” He shakes his wet hair. I doubt Marcus has ever truly understood his sister in the first place, but it’s not like it’s any duty of mine to judge. Of the four of us, he’s the only one with a sibling. It makes sense that he’s protective of her, but at the same time, we’re all very well aware that being around his baby sister turns him into a different man. Just how Avalon has turned Dean and me into different people. For Dean, it was love—the bone deep, sexual awakening kind. For me, though, it’s different. Avalon is the first female I’ve ever seen as equal to myself. She’s neither a mother nor a sister—but she’s the first one I’ve cared for as family after Aunt Josie died.

I face my locker once more and slip the phone up onto the top shelf while I drop the towel and reach for the extra clothes I’d brought.

“Maybe she wanted to be around her big brother,” Abel suggests as I finish tugging my jeans up and turn just in time to catch him leaning back on one of the benches between the lockers and nearly slip the fuck off when his palm skids over the side. “Shit!”

Marcus, Dean, and I all chuckle as he catches himself just before the rest of his body hits the floor. He leans up and glares at the three of us. “Fuckers,” he mutters.

The chatter in the locker room starts to die down as more and more of the team begins to leave, some heading off to jobs—many of them are at Eastpoint on athletic scholarships—and some heading to class. By the time it’s just the four of us alone in the locker room, I’m dressed and my hair is starting to dry, the last of the water droplets dripping down onto the shoulders of my dark t-shirt.

“Rori’s a good kid,” Marcus says, “but she…” He drifts off, turning his head to the side as his brows crunch together, forming a deep v between them. “I just think it’s better that she and I aren’t together. If she lives her own life, she’ll grow, and she knows I’ll always come to her if she needs me. If I’m around her, though, I won’t let her have a life. I can’t stand the thought of some fucker putting his hands on her. Not again.”

Dean glances up from his seat next to Abel on the bench a few spaces down in front of his own locker, which has long been shut and locked. “Do you need help with Icari?”

There’s a beat and all of our attention—Dean’s, Abel’s, and my own—lock on Marcus, waiting for an answer. Finally, he shakes his head. “No, it shouldn’t last,” he answers. “Emilia’s marriages never do. Rori’s in the dorms and she’s not a kid anymore. She’ll be fine.” I’m not sure if he’s trying to convince himself of that or us, but at the end of the day, it’s a selfless thing for him to do. Staying away from her to give her room to breathe. Because we all know the second he takes over, Aurora Summers will be suffocated by her brother’s care. It’s the way any of us would be and if Avalon or Rylie weren’t as strong as they are, they too would cave under the pressure of their other halves.

I rub one palm over the center of my chest as an unfamiliar pang shoots off inside of my ribcage. I don’t remember getting hit there in practice today, but it’s the only explanation I can think of for the sudden ache.

“We should head off,” Dean suggests, getting up from the bench as he checks his phone. “Avalon’s done.”

Abel frowns. “Doesn’t she still have classes?”

Dean chuckles and shakes his head without an answer. I already have one, though. Avalon didn’t go to class today. She took Clover to the coffee shop and did what she does best—peeling apart the inner layers of a person to find out who they truly are. I’ll have to talk to her later to see what she found out.

For now, it’s time to head back and pick up my captive.

23

CLOVER

“I’M GOING to give you some advice,” Avalon says as we head back across campus hours later.

“I’d really rather you didn’t.” I deadpan.

Avalon snorts at my quick response. Something about her grates on me. She’s interesting, like a burning car—I want to know who set her on fire—but at the same time, she’s dangerous, and I’ve got enough danger right now in my own life to keep me fully occupied.

“Take it regardless,” she insists.

“Do I have a choice?” I ask.

“Not really.”

I groan.

She laughs but then grows serious as her steps slow the closer we get to the parking lot where we’d left the boys hours ago. My steps slow to match hers. It’s just her and I right now. Rylie disappeared to grab the assignments they missed since both had chosen to skip class today. Rylie hadn’t been much of a buffer, but she was a sight better than being alone with a girl I can only describe as too fucking hard to read.

“I don’t know if you’ll take it,” Avalon says first.

My eyes cut her way. “Then why bother offering it?”

She shrugs. “Dunno,” she admits. “Maybe it’ll amuse me even more to watch you ignore it.” A ‘maybe’ is not an answer, but I doubt I’ll get much better so I just sigh and redirect my attention forward, putting one foot in front of the other. It brings me closer and closer to Braxton.

It’s only been a few hours since I’ve seen him, and I should be dreading being back in his presence considering how we parted ways this morning. As if recalling the memory, my leg aches, and the anklet hanging above my foot feels impossibly tighter, a pretty shackle.

“Be careful about forming attachments here,” she finally says.

I frown and look back at her. “What do you mean?”

She stops at the edge of the parking lot and a quick glance towards where we left the guys lets us know that they’re all back, plus one. My attention catches on the new blond and I scan him once before turning back to Avalon.

“Eastpoint has a way of making you put down roots where you didn’t want or expect to,” she says. “Even if you weren’t born and raised here, once you’re in Eastpoint, it’s hard to escape.”

“I’m not a permanent fixture here,” I remind her.

“I wasn’t supposed to be either,” she says.

My frown deepens. “You seem pretty used to it,” I tell her. “If you weren’t born here, then what—”

Avalon holds up a hand, stopping me. She taps her lips with one finger. “You’re an outsider, Clover,” she says. “And who I am and what I’m doing here ain’t really any of your business, now, is it?” She doesn’t wait for me to answer. I don’t have one anyway. “The best you can do for yourself now is to remember that Braxton is as sick as the rest of this place.”

“Sick?” What an odd way to describe someone, I think.

As if she can’t help herself, Avalon smiles. “Yeah,” she says, “that’s what the people here call them. Those guys.” She gestures behind me to the group that’s gathered at the back of Braxton’s SUV. “The Sick Boys.”

“That’s a lame name.” I deadpan.

She throws her head back and laughs. “It fucking is,” she agrees wholeheartedly. “So lame. But I didn’t come up with it and neither did they. Still…” She stops long enough to wipe under her eyes as she continues to chuckle at the hilarity of it all. “It fits them.”

Well, I don’t suppose I can argue with that. My gaze strays over to where Braxton stands. Despite me being in his periphery, the whole of his attention is focused on the new guy as they seem deep into some conversation that has his brows drawn down low on his face, practically shadowing his already dark eyes.

The longer I stare at him, the more he confuses me. He’s handsome. Beautiful really. His looks don’t really go along with how we met. The dark brunette curls at the top of his head and the square cut jaw all say All-American jock. He looks normal. That’s the most disturbing part of him; the fact that he can appear wholesome when I know for a fact that I’ve looked into those hazel gray eyes of his and wondered if he was going to kill me.

I’m used to people looking exactly how they are. In my world, criminals look like criminals and good Samaritans look like they don’t belong in the gutter. Here, everything is in reverse. It’s like some fucked up version of Alice in Wonderland. I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole, and I’m trapped in a realm I no longer recognize. One I don’t know how to navigate.

Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to take her advice.

“Alright,” I say, turning back to Avalon and giving her my full attention. “So what’s your real advice? Stay away? Don’t get too close? I wasn’t exactly planning on sticking around, you know.”

“No one ever is,” she tells me. Avalon pushes her hands into her pockets and rocks back on her heels, looking over my shoulder as she talks. “Rylie and I came from a similar background as you.”

“And how do you know what kind of background I came from?” I demand, offering her a glare.

She smirks. “It’s not hard to figure out,” she says. “You wear the gutter on your sleeve, and I can see what I’ve always seen—you look at this place like I used to.”

I narrow my eyes. “How’s that?”

Avalon shrugs. “Like you’re out of your element and you don’t belong.” Well, fuck. She’s right and I can’t argue with that. I press my lips together and don’t say anything. Her lips twitch and she continues on. “Neither of us really trusted them, not at first, but those boys have a way of drawing you in. Still … it’s better that you remember your place here.”

I stiffen at her last comment and almost … feel disappointed in her. Not that I have any right to be. I barely know this girl, but from what I do know, from what I’ve witnessed in her interactions with her friends and what I’ve experienced firsthand, I think I expected better. “I didn’t take you for the type to give subtle threats.”

The corner of her lips tips up. “I’m not,” she admits, “and this isn’t a threat. It’s a warning. You’re not the one Brax is after, Clover. At the end of the day, you’re collateral damage.”

A means to an end.

“For Ace,” I say with a scowl.

“For Ace,” she agrees, looking away once more.

“What did he do?” It’s the question that’s been on my mind ever since Braxton showed up in Mama Luda’s trailer and dragged me kicking and screaming into his world. I’m not sure what he would tell me if I were to straight up ask him. Or maybe I’m just a fucking coward and I don’t want to know. I have a right to know, though, and it seems stupid that I don’t. If I’m the one stepping in to take my brother’s punishment, I should at least understand what it is that he’s done to deserve this level of vengefulness.

Avalon’s lips stretch into a smile. “How well do you know your brother?” she asks in lieu of an answer.

I blink and realize the truth. I don’t know Ace as well as I probably should. Ace has always been an enigma to me. He’s just … Ace. In the last three and a half years, all I know of him is that he’s very much like Ivan. Tough. Stoic. And more than willing to do what it takes to protect the few people he actually cares about. Then again, I’ve always been one of those people. I have absolutely no clue what he’s like to people outside of me, Mama Luda, and Ivan.

Avalon doesn’t wait for an answer. She doesn’t need to. I have no doubt it’s written all over my face. “While I respect your desire to protect your family,” she says, “be aware that sometimes that protective instinct is unwarranted.”

My shoulders tighten and I stand taller, staring back at her as she captures my gaze and holds it. After a moment, Avalon goes to stride past me, but I reach up and grab her arm, halting her movement. Her head turns to the side and she arches one single brow. It’s both a challenge and curiosity.

“Ace isn’t a good person,” I tell her. That much I do know. If he’s anything like Ivan, then he’s lived the life of a criminal, but laws and justice aren’t always black and white. “That doesn’t mean he’s not human.” It doesn’t mean he’s not deserving of the love I give him.

Avalon tilts her head to the side and carefully—like she’s prying the wings off of a butterfly with the intention of not hurting them even as she rips away their only source of life—she reaches up and peels my fingers off of her arm. “Serial killers are human too,” she says. “Regardless of that, everyone is capable of hurting the wrong people.” She releases my hand and it falls back to my side. Avalon takes a step towards me, so close I can smell her shampoo. She leans into me, her lips barely an inch from my ear. “If you want to know why Braxton wants to kill Ace, why don’t you ask him?”

“Will he tell me the truth?”

She pulls away and smiles. “There’s only one way to find the truth in Eastpoint;” she says, “you need to go looking for it yourself.”

With that, she steps back and moves around me—heading straight for the men waiting in the distance. The weight around my ankle grows heavier as I turn and face them. Unlike her, I don’t have the ability to walk away. I put myself in this position. Sure, I can blame Braxton, but at the end of the day—we’re both the reason I ended up here.

As we approach the group, I study Brax like a woman obsessed. Or maybe I’m not quite obsessed—not yet—but I can feel it forming. I can’t seem to help myself. He’s a dichotomy that I’ve never seen before. Not in person and not so obvious at least. I’m not sure if he realizes it, but there are two Braxtons. One that he shows the world and one that he shows his friends. I’m not his friend—not by a long shot—and yet, now, I am privy to both.

I follow behind Avalon as she greets the group, smiling as she slides into Dean’s arms and waves hello to the newcomer. My gaze locks onto the man currently holding the reins of my freedom. For his part, however, he ignores me. Almost as if he can’t stand to look at me. For a brief moment, I wonder if he’s feeling guilty for this morning. I can still recall the burn of electricity racing up my leg when he’d set off the taser anklet. Almost as soon as I have that thought, however, I remind myself that Braxton is not normal. Guilt isn’t in his repertoire of emotions.

That still begs the question: Why won’t he look at me?

“A party?” Avalon asks, startling me back into reality. While I’ve been standing here, staring at a man who won’t even acknowledge my presence, they’ve been talking and I haven’t been paying attention.

“Yeah,” Abel says, shaking his white-blond hair so that it falls over his face before he gathers it all in his hand and pushes it back in one direction, revealing the darker sides of his scalp. “Marcus is officially here, so we thought we’d give him a true Eastpoint welcome.”

My attention drifts away from Brax momentarily to Avalon as she smirks. “How about we have it at Urban?” she suggests. Her gaze slides to the side and connects with mine.

Fuck, is all I can think. She’s planning something. It’s almost as if the universe is collecting things and situating them just right for her. First, she asks me about clubbing and now she’s given an opportunity. It’s almost like she’s the main character and the rest of the world revolves around her needs.

My whole body tightens as if preparing for a physical attack. Her smile grows. She fucking knows.

Her boyfriend must know her well because he seems suspicious as he pulls back and glances between us. “What are you planning, Baby?” he asks, dipping his head into her neck and staring up at her.

Avalon laughs. My hands clench into fists and to keep myself from giving away just how much I want to take my irritation out on someone, I shove them under my armpits, crossing my arms over my chest in a protective gesture.

Avalon reaches up and tugs at a strand of Dean’s hair as she answers him. “Nothing much,” she replies in a tone that very much suggests that it’s a little bit more than nothing.

Suddenly, I want to go for a run. The need digs into my mental walls and clambers through my opposing reality. It’s a devil on my shoulder, promising that everything will be alright if I just … run. Unfortunately for me right now, there’s no where to run. So, I’m just left vibrating on the inside with the craving to get away and nowhere to put the energy.

I rake my teeth over my lower lip and glance back to Brax only to freeze when his eyes connect with mine for the first time since we arrived back here. I thought I wanted his eyes on me. I thought I wanted his acknowledgment. Now that I have it, though, it only makes the vibrations beneath my skin grow. My muscles tense, contracting and releasing in pulsating movements beneath my flesh. My foot begins to tap against the pavement.

There are multiple gazes on me—some curious, some angry and full of hatred, and some too ambiguous to figure out. My stomach turns. Miracle of miracles, however, I’m saved from the tension a moment later by Rylie’s arrival. Laden down with papers, she cuts through the group—shoving half of what she’s carrying at Avalon before making a beeline for Abel. The group as a whole relaxes as Abel takes her into his arms and cuddles her close.

“Urban is fine with me,” the newcomer—Marcus, I’m assuming—says, cutting through the lingering silence.

“Great,” Abel says. “We’ll do it this weekend then.” His attention cuts from his girl to Braxton. “Are you bringing her?” he demands.

Before Brax can form an answer, however, Avalon speaks. “Yes, he is.”

I swallow reflexively and release one arm to reach up and scratch at my neck. Braxton doesn’t argue, he just nods to them. “If that’s what you want, savage girl.”

My brows pinch together and I glance towards him. Savage girl? My attention goes to the man all over Avalon, but he doesn’t seem to care about the nickname. He merely sets his chin on her shoulder as he wraps his arms around her waist and stares back at me, as if challenging me to say something. As if he expects me to try and start drama within their group. I’m not that stupid. It’s clear that whatever bond these people have, it’s not something I should fuck with. I want to live. I want my brother to live. All I’m doing here is buying time. I’m not so arrogant that I think starting shit can divide them and save my skin. If it doesn’t bother him that Brax seems close with his girl, then it’s none of my business.

The urge to run fills my chest. I scratch at my neck a little bit harder, until I wince as my nail catches on a particularly sensitive patch of skin and I accidentally scratch too deep. I pull my hand away and a drop of blood lingers on my fingertip.

I really don’t care, I tell myself, staring down at that single red dot. Not at all.

24

CLOVER

WHEN BRAXTON TAKES me back to his Tower, he gives me a phone. It’s obviously nothing fancy to him, but for me—a girl who’s only ever had cheap burner phones and only ever because Ace needed them to get ahold of me—it’s like suddenly being handed a stack of money and telling me not to set it on fire.

I don’t know what the phone signifies, but I’m not stupid enough to believe it, too, doesn’t have a tracker. One thing I am grateful for, however, is the fact that allowing me the phone means my leash is being given more slack. Enough so that he doesn’t even blink when I ask to explore the Tower outside of his penthouse suite.

That’s how, several hours later, I find myself in workout shorts and a sports bra, running on a treadmill in the building’s gym. I knew rich people would have the best amenities, and I wasn’t wrong.

The Tower doesn’t just have a gym, but a cafe, an indoor pool, and a private lounge full of nothing but couches and tables for people to work at. I don’t know why anyone would work there if they live here and could go up to their likely perfectly maintained condos, but it’s pretty nonetheless and probably a great selling point.

Dark music pours into my head via the headphones I scavenged from Braxton’s penthouse as I push my legs to go further. Sweat drips down my temples. My muscles scream for relief. I haven’t run this hard or this far in a long damn time.

The damn anklet jingles against my leg, making me grit my teeth and push my head down as I force my knees to bend and my feet to keep going. I’m panting, gasping for breath, but the frustration only seems to abate slightly. Every fucking reminder that I’m here—of my own volition even though I know fuck all about the reason why—drives me to the brink of rage and back.

Finally, I give up, stumbling off the treadmill after running five straight miles upping the incline in the last half. My muscles tremble, my shorts stick to my thighs, and my chest pumps up and down as I down the bottle of water I grabbed before heading down here. The last drop hits my tongue and I turn, tossing the empty plastic into a nearby trashcan before I spot a familiar figure in the doorway.

A scowl overtakes me. “What?” I snap.

Braxton stands there, his shoulder propped on the door frame with his arms crossed. He doesn’t say a word. My heart races inside my chest as my breathing slows only to speed back up as he pushes off of the frame and lets the door shut behind him. I watch him as he strides across the big open space of the empty gym.

At first, I’d thought it odd how rich people have such a massive space built down here, but then again, it doesn’t come as a shock that they spend so much money on things they never bother to use. From what I’ve picked up from Avalon and the others throughout the day, it doesn’t even sound like Braxton stays here all the time. The only reason he’s doing it now is because he doesn’t want me in his personal space.

The Tower is not personal. It’s merely my prison.

My breath catches as Brax finally steps in front of me and stops. The headphones I borrowed dangle between us, connected only by the phone’s port and the half of it that’s wrapped around the screen.

“Want to tell me what you’re doing down here?” he asks.

I blink. “What does it look like?” I gesture across the space. I’m sure my cheeks aren’t the only part of my body that feel flushed with heat. My ponytail swishes against my upper back, but the little baby hairs surrounding my face are sticking to my skin, my temples and my cheeks. His eyes rove over them and then down.

I suck in my stomach automatically, feeling the roll of flesh and muscle as he jerks his head back up, eyes clashing with mine. He steps forward and I step back. His lips curve upward and I stop. The next step he takes brings him right up against me until I can’t even smell the sweat on my flesh or the starchy clean smell of the gym. All I can smell is him.

“What did Avalon ask you today?”

My lips part first in surprise and then in answer. “Why does that matter?” What is he looking for?

He lifts a brow. “Are you going to answer each question with another question?” he demands.

“No.”

“Then answer me.”

I tilt my head to the side. My insides shake, not out of fear but out of something much deeper, much more terrifying. “Is that an order?”

Braxton’s dark lashes flutter as he observes me. A waft of cool air from the air conditioning slips over my mostly naked flesh and a shiver overtakes me. Instead of answering me, however, Brax’s head shifts and he stares back at me, never removing his gaze. Not for a single second as I stand there under the intensity of it until I feel the need to look away. Only when I do does he finally speak.

“You know,” he starts, “you’re the one who came up with the idea of giving yourself to me in return for your brother’s safety.” It’s not a question but a reminder.

“I know.”

“If you know, then why the attitude, Clover?” He moves impossibly closer. “It would be easier for you to just do as I ask.”

I return my gaze to his. “I’ve done what you’ve asked,” I sneer at him before pointing down to my ankle. “But that didn’t exactly stop you from hurting me this morning, did it?”

“Ah.” He rocks back onto the backs of his boots. “So that’s what this is about.”

“This?” I gape at him. “What are you talking about?”

“You’re angry.”

“No fucking shit, Sherlock!” I stare at him in shock. “You electrocuted me! For no other reason than you had a point to prove. That was not in the deal.”

“Oh, but it was.” Braxton shifts forward once more and my phone slips from my fingertips as I scramble to take another step back until my spine bumps into the white cement wall behind me, stopping any further retreat. Without missing a beat, Braxton’s hand shoots out and he captures the phone, holding it up between us for a moment and glancing at it before he pulls back and finishes wrapping the headphones around the screen.

My heart races even harder as he focuses on the task and not on me—who he’s very much caging into place. “What do you want from me, Brax?” The question slips out, unbidden and fucking annoying because I doubt he’ll even answer.

“I don’t want a damn thing from you, firebird.” My eyes widen as he lifts his hand and pulls the front of my bra forward. Cool air washes into the stuffy fabric. He slips the phone into the side of my bra, but not before the feel of his skin brushes against mine. Against my better instincts, my body flares to life. My nipples harden. My trembling thighs—sore from the workout—relax. Warmth spreads throughout my belly.

Fuck, I hate this.

Braxton anchors a hand next to my head, his arm blocking out the rest of the room as he leans forward. “I want Ace, Clover,” he whispers, his breath blowing against my throat as I squeeze my eyes shut and tilt my head back, trying to keep as much distance from him as I possibly can in my current position. “But you made a deal to keep that from happening, didn’t you? So, yes, this morning’s demonstration was in our deal.”

My brain scrambles. My body tenses despite the fact that my muscles are practically Jell-O. He’s hard against me—his chest a veritable wall that blocks out everything else. His smell infiltrates my lungs, fogging over my mind and my ability to reason.

Something’s not right, I realize. What the hell is he doing?

My eyes open and I stare back at him for a brief moment as confusion descends. Ever since that night at the hotel, he hasn’t bothered to touch me. What is happening now?

“What are you doing?” The question is honest. The confusion blatant.

He pulls back slightly, but there’s no shift in his expression. His eyes move down to my chest and the hand next to my head clenches into a fist. “What do you mean?”

My shoulders drop and cool realization floods me. “Are you trying to seduce me right now?” I demand. “For information on Ace?”

Braxton blinks back at me and there’s a brief moment of stunned silence that answers my question. That’s exactly what he was doing.

“What did it?” I demand. “Are you getting antsy because you haven’t gotten much out of the deal?” I tilt my head to the side and let the sardonic irritation fill my tone. “All you have to do is make a demand,” I remind him. “I’m at your beck and call, aren’t I? You can ask me for a blow job whenever you get the urge. Hell, that’s what you’re supposed to do, Brax.” I reach up and grip his shirt in my fist, pulling him against me so that he can feel my breasts against his pecs. As much as I’m so fucking mad at myself for responding to him the way I am, at this moment, my hard nipples do a perfect job of throwing him off. “Any time you feel like going after Ace, you call me,” I tell him, leaning up to whisper the words against his ear. “And I’ll fuck you until you can’t remember who the hell you’re trying to kill.”

Those words do something. They break a spell that he’s got cast over him because as soon as they’re out of my mouth, his free hand jerks up, and his fingers contract against my neck as he shoves me back against the wall.

“You’re not in charge here, Clover,” he growls.

I laugh, but it lacks any amusement. “You seem pretty fucking out of it for a guy who’s in charge.” It’s stupid to taunt him, but I don’t care. I’m angry and I can feel the burn of rage-filled tears threatening to surface. I shove them down. His gaze rises from my chest to my face. The hardness of his grip tightens until it’s a struggle to breathe. I smile regardless. “Is it because I went off with your savage girl today?” I spit the words, my earlier denials that it didn’t bother me coming back to bite me in the ass.

Braxton’s brows lower over his eyes and he frowns. “If I want to fuck you,” he states, ignoring my question, “I will. Deal or no deal.”

I bare my teeth. “Don’t fucking play with me, Brax,” I warn him. “I might seem like a good little girl right now, but that’s only because you’re threatening something important to me. I’m on my best behavior for you. Don’t push me.”

“Oh?” The corner of his mouth tips up and his frown dissolves as he leans forward, his face in front of mine. So close his lips brush against mine when he speaks. “This is your best behavior?”

A masculine hand touches my stomach and I jerk, stunned because I hadn’t even noticed his other arm moving until it’s already at my waist. My breath chokes in my chest and it has nothing to do with the stranglehold he has on my throat as he rubs the pads of his fingers back and forth over my lower abdomen. My pussy softens and grows wet.

No. Fuck. I squeeze my eyes shut as he slips his fingers beneath the waistband of my shorts and shoves them down into my underwear. “What a devious little liar you are,” he comments as he comes into contact with my wetness. “I bet you didn’t even need the deal, did you? You’d let me fuck you without it, wouldn’t you, Clover? I bet I could lay you out right here on one of these machines and fuck you until you bleed and you’d come all over my cock.”

Embarrassment curdles in my stomach. Shame, though, is nowhere to be found. I may hate myself for it, but I’m not ashamed of my response to him. My eyes crack back open and I glare at him. That’s obviously what he was waiting for because as soon as my eyes connect with his, he continues speaking.

“I bet you liked sucking my cock at the hotel,” he whispers, his words dark and enticing. “Taking my cum down into your belly.” His wrist turns as he thrusts first one finger into my pussy and then two. I open my mouth, but a gasp never comes because he tightens his other hand around my throat, capturing it before it can begin. “It will happen again, Clover. Make no mistake. Just because I haven’t touched you since, doesn’t mean I won’t.”

I need to get away from this. I need a breath. I need … answers.

“Why are you going after Ace?” I wheeze out.

He freezes and pulls back, his hand lifting from my underwear and shorts. Two of his fingers drip with wetness. I look away from that and back to his face. “What?”

I take a breath—or as much of one as I can manage—“What did Ace do,” I ask, “to earn your hatred?”

Braxton stands there, his hand on my throat, my pussy juice on his fingers, and a completely enigmatic expression on his face for the longest moment. Finally, he releases his hold and I sag against the wall, thinking he’s not going to bother with an answer when he turns and starts walking towards the exit. Just before he reaches the door, however, he pauses and turns his head—not quite looking back—and speaks.

“Your brother hurt someone very important to me,” he says. “He hurt her and for that, he’ll pay.”

With that, he shoves the door open and leaves me there as I try to piece together his words and figure out who the hell he’s talking about. It doesn’t take long. There’s only one her that it could be. Avalon.

My knees give out and I slowly slide down the wall until my arms are hanging over my bent knees. I was right, I think to myself.

All of this—coming after Ace, capturing me, bringing me back to Eastpoint—it’s all been for her.

25

CLOVER

I’VE NEVER LIKED SCHOOL. Couldn’t care enough to listen for shit and the teachers hated my smart ass because I made them feel inferior. School was just something I suffered through so I could get home and take care of my mother. By the end of her life, I had learned that too many absences would have someone knocking on our door and to avoid the eyes of the government and their social workers, I went to school regularly simply to avoid them. The tedious routine was something I only endured, not something I ever wanted to take advantage of. Now, after all those wasted years, I’m stunned to suddenly find myself not just attending classes regularly, but actually wanting to listen to the teachers. The subjects here are far more interesting than any I sat through in high school and the instructors are far more knowledgeable about their specific field than the tired teachers who were well past the age of retirement trying to make it to their next paycheck.

The reinvigoration for learning, though, is ruined by the Sick Boys—or rather, their obsession with their Queen Sick Girl.

For the next week, every day, Braxton drives me to Eastpoint after a morning run and shower. And each day, regardless of whatever my actual classes are in Braxton’s little file, Avalon finds me, grabs me, drags me to her side—taking me along to each of her classes.

At first, I think it’s because she wants to keep me away from Braxton as much as possible. There’s no denying that the two of them have some sort of connection and she seems leery of me—in her own way. A leery Avalon, though, is different from other people. She doesn’t seem frightened or unsure—hell, I’m not sure if anything truly scares this girl. Instead, it feels as though she’s testing me, examining me, and analyzing each and every move. Searching for a weakness.

As the days go on, though, I realize her intentions really don’t have much to do with Braxton at all. At least, not as much as I originally assumed. She’s curious, she wants information, and in her mind, I’m the source. The weakest link. The one she can expose and infiltrate. She asks me about my background and Ace’s. As long as she’s not asking me where Ace is and how to get ahold of him, I answer her questions honestly. I don’t know a lot about Ace. Only what I’ve learned in the last few years, since he and Ivan found me.

“So, you have no clue where he’s actually from?” Avalon asks as she gathers her books and packs up, ready to head out from her last class of the day.

I sigh and grab my own bag—provided of course by my magnanimous and recently silent guardian—and follow her out of the classroom. “No. We have different moms.”

“Hmmm.” Avalon hums as we head outside. When I move to cut towards the parking lot next to the admin building across campus that we’ve gone to every single day this week, she stops me. “Where do you think you’re going?”

I pause and turn back. A girl exiting from the same building mutters a curse as she nearly slams into me and hurriedly scurries around me while throwing me a dark look that I ignore. “What do you mean?” I frown back at Avalon as she stops at the edge of the road and withdraws her phone with a smile.

She types something out to whatever message she received and then lifts her head and directs her attention my way. “Come on,” she says. “We’re going this way.”

I frown, but turn back and follow after her as she leads me in the opposite direction of the parking lot. “So…” I hedge as we move across the street and down a row of dorms, “where are we going?”

“Rylie’s picking us up closer to the library,” Avalon replies.

“Okay … why?”

We come to a stop at a crosswalk with a light and she reaches up, punching the button before shifting back on her heels. Avalon’s eyes cut to me before she turns her head. “I’m going to take a wild guess and say you don’t really have much in the way of clothes,” Avalon says instead of answering.

I look down at the tights and long t-shirt I’m wearing today and shrug. “I didn’t choose the clothes,” I tell her. “It’s not like I got a chance to pack a bag.”

Avalon hums in the back of her throat. “And I’m guessing of all the shit he ordered, club wear wasn’t top on his list.” She shakes her head as the light changes and cars slow to a stop, allowing us room to cross over to the library.

“Club wear?” I repeat, confused.

Avalon tsks at me. “Did you forget?” She sounds almost giddy and honestly, her being excited about something makes me nervous. “It’s Friday. Marcus’s welcome party is tonight.”

It takes me a moment to recall which one Marcus is, but when I remember, I scowl. Of all of the guys, he’s not exactly one I like. While Abel is outwardly hostile towards me, he at least acknowledges my presence. Marcus, on the other hand, regards me as little more than an insect in his way—at least that’s what I think since his expression every time he sees me is a mixture between irritation and disgust. He’s so quiet, too; it’s hard to get a read on him and, that, I don’t like. Not at fucking all.

“Okay, so there’s a party tonight,” I say as we make our way up a hill and around to the opposite side of the library where a parking lot awaits. “Is that really something I should be going to? It’s not like I’m your friend.”

Avalon stops just as we reach the library parking lot and turns around so quickly that I nearly slam into her front. “Shit.” I hiss and pull up straight as she looks directly at me and puts her hands on her hips.

“You’re going,” she tells me, “and though I’m really not one for makeovers, I am one for amusement. Watching Braxton fuck around tonight and try to keep his hands to himself is going to tickle my fucking fancy. So, you’re going to be a good girl, get in the fucking car, come with me, and pick out something that’ll drive him fucking crazy so I can watch the shit show that follows. Got it?”

I don’t have anything to say to that. It’s not like I can say no. Instead, I just tilt my head to the side and point out the one obvious flaw in her command. “What car?”

She grins and faces the lot once more just as a black Lexus turns into it and cuts across the open parking spaces in front of us sideways. The driver’s side window rolls down and purple hair flutters in the wind as Rylie pokes her head out.

“Ready?” she asks.

Avalon motions for her to get out and Rylie sighs, but shifts the car into park. They exchange places, Rylie stepping out clad in her usual gothic streetwear and rounding the hood to hop into the passenger seat. Avalon takes the driver’s seat, jerking her thumb toward the back and commanding, “Get in.”

I release a breath of resignation. It’s only been a week since I’ve been at Eastpoint, but one golden rule seems to be true—what Queen Avalon wants, she fucking gets.

I scan the scenery as the car pulls out of the lot and turns away from campus. In the back of my mind, I know I should probably be memorizing all the places we’re going, the little pieces these girls are showing me of themselves, but I don’t want to. From what I’ve seen so far, they aren’t bad people, not deep down. The more I know, the more Ace will likely use later to hurt them.

Braxton’s not the only one who loves his revenge.

Twenty minutes later, after stop and go traffic around the outer edges of campus, I start noticing fewer and fewer buildings and long, uninterrupted expanses of woods. Avalon turns the vehicle down a long driveway and my forehead presses into the glass as I search the front. Curiosity may have killed the cat, but I need to know where the hell we’re going—and knowing is a satisfaction that always brings it back.

The woods open up to a massive front lawn and a huge mansion painted in white with half a dozen garage doors off to the side. The single building, itself, is at least as big as my high school in Port Charlotte if not bigger. I try not to gape at the expanse of what I know is someone’s fucking house.

Avalon pulls up in front of the door, throws the car into park, and gets out, leaving it a few feet from the front steps. I take a cue from her and Rylie’s movements and get out myself, craning my neck back to stare up at the monstrosity of a house. I mean, I knew Braxton was rich, and in the back of my mind, I knew the rest of them were as well, but this is something else. This house is on another level that I’ve never even considered.

Dread blossoms in my chest. I knew Braxton was dangerous, but money comes with a little more danger. Ace has always warned me away from the snakes who flaunt their wealth. Then again, I pause as I look back, noting that this house can’t be seen from the road. Is it really flaunting wealth if it’s hidden like this?

“Move your ass, Clover!” Avalon’s call jerks me out of my thoughts and I redirect my attention to the front of the house as she opens the door and gestures for me to follow them inside.

I don’t know what I expected when Braxton broke into Mama Luda’s trailer and dragged me here, but it certainly wasn’t this. Not mansions and club parties and pregnant college girls.

It’s strange, though. I’m starting to get used to it.

26

BRAXTON

IRRITATION CUTS INTO MY VEINS. My leg bounces, my foot tapping incessantly against the floor as the pounding bass of the band Dean hired for tonight spills throughout the club. Urban is packed so full that it should be a fire hazard. Sweat is collecting at the top of my spine and dripping down my back beneath the black t-shirt I’m wearing.

Where the fuck is she?

“Take a drink, man.” Marcus shoves a beer into my hand and I don’t hesitate to put the bottle to my lips and down half in one go. It’s damn good to have him here with us. To have him home where he belongs and not on the other side of the country. I only wish I could actually enjoy his party. I slam the beer onto the railing and take a breath, rocking back on my heels. It’s not enough to cool the itch inside of me.

It’s only been a week. One full fucking week of Clover living with me. The Tower is usually my place to chill, but staying there is a far cry from my bedroom at Carter’s estate. I miss it. I fucking miss them.

I’ve put more feelers out for Ace’s location. Troy is working overtime trying to track the fucker down. He even went so far as to return to Clover’s trailer in Port Charlotte and leave a message just in case the bastard returns there. Still nothing.

“Jesus, Brax.” Marcus claps me on the back. “What’s with the attitude? You seem like you need to get fucking laid. You’re wound tighter than I’ve ever seen you before.”

“I’m fine,” I say, and I know it’s a lie. One would think with Clover living under my roof, my veritable hostage in every sense of the word—and with the deal we have riding on our backs—I’d be getting laid every fucking night, but I’m not.

I haven’t fucking touched her ass since Monday. Not since trapping her against the wall in the gym and feeling how fucking hot she’d gotten for me. Her nipples had been hard, and I’d heard the catch in her breath when I’d whispered in her ear. She liked the roughness. Maybe she didn’t want to like it, but she fucking did, and that had been a huge turn on.

“Yeah, you look just fine.” Marcus’s sarcastic comment has me lifting the beer back to my mouth and downing the rest.

“The girls are late,” is all I respond with.

Marcus looks down from our perch on the upper floor, scanning across the sea of bodies writhing together to the rock music blaring throughout the open industrial space. “Is that why you can’t seem to stand still?” he asks. “Missing your little captive?”

I shoot him a dark look and he smirks, lifting both of his palms up in an innocent gesture. I know the asshole. He’s anything but innocent. In fact, he’s just as fucked up as we are. He’s the closest to an Eastpoint heir without actually being one.

Marcus lowers his hands back to his sides. “Can’t you just track her and find out where she is?” he asks.

I could, but that wouldn’t make her appear before me any faster. I need to see her to feel calm. It’s become an annoying need, one that I don’t want to admit to—not verbally or otherwise. “Forget it,” I snap, turning and handing my empty beer to a passing waitress as she passes around the room with a tray full of shots. I grab one and down it before handing a second to Marcus. “Happy welcome home party, brother.”

Marcus arches a brow at the shot and then rolls his eyes before lifting the edge of the glass to his lips and downing the liquid fire. He coughs and puts it back on the waitress’s tray before waving her off.

“So, tell me about this girl,” he says after a beat, turning and placing his arms on the railing. “You kidnapped her for what? To get some guy?”

“Not just any guy,” I say. “The one who burned Havers down, kidnapped Avalon, and tortured her.” Except he hadn’t just tortured Avalon, he’d tried to kill her—had planned on it, in fact. Ace had chosen the wrong side and pledged loyalty. Now, my fucker of a father is dead along with his accomplices and the only one left to pay is him. My fingers grip the railing harshly.

My dick practically pulses in my pants as I plan Ace’s own torture and death—at my hands of course.

“Right.” Marcus sounds unconcerned with discussing the reality of our world. In fact, his tone suggests downright boredom. “Can I ask you something, then?”

I glance his way, but his eyes are still locked on the people below us, watching their every movement with little to no emotion present on his face. “What?”

“Why are you the one handling her rather than Dean?”

I blink. “The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Marcus lifts his head and looks my way. “Avalon is Dean’s girl,” he says. “Shouldn’t he be the one getting revenge? Why are you the one doing the dirty work?”

My gaze narrows. “I don’t do anyone’s fucking dirty work.”

Marcus blows out a breath and shakes his head. “You know that’s not what I meant,” he shoots back, turning and placing his back against the railing as he lounges like a King on his throne. “I’m asking why you’re so fucking hellbent on getting revenge for Avalon when, at the end of the day, Dean should get first dibs.” He glances my way and holds still. “His girl, his revenge, right? So, why are you so focused on this? Why are you so focused on her?”

There’s no doubt who the ‘her’ he’s referring to is. It’s not Avalon. My attention goes back to the scene below us, my eyes tracking each and every redhead—there aren’t very many, but each one makes me think it’s Clover. And in the end, as soon as they turn their faces up to the lights to grab a fresh breath of air from the top of the crowd, they’re never the one girl I’m looking for.

“I don’t know, man.” The words come out, and for the first time in a long damn time, I think I’m confessing a secret. Marcus has a way of doing that to people. Making them trust him and rely on him. He would’ve been a damn good priest if he wasn’t so fucked in the head like the rest of us—and if he actually gave a shit about religion. “Avalon is…” What is she? I ask myself. Why do I care so fucking much about what Ace did to her? Is it because I felt out of control? Is it because Dean needs her and I’m afraid that if we leave an enemy out there in the wild they’ll end up coming back for her?

“She’s not Aunt Josie,” Marcus says quietly.

My whole body stiffens at that. Fuck. That’s it, isn’t it? Avalon is the first fucking woman since Aunt Josie that I haven’t either fucked or despised. She’s seen deep into me—she knows what I am, what I can do—and she doesn’t give a shit. She calls me ‘psycho boy’ knowing full well the truth behind it.

I’d gotten off on torturing that fucker that raped her. I’d made his balls and pathetic pencil dick shrivel up with each electrical shock and my cock had fucking pounded in my pants. Afterwards, when we’d buried the body and the evidence, packed Avalon back up, and brought her home to Eastpoint, I’d gone on a rampage. I’d fucked three consecutive escorts and made each and every one of them scream and cry as I’d cum buckets.

Their tears had been like nirvana on my tongue. Watching them come uncontrollably as I’d fucked every one of their holes—from their mouths to their pussies to their asses—had been the epitome of my adrenaline rush coming to a peak. It was a fucked-up fact that my father hadn’t just raised a monster, he’d bred it and trained it to like the taste of murder and mayhem.

Avalon knows all of that. The first woman ever to know because as much as we’d all loved Aunt Josie, each of us had tried to shield her from the fact that we were changing. We weren’t the young boys she’d loved and cherished anymore. Behind closed doors, over years of abuse and the building of hatred, we’d become dark shadows that were more than willing to cross the boundary between good and evil.

I am an evil motherfucker. I recognize that. I harness it. And Avalon Manning is the only woman to ever know it. She’s a sister that I didn’t know I wanted. One that I will do anything to protect. And I know just the way to make it perfectly clear to Marcus, to help him understand.

“Let me ask you a question, Marcus,” I start.

He tips his head back but doesn’t say anything.

“What did you do to the bastard who touched your little sister?”

Immediately, I sense the change in him. Marcus stands up and pulls away from the railing. His body pivots towards me and when his gaze connects with mine, there’s a familiar savagery in his eyes. He doesn’t need to answer. I know.

“That’s it,” I tell him, nodding at his expression. “Right there. That look.” As clear as day and as dark as night. “That’s why it’s my responsibility to go after him. I told you I don’t do anyone else’s dirty work, and that includes Dean’s.” Dean knows what I need. He knows I want this and as long as his girl is safe, he doesn’t give a singular fuck how it happens. “I do my own dirty work, and I fucking love it.”

One second passes and then another and another. Finally, Marcus releases a breath and with it, all of the tension in his body. “You really know how to remind someone of piss poor decisions, Brax,” he says with a shake of his head.

I laugh. “Happy memories, man,” I tell him, “are the ones we keep secret.” The one’s coated in blood that we bury deep beneath the soil we tread on—figuratively as well as literally.

“Fuck, I need another drink.”

Marcus’s words are followed by a roar down below. The two of us lean over the railing and gaze down, spotting the tower of liquor set up on one of the tables down below. One of our football teammates has a champagne bottle in hand as he jerks it up and down—mimicking the same way he’d probably jerk his dick. The cork pops and a rainfall of alcohol comes gushing out, showering a few girls in skimpy white dresses.

They squeal as the liquid sticks to their chests, turning their clothes transparent. It’s the perfect sight for a college man wanting some good visuals, but my attention is dragged away as the flash of red in the sea of white and black club dresses catches my eye.

And there she is. The one I’ve been waiting for.

Clover La Roux stands amidst the crowd, two familiar figures on either side of her. As if sensing my attention, her own head tips back and she looks up—mossy green eyes colliding with mine. My dick swells to life, pushing against the zipper of my jeans. Fuck, she looks good. All of her red hair has been piled on top of her head, leaving the pale and freckled back of her neck bare.

My teeth itch to bite into her, to taste her flesh, to feel her cunt clamp around my dick. Those eyes of hers stare back, unafraid and so very tempting. It’s going to be a long fucking night.

27

CLOVER

I AM SO FAR out of my element it’s not funny. The bodies pressed against me make the itching sensation beneath my skin expand. I hate it. I don’t like being touched by strangers, especially not all at once—each one crowding over the other not bothering to recognize that they’re pressing against people they don’t even know. It makes a person feel invisible and insignificant. Then again, I suppose to these people, I am.

The bright red tank dress Avalon threw at me exposes a lot of flesh. My arms and everything from my mid-thigh down. Thank fuck she gave me sandals instead of heels because if I had to teeter into this fucking flash mob on the same sky-high stilettos that most of the other women in here tonight are wearing, I might have used them as dual machetes to cut people down and to get them the hell away from me.

A loud pop explodes across the top of the crowd and drunken shrieking pierces my eardrums as I look over to see a guy shooting champagne out of a bottle. Although this place is clearly a club—with waitresses and bartenders and a band set in the center of the stage towards the back of the building, beyond the dance floor—it feels like a house party with the way people are absolutely wrecking shit.

It’s hot. It’s sticky. It’s not a good time for sober me. I can hardly breathe. I tip my head back and gasp for air. My gaze strays and I finally notice the balconies overhead on the upper floors of the open space. My eyes scan along each one until I stop—finding a familiar pair of piercing eyes. My body freezes. My blood turns to molten lava. There’s violence in Braxton’s gaze tonight. I don’t know what put it there, but it makes my bones shiver and shake. With anticipation or trepidation, I’m not entirely sure.

We lock eyes for what seems like an eternity, and it isn’t until Avalon jostles me that I realize I’ve been standing here for several minutes, craning my head back to meet his gaze. I jerk down and glance back at her. A small, knowing smile graces her lips. Instead of commenting on the obvious staring contest I just had, she hands me a drink. I take the glass and stare down at it before looking back up.

“I’m not twenty-one,” I remind her.

She laughs and shakes her head before tipping the beer in her hand back and swallowing a mouthful. “Neither am I.”

I envy that fucking beer. I’d rather have that than whatever the fruity concoction she just handed me is. I doubt tonight will be without its drama—there’s always something bound to happen when beautiful, rich people are drinking. I’d seen it enough in the tourist season down in Port Charlotte. Rich folks from the upper coast come down to spend their cash and enjoy the heat, and every season, without fail—shit goes down. In preparation for tonight, I tip back the glass and chug it. The scary part is that even though I taste a hint of alcohol in the drink—that’s it. It’s only a small taste, but something about the woozy feeling that goes immediately to my head as soon as I finish tells me that there wasn’t just a hint in there.

Avalon eyes me with curiosity when I finish it off. She plucks the glass from me, handing it to a waitress walking by. “Ever been drunk before?” she asks. No doubt she knows full well that when I mentioned my age, it had nothing to do with any previous drinking and more to do with our setting. Most kids in Port Charlotte were regular alcoholics by the end of high school. Only none of us ever had a fancy club to go to get our fix. It was all backyard bonfires and shitty garage parties.

“A time or two,” I hedge. “I can handle my liquor.”

“Oh?” She tilts her head towards me and grins. “Are we actually following through on that bet then?”

I shake my head. “It’d be better if we didn’t.”

She snorts. “Fine, be boring then.”

On my other side, a frustrated huff sounds. “Ugh, are you guys going to talk all night or are we going to go to the lounge? My feet are killing me.” Avalon leans around me and smiles at Rylie.

“You can go ahead up,” Ava suggests before shooting me a look. “I’m just gonna stay down here and get our captive another drink.”

“If you think getting me drunk will get you any more information, you’re wrong,” I inform her.

“Maybe.” Avalon shrugs. “Either way, I think I’m going to see something interesting tonight.” Her gaze goes back up to the balcony I’d been focused on earlier. My body stiffens and I scowl, refusing the urge to look.

Rylie glances between the two of us but doesn’t comment. “Alright, I guess I’ll see you guys up there, then.” With that, she disappears into the crowd, slipping through the cracks of people dancing and partying it up like she’s used to hiding in the background. Despite the obvious purple hair and the clothes that don’t really belong in a club, no one even seems to notice her. A part of me kind of wishes I had that power.

Unfortunately for me, everyone here tonight seems to be wearing muted colors, and I didn’t get the memo. It wouldn’t surprise me, though, to find that Avalon planned it this way. She seems the type to thrive off chaos. My head turns and the collision of the tones of people’s outfits seems to pop out at me now that I’m thinking of it. Flesh colors to entice, black to make them look skinnier, or white to make them glow under the neon black lights.

I, however, stick out like a giant, red sore thumb. Red hair. Red dress. Red hot irritation as yet another dancer crowds against my back, trying to gain traction as they swivel their hips and rotate their body to the music pounding out through the surround sound speakers.

“Come on.” Avalon grabs my hand and pulls me away, weaving me in and out of people—couples dancing and making out. Sometimes at the same time. Even the partners don’t seem to matter. Girls and guys. Girls and girls. Guys and guys. The cascade of sounds and music and the flow of alcohol makes me feel like I’ve fallen into some depraved orgy fest. No one is having blatant public sex, but I can feel the tension of it in the air—crackling like electricity—and it’s starting to take effect on more than just the crowd.

With a sweet rush of relief, Avalon and I manage to make our way out of the main throng of partiers and dancers and the temperature lowers significantly. She leads me over to a bar and shoulders her way past several students. I watch their reactions as they turn, faces angry and lips parted, ready to snap at her. The second they recognize her—and they all do—their eyes widen, their mouths clamp shut, and they move out of the way.

I’ve tried to hate Avalon. I really have. Ever since that night in the gym with Brax, I can’t help but admit I’ve been a little envious. She’s a queen among these people. Revered. Feared. And loved by the strongest of their numbers. Braxton loves her. I figured that one out on my own. But does he love her as a friend? As family? Or as something else?

Why do I care? Is it because I was always a loner back home? Aside from a mostly absent father and brother, the only one I ever had was Mama Luda and for the last several months I haven’t even had her.

“Here.” Avalon turns back from the bar and hands me a shot. A quick sniff tells me it’s vodka. A taste of home. I smirk and keep my eyes on hers as I put the glass to my lips and tip my head back. The liquid goes down easy—it’s expensive. It burns like fire, but I don’t let a single twitch or tell show.

She eyes me. “Problem?” I ask, slapping the glass back on the counter.

“You took that like a professional,” she comments.

“My dad’s Russian.” Ivan’s preference for alcohol had been vodka—cheap, expensive, it hadn’t mattered. The only time I’d ever seen him imbibe enough to get well and truly drunk had been the night after Mama Luda’s funeral.

An insidiously dark emotion swirls within me at the memory and though I know the next shot she lifts from the bar isn’t for me, I reach forward and snatch it from her grasp. I down that as well, slamming the glass on the counter before setting my elbow down and lifting my gaze to hers.

“You’re going to need a hell of a lot more than a few shots if you want information about Ace, Avalon,” I tell her. “I can guarantee that even a full bottle of this shit—straight up—won’t do the trick.”

I’m in her space, right up against her side, and unlike the cowards surrounding us, I don’t back down. I keep my gaze pinned to hers and my head lifted, unafraid. She smirks. “Who says I’m trying to get information on Ace tonight?” she asks.

I frown. “You’ve been asking me questions about him all week,” I remind her. What else could she be trying to get me drunk for?

Her smirk widens into a full-blown smile. “Maybe I asked you all those questions because you expected me to,” she says.

I blink, confused. “What?”

Avalon throws her head back and laughs. Several of the people around us back up a step, and out of the corner of my eye, I spot one girl who’d been on her way to the bar look up—hearing the laugh—and as soon as she sees who it was, she turns tail and heads back in the opposite direction. Makes me wonder what this girl did to these kids.

“Don’t you think it would have been stranger had I not asked you any questions?” She turns away from me as the bartender returns with two beers this time. “A bottle of vodka too,” she says to him, pointing to the top shelf at his back.

The guy doesn’t even bat an eye. He turns, snatches a full bottle from the top shelf and hands it to her. There’s no exchange of cards or anything as he moves away to the next person and Avalon returns her attention to me.

“If you’re not trying to get information on Ace, then what are you doing?” I ask her. “What am I doing here?”

Avalon hands me one of the beers and the bottle of vodka. “You’re here as entertainment.”

I growl. “What the fuck does that even mean?”

A few heads turn at the outburst, but Avalon merely waves her hand and points towards a staircase set just out of the main open space. I scowl but follow her towards it regardless. After all, it’s not like I’ve really got much of a choice. My eyes stray down to my ankle, where the silver locket jostles against my skin with each step—a constant reminder of what I’ve gotten myself into. In the back of my mind, I can feel Evgenia’s irritation blossom.

We reach the staircase and Avalon stops, pivoting towards me and putting a hand out against my chest as she pushes me back a step. “Here’s a truth,” she says. “If Braxton wants to find Ace, he’s going to.”

I start shaking my head before she’s even finished with her sentence. “We have a deal,” I reply.

The look Avalon gives me is patronizingly sympathetic—similar to the look people give puppies in glass cages at the front of a pet store—or at least it would be if I thought she had a single sympathetic bone in her body.

“Whatever deal you think you have, do you really think it’s enough to keep Braxton from tracking down your brother?”

My fingers grip both bottles with enough force it threatens to shatter them in my hands. “I don’t fucking know,” I grit out. “Brax won’t tell me shit.” Just like I knew he wouldn’t. “So, why don’t you tell me? Inform me, oh great wise fucking Avalon. What exactly did Ace do to you?” Because at the end of the day, I know it has something to do with her.

Avalon arches a brow. “Oh I’m not going to make it easy on you,” she says. “On either of you really.”

My frustration reaches its peak. “If you’re just going to dance around the subject, then get the fuck out of my way,” I snap, moving past her.

A hand whips out and grabs my arm and I nearly lose my hold on the bottles of alcohol as Avalon slams me back against the wall. She moves in front of me, blocking out the light from overhead as well as the scene of the people on the dance floor.

“I really hate beating around the bush, you know,” she says coolly. Clear irritation flutters across her expression as her brows lower and her lips tighten. “I don’t usually hide my intentions, so understand this—what I’m doing now, I’m doing for a reason.”

I suck in a deep breath, shoving down Evgenia’s urge to break the glass bottles in my hands over her head. The desire is there and with each passing second, it doesn’t decrease. It takes an enormous amount of self-control to keep them tight between my fingers.

“Men are idiots, Clover,” Avalon says, startling me with the abrupt subject change. “Mine is just as much of a fuckwad as his friends. They like to think that their way is best, but I know better.” She smirks again. “My way is always best.” She reaches up with her free hand and taps my cheek twice—almost as if she’s being facetious. My frown deepens. “I asked you about your brother, Clover, to find out more about you. Not him. As for what you’re doing here tonight? Call it a test.” She steps back and finally releases me from her hold.

“A test?” I repeat.

“Yup.” She pops the end of the word and snags the other beer from my hand. I let it go. “As punishment for irritating me, though, you don’t get this. It’s vodka or nothing.”

Does she think that’s going to scare me? “I told you I don’t get drunk easily,” I remind her.

She shakes her head. “It’s not about getting you drunk, Clover,” she replies. “It’s about watching your inhibitions dwindle and seeing a certain someone’s response.” She switches both beers into one hand and claps me on the shoulder, turning and pushing me towards the stairs. “Now come on, let’s get this party started.”

Started? Nah, this chick has already set things in motion, and I’m just along for the ride.

28

CLOVER

I LONG AGO STOPPED EXPECTING THINGS FROM people. I stopped expecting my mother to grow up and take care of me the way I needed. I stopped expecting answers to all of life’s questions—why couldn’t she be like other moms? Why couldn’t I be like other kids? Why did I constantly feel the need to either run or punch someone in the face? Why did the idea of stabbing people who pissed me off scare me so much? By the time I stopped expecting a hero to step in and save me from everything—from the fear of losing my mom, from possibly being torn away and placed into an unknown foster home, and from the darker half of me taking over—Ivan and Ace arrived. Only they weren’t like any heroes I’d read about in books and seen on TV. They had secrets. They had scars. And because the reality I’d always known would one day come was already upon me—my mother’s death—I accepted both. I had to if I wanted to survive.

The lack of expectations I’d developed as a child make it easy not to have any now.

I ascend the stairs and come up against a tall, beefy looking guy with short hair and eyes that are just slightly too close together. “Eli,” Avalon greets him, and the kid steps out of her way, though his arms remain crossed as I pass by right behind her.

I ignore his glare and turn towards the rest of the room, the vodka bottle heavy in my hand. The itching beneath my skin tells me I don’t really need to wait around to find a shot glass. I uncap the bottle and slide out of the way as Avalon heads across the room to plop herself down right in Dean’s lap. I put the opening to my mouth and tip the bottle back until firewater washes over my tongue. It’s sharp—forty-percent proof—and it makes my insides shrivel and burn. I don’t care. I need it.

I swallow a few more mouthfuls until my eyes start to water and only then do I put it down and take a breath. “Try not to get sloshed.” That comment comes from Abel as he brushes past me with a snarky glare and heads to the open bar at the back of the room.

Sloshed? Ha. I’m not trying to get sloshed. It would take a hell of a lot more than one measly bottle of vodka to sink me down the drain of drunkenness. I hold the bottle up to the light and see the dent I’ve managed to put in it. All this will do is get me relaxed, something I’m in dire need of.

The prickliness of an intense stare pierces the side of my face and I know exactly where it’s coming from. I’m almost tempted to look and see what Braxton looks like now that I’m in his space. It’s been an entire day since I last saw him—at least it had been before the stare down from the dance floor. I want to look his way, to analyze him the way he’s no doubt analyzing me.

So, what’s stopping me, then? Perhaps it’s Avalon’s earlier words. She’s testing me, but about what? Fuck, I wish I knew. I always hated tests in school. It’s even worse when you don’t know what the subject is.

While it takes considerable effort to find a space in the room that isn’t inhabited by anyone—that’s far away from Braxton—it doesn’t take any effort at all to down the rest of the vodka in the next hour as people come and go, and only the main group remains behind. I’m floating on the feeling of my muscles finally losing their tension as I sway back and forth in my seat, vibing with the music that’s pouring in through the open balcony as I watch my surroundings.

It’s an odd thing to me—how they threw this party for their friend and yet none of them are down below, drinking it up and dancing like their lives are going to end tonight. They’re not partying at all. Just hanging out … like regular friends. Almost as if this is all for show.

I lean back against my chair and lift the vodka to my lips only to realize there’s nothing left but fumes. With a scowl, I place my hands on either arm of the chair and stand. Several heads snap towards me, including Avalon’s.

“Going somewhere?” she asks.

“Vodka’s gone,” I answer, holding up the empty bottle and waving it back and forth. “I’m going to get more, unless…” My gaze strays towards Braxton. “I’m not allowed to?”

He frowns but says nothing. My attention returns to Avalon. She shrugs. “There’s a bar up here,” she comments.

I scowl and she laughs. “Fine, fine, you want to get some of that energy out,” she guesses. “By all means,” she waves towards the exit, “have fun.”

I don’t respond as I stride toward the stairs and drop the bottle in a nearby trash can. Just as my foot hits the first step down, however, I hear Rylie’s quiet voice. “She drank that whole thing? She’s not even slurring.”

My lips twitch and I keep going.

Since heading up to the balcony before, the bottom of the club has only grown rowdier. Girls stumble around the room, arms linked as they spill their drinks across the black and paint splattered floor. My steps slow as I head toward the bar and I realize my mistake. Avalon could get away with ordering drinks with no ID no doubt because of her connection to those guys, but could I? The answer is probably not.

My head turns towards the dance floor as spotlights connected to the rafters above span across the floor in long, circular motions—never stopping, constantly in movement. It’s entrancing. The heat inside my blood burns to life. A warm, unfamiliar hand touches my waist and the smell of overpowering cologne mixed with sour beer wafts toward me.

“Hey, are you here alone?”

I glance at the man that’s got his paw on me. My insides quiver with the desire to pry it off of my body and break each and every one of his fingers. “No.” I move away, but his grip tightens and he pulls me right back into his body. My spine goes ramrod straight as he rubs his groin against me and the knowing sensation of an erection skims against my ass.

“I don’t see anyone around; how about you ditch whoever it is and we keep each other company?”

I close my eyes—praying for patience. “No, thank you.” There. That sounded polite, and not at all like what I really wanted to say.

His hand clamps down against my waist all the more and he jerks his head towards mine, pressing his lips against my ear. “In that case, how about we take a trip to one of the back rooms,” he suggests. “And you can show me if your gorgeous hair matches the strip down below.”

Crack. There it goes, I think absently—the last of my patience and even more of my sanity slipping away. I reach back, running my fingers up the outside of one of his thighs. He groans, shoving himself willingly into my grasp. Too bad for him. I take hold of his dick right through his pants and squeeze. Hard.

“Fuck!” His yell is swallowed up by the rest of the noise surrounding us. I glance around and sure enough, no one even seems to notice his predicament. I guess it’s true what they say, the more people there are to help, the less likely one is to receive it.

I turn, keeping him in my hand, holding tight. His face goes red as he starts trembling. Eyes wide, he gapes at me. The poor dumb bastard doesn’t seem to have any air left in his lungs as he wheezes. Both of his hands go to my wrist to try and pry me off and I smile as I squeeze even harder.

“S-stop!" He gasps, all of the color in his face draining away.

“Are you sure?” I ask sweetly. “I thought you said you wanted to see if my hair matched my strip? This is what I’m into. If you want to fuck me, then you gotta be man enough to take this.” He shakes his head back and forth rapidly. “You don’t want to fuck me anymore?” I ask. Another negative. I laugh and move closer, flexing my grip on him that earns me a pathetic squeak from his throat. “Then why don’t you take your tiny dick and get the fuck away from me?”

The second I release him, the douche practically falls all over himself to get away. I watch with amusement as he turns and rams between two girls in short black dresses, nearly knocking both of them over on his way towards the door. Evgenia approves.

Almost as soon as he’s gone, however, an electric sensation creeps up the back of my neck. Like static or … something else. Sure enough, when I look over my shoulder, I spot a blond-haired, blue-eyed man standing nearby—his gaze trained steadily on me.

“Can I fucking help you?” I snap, irritation sliding through my system. How had I not noticed him before? I wonder. It isn’t like he’s trying to hide his presence. In fact, with his big build and movie star square cut jaw, I’m shocked there’s not a flock of women surrounding him right now. What is it about Eastpoint that everyone here seems beautiful? Is attractiveness only reserved for the rich? First Braxton and his friends, now this guy. It’s almost enough to give a girl a fucking complex.

“I’m just enjoying the show,” the guy replies, pushing away from the wall he was standing against as he walks towards me. I stiffen as he grows near, but instead of latching onto me—a mistake the last guy had so obviously made—he doesn’t touch me at all. Instead, he shoves his hands into his jean pockets and bends so that he can speak next to my ear without having to shout over the noise of the club. “It was quite amusing.”

“So glad I could be of entertainment.” I deadpan, my tone offering little in the way of emotion.

When he pulls back, he’s still got that smile in place. “You’re new around here,” he comments. It’s not a question, but a statement.

“Is Eastpoint really that small that you can tell?”

He shrugs. “I’ve been here long enough to know who’s new and who’s familiar. First time at Urban?” he asks.

I nod.

He rocks back on his heels, hands still in his pockets. I don’t know what it is about him that sets me on edge. Minus the perfect skin and almost impeccable dynamic of his features, he looks like many of the boys that I used to go to high school with—specifically the surfers. Tall, lean, and lightly muscled beneath his casual t-shirt and jeans. His hair is longer than average, curling slightly at the ends, but it’s got that sun bleached familiarity.

Unlike many of the other guys that surround us, he’s not trying. He didn’t dress up to be here. He didn’t dress up to attract attention and yet it’s still a shock that he’s not commanding it. I bet if he wanted to, he certainly could.

“I’m Luc,” he says, freeing one hand from one of his pockets and holding it out to me. “You?”

“Clover,” I answer, taking his hand. His fingers squeeze warmly around mine.

“Were you coming for a drink or wanting to find a dance partner?” Luc asks as he releases my hand.

“I’m…”—I had been coming for a drink, but I find myself more curious about him—“open to a dance partner,” I finish.

His smile grows. “Well, then,” he bows slightly and it makes my lips twitch in amusement. “I’d love to dance with a woman as beautiful as you if you’d let me.”

I tilt my head to the side. “You’re confident,” I comment. “You did just watch what I did to the last guy who offered to be my partner. Are you sure you’re not scared?”

Luc chuckles and the sound is dark and wicked, sliding over my ears like heated chocolate. Fuck, he’s hot. He reminds me of… I cut that thought off completely. After all, Avalon said to have fun and it’s not like I’m running away. I’m not doing anything wrong. I doubt I’d get another offer from anyone else, certainly not a prickly asshole who only knows how to grunt and make threats.

“Sweetheart,” Luc grabs my hand and raises it to his lips, “it’s because of what you did to your last partner that I’m asking.”

I grimace. “I hope you’re not into that,” I say, “because I was lying to him when I said I was.”

He laughs again and shakes his head. “I figured.” His laughter drifts off even as he moves closer. Unlike the last guy, his smell is cleaner and crisper. It’s relaxing. Just what I’m looking for—someone to make me forget about the asshole that makes me anything but relaxed. “No, I’m not into anything too freaky,” he informs me. “Just women who don’t need anyone to save them.”

An unfamiliar emotion crawls up my spine, but I push it down, choosing to ignore the warning bells going off in my head in favor of seeing where this path leads. I’m curious, and I’m tired of walking on eggshells. At least for tonight, I can dance with a cute guy. Tomorrow, I’ll go back to being Brax’s captive and Sick Boy Enemy Number Two, right behind my brother.

“Well, in that case.” I gesture to the dance floor. “Lead away and maybe I’ll follow.”

Luc’s hand tightens against mine and he pulls me closer. “Oh, you’ll follow, Clover,” he whispers against my ear. “And I think you’ll like where I take you.”

29

BRAXTON

I SENSE Avalon’s approach before she turns and plops her ass right next to me. The beer in her hand has to either be gone or piss warm by now. She’s been nursing the same one for over an hour now. “How’s it hanging, psycho boy?”

“You’re plotting something, savage girl,” is all I have to say. That’s how it’s fucking hanging.

She laughs. “You’re damn right about that.” She puts her beer bottle on the table in front of the lounge and reclines, all languid movement and confident attitude. I turn, glancing over at her as I think how easily she’s taken to this role. She wears the Eastpoint crown like it was always meant for her. I guess, in a way, it was.

I release a slow breath, unclenching my fists as she turns fully in my direction, propping one elbow on the back of the lounge as she regards me, her amusement falling into seriousness as her smile dissipates and her eyes narrow. “What are you doing?” she demands.

“What does it look like?” I hedge, lifting my own glass and downing the last of my drink before setting it next to her bottle.

She purses her lips. “Looks like you’re fighting something,” she comments dryly.

I shrug. “Not fighting a damn thing, savage girl.”

She snorts and shakes her head. “That’s a damn shit ass lie if I’ve ever heard one.”

I scrub one hand over my face. “Come on, Ava,” I say. “Give a man a break. What are you wanting from me here? What are you planning?”

Ava presses her lips together for a brief moment and then sighs, closing her eyes as if she senses a defeat coming on. She is not one to take defeat well. When she reopens them, she focuses completely on me. “I’m testing her,” she admits.

“No shit.” A blind man could guess that she’s been testing Clover all week. Either Clover is dense or she really doesn’t give a shit and my guess would have to be the latter. She’s neither stupid nor particularly ingenious. Her character comes from her indifference to most things. I’ve seen the way she acts towards me and towards the others. There are short moments where I think she’s going to get angry, but then, just as quickly as it comes, she releases it and it’s gone.

Maybe she really doesn’t give a shit about anything so long as her brother is safe. It’s almost enough to make a man feel bad about betraying her. Almost—but not quite.

Avalon adjusts herself against the cushions. “It’s hard as shit to get into her head, though,” Ava admits. “Never met anyone who tries so hard not to show their true emotions.”

“How do you know what her true emotions are?” I ask. I’m genuinely curious. I haven’t been able to get much from Clover other than short seconds—when I had her on her knees, when I had her against the wall in the gym. Even then, it’s only the sexual animosity between us that I feel. The electrifying sensation of her skin against mine. That quick rush of heat. She cries when she gets frustrated and my cock likes it. So, those fleeting moments are dangerous.

Avalon tips her head back and smirks at my question. “Everyone has a tell, Brax,” she tells me. “Your girl is no different.”

“Not my girl,” I grunt, cutting my eyes away as I scan the room. It’s been several minutes since she disappeared to get another drink. Where is she? She should be back by now.

“Oh? Then what is she?”

“Bait.” I reach for my glass before remembering that it’s empty. I pull back, feeling empty and at a loss. It’s like I need something to hold onto, something to keep my attention from straying. Avalon used to do that, but now I feel like I need to see Clover to keep the prickly anxiety beneath my skin toned down. To keep the need to wreck shit at bay.

Soft dark strands of hair slide over my shoulder as Ava leans closer. Her hand touches my shoulder and distantly I recognize the feel of her breast pressing against me. It just has no effect. “You want her, Brax,” Ava says, keeping her voice low. “Don’t you?”

My shoulders tighten under her fingers. “I want to make Ace pay.”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” she says. “Which—in case you’re wondering—tells me all that I need to know.”

Ice fills my veins. I pull away from her and her hand falls from my shoulder. “Tell me you’re not trying to play matchmaker, Ava. That’s not like you at all.”

Avalon rolls her eyes and turns away from me, twining her fingers together as she stretches her arms up above her. “Chill your dick, psycho boy. I’m not trying to play matchmaker.” Her words are reassuring, but her recent actions have my suspicions raised.

I lean to one side, cracking my neck before looking back at her. “Then what exactly are you trying to do?”

“I told you, I’m—”

“Testing Clover?” I shake my head. “You’re doing a hell of a lot more than that and you know it.”

Her lips press together and her gaze skids away from me guiltily. “I’m not testing you.”

“Saying that makes me think you are.”

Avalon bares her teeth when she turns back towards me. “I’m not,” she insists. “I just want you to work out whatever shit you need to, and if you need to work it out on her, then so be it.”

Understanding dawns. Avalon isn’t trying to play matchmaker for the long term, but she is trying to find me a resource. Something to use. “How cruel,” I mutter, my lips twitching in amusement. “And here, I thought I was the only true psychopath here.”

Avalon’s face drops into a mask of irritation. “You should know better by now, Brax,” she replies, her tone full of annoyance. “I don’t care about Clover’s feelings, but I do see the way she affects you. If you need to fuck her to get over whatever shit you’ve got going on inside, do it. I don’t see why you’re holding back.”

Well, I suppose that explains why Ava dressed her up like a hooker tonight—or at least, she’d attempted to. Those are the only women she’s ever seen me with unless it’d been someone I’d shared with Abel. She likely thinks that’s my preference when their looks truly have nothing to do with it.

Clover, for all of her innocence to Ava’s schemes, couldn’t look like a prostitute even if she tried. There’s too much character in her face. Bought women smooth down their skin to show no blemishes. They dress themselves like they’re the perfect blow-up doll. Clover has no such perfection. Her skin is littered with tiny freckles. It heats up and turns just as cherry red as her hair and her eyes hold a plethora of mostly unreadable emotions. She’s not the enticing kind. Even when she’d come up with the ridiculous idea of her deal, she’d been far too vocal about her own dislikes. In the intimate moments, she’d been angry, smug, proud, and yes, even slightly afraid.

“I’m holding back,” I start, “because the second I fuck her—well and truly fuck her—she’ll cease to exist.”

Avalon frowns at that comment, her brows drawing together in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“You want to know why I fuck hookers and escorts?” Although it’s a question, I don’t give her time to answer. “It’s because they get something out of the pain I elicit. Even if it’s only cash, I don’t damage them beyond repair. Even with them, I hold back. With Clover, knowing that I own her, I won’t be able to. I’ll fuck her until she’s nothing more than a drained little doll. No soul. No life. I’ll kill her and get off on it.”

Avalon keeps her gaze steady on mine. Anyone else might recoil from the truth of my statement, but not her. Instead, she smiles. A real smile—not an uncomfortable one meant to ease the tension between us.

“You think you’ll kill her with your dick?” She shakes her head and turns back to the room. I follow her gaze and spot Dean across the room, talking to Eli as he stands guard at the top of the stairs. “I bet anything in the world, Dean thought the same thing when he met me.”

Doubtful. Dean has always been rough. He’s a killer like me, but he doesn’t truly enjoy it. He wasn’t raised to find pleasure in someone else’s pain. To him, murder and death are simply something to deal out when necessary. It’s not something to crave. To me, it’s a drug and I am an addict. Every day is a fight against my inner nature.

“Women are much stronger than you think, Brax,” Ava continues. “I’m sure you don’t think so since you’ve only ever been around the weakest of our species or only ever seen them at the bottom. Even those who sell their bodies are strong in their own way. I may not like Clover, but I’m not so blinded by my own ego to think she’s one of the weak ones.”

My hands clench into fists, and as a signal to end this conversation, I punch them against the bottom cushion of the lounge, using the momentum to catapult myself up to standing. It’s been far too long since the subject of our words has disappeared and it’s time I track her down myself. Before I go, though, there’s just one thing I need to say.

I look back as Avalon tips her head up in my direction. There’s a knowing little smile on her lips. Brat. “You’re wrong about one thing, savage girl,” I tell her.

The corners of her lips turn down and her brows pinch together. I can practically see the thoughts running through her head as she tries to go over everything she’s said in the last few minutes, wondering what the hell I could mean. Finally, she comes up empty and she scowls at me. “What am I wrong about?” she asks.

“You don’t dislike Clover,” I tell her. “In fact, you respect the hell out of her. You wouldn’t keep her around if you didn’t.”

Avalon’s face goes slack with shock. I get it. I really do. I want to hate the girl too, simply for who she’s connected to. Beyond the small respect she’s earned for her actions—however misguided they are—a part of me does. That hatred, however, has nothing to do with Ace and everything to do with the way she stirs me up inside. Clover has a way of looking at a man and making you want to know what goes on behind those mossy green eyes of hers. Her outward expressions are only the tip of the iceberg and I crave to see the rest of her even if I have to crack her open and get my hands bloody to find out.

30

CLOVER

IF LUC fucks the way he dances, then it’s a wonder how there aren’t hordes of women trying to mow me down to get into his arms. Several times, I catch a few that look our way, their gazes drawn in by his massive size. When they get to his face, the hunger in their eyes quickly turns to fear and panic and they immediately look away, choosing to ignore his entire existence. It’s certainly curious.

“So,” I say as his hand slides along my waist, keeping me against him as the two of us sway to the beat of a rock ballad. “What’s your story?”

He pulls me into his chest and puts his mouth to the side of my face. His lips graze the top of my ear. I don’t know if it’s just the nearness of his body and the heat permeating the air around us, but it’s a fight to repress the shiver that threatens to overwhelm me.

“What makes you think I have a story?” His hot breath rushes over my skin and I’m starting to wish I had more vodka in my hand. Something to dampen the desires that are blooming in my lower belly. To be honest, it’s not about Luc at all. It’s about another man, and I’ve been wracking my brain for ways to deal with him.

I snort at his question, though, and shake my head as he pulls back. “Everyone at Eastpoint seems to have a story,” I tell him. I turn and gaze past us to the rest of the people on the dance floor. With him in front of me, I feel blocked from the main crowd. No one’s pushing against either of us and that’s suspicious. “Who are you, really?” I ask.

His lips pull up into an amused, yet also smug, smile. “My full name is Luc Kincaid,” he offers.

I frown. “Okay?”

He laughs. “Man, you really aren’t from here.” The way he says it tells me I should have caught something, but I haven’t yet.

“Does your name mean anything important?” I ask.

His expression softens as he looks back down at me. “Yeah, Clover. It does.”

My lips part, but before I have a chance to ask, someone grabs me from behind, yanking me out of Luc’s embrace, and I find myself in a completely new, albeit familiar, one.

“Kincaid.” Braxton’s voice is deep and guttural against my back.

“Smalls.” Luc puts up both of his hands in an innocent gesture as he stops moving and stands perfectly still. As if he knows the kind of dangerous animal at my back.

“What are you doing here?” Brax demands.

I glance back, looking up at Braxton’s face. All I manage to see, however, is the underside of his jaw and the dark shadows cast down over his upper cheekbones by the hair that flops over his forehead.

“You do know that we’re not enemies anymore, Braxton, don’t you?” Luc replies.

My gaze flies back to him. Enemies?

“What we are or aren’t isn’t up to me,” Brax replies.

“I’m aware,” Luc replies. “It’s up to Dean.”

What the actual fuck is going on right now? “Are you having a pissing contest?” I blurt out.

Braxton’s head tips down and he glares at me. “Be quiet,” he commands. “You’re in trouble.”

“Trouble?” I gape at him. “What the fuck did I do?”

“I didn’t say you could go off on your own,” he replies, and as if he thinks that’s the end of that, he returns his attention to Luc. “We’re—”

“You let me come down here” I cut him off. My anger rises, but I keep my tone steady.

Braxton’s hands tighten against my sides. “Be quiet, Clover,” he growls. “Or you’ll regret it.”

Don’t do it, I tell myself. Just do what he says, keep your mouth shut, and deal with this later.

My mouth doesn’t listen. Or rather, Evgenia doesn’t listen. “I’ll regret it?” I turn in his grip, facing him fully as I look up into his eyes. Braxton keeps his gaze trained forward for another moment as the muscular tick in the underside of his jaw pulses with his volatile emotions. “What exactly do you plan to do to me, Brax?”

I can sense Luc’s curiosity behind me. His eyes are practically boring a hole in my skull the way they had the first time. I ignore it, choosing instead to give the full breadth of my attention to the man before me.

“Go on,” I challenge him. “I’m dying to fucking know.”

Braxton’s head tilts down in small increments until his dark focus is completely on me. With the lights in the club so dim, I can’t pick out any color. Only black pupils, blown wide and completely and utterly filled to the brim with something that should frighten me. They’re the eyes of a killer. I could get lost and let myself drift into their cruel depths if I’m not careful.

“Don’t push your luck, Clover.” His voice is low, his words a warning. That shiver I repressed earlier comes back in full force, trembling along my spine and down my legs as warmth spreads. Braxton’s chest swells against me with each breath, and the heat he’s throwing off is enough to set me on fire.

I sway backwards, the feel of him too much. His hands tighten, but I shake my head. “Go on,” I say through gritted teeth. I’m trying to hold myself in check—to hold Evgenia in check—and I’m failing miserably. She wants to be unleashed. She wants what’s due to her—payback. I lift my chin until the back of my skull is resting on my shoulders. I shouldn’t. I really fucking shouldn’t, but before I can stop it, the words are already flying out of my mouth. “I fucking dare you.”

That’s all it takes to end his conversation with Luc. My feet leave the floor a split second after the challenge has escaped me, and all of the air in my lungs rushes out in one quick movement as he picks me up and slings me over his shoulder. It’s far too fucking easy for him. He doesn’t reveal a single hint that my weight is anything to him. A full-grown woman—the weight of another person’s body on his—makes no hindrance to his movements. He’s as agile and strong as ever as he turns and pushes through the crowd, making his way off the dance floor, leaving Luc behind. The fabric of my dress slides up and my skin burns as I reach back trying to pull it down.

“What’s wrong, firebird?” His tone is deeply sardonic. Taunting. My lips part on a gasp as his palm touches my bare thigh, fingers squeezing against my flesh. I clamp my mouth shut, grinding my teeth together at the irritation of letting that one sound slip through. I’m sure he already knows what he does to me, he doesn’t need any more boosts to his confidence. He’s already got the ego of a fucking god. “Afraid someone might catch a whiff of your pussy? You want to act like a bitch, I’ll treat you like one.”

He can smell it, I realize. How turned on I am. The heat under my skin flares hotter. I scrape my teeth against my lower lip. He’s trying to humiliate me, to shame me.

Red curls fly into my face with each step he takes. “You’re a fucking asshole,” I bite back. “If you’re gonna treat me like a bitch then I’ll treat you like one too.”

His chest vibrates with suppressed laughter. “Do you really think you’ll ever come out on top against me, baby?” His head shakes against my side, an answer to his own question. The grip of his hand on my inner thigh has me biting down on my lip until I taste blood. I’ve lost my goddamn mind, and it’s all his fault.

“Maybe I wouldn’t win in a fight,” I tell him honestly, “but I’m not the type to roll over and just take it.”

“Oh, but you are.” Try as hard as I might, lifting up to watch where we’re going only makes his fingers slide closer and closer to home. It’s already hard enough to breathe with his massive shoulder in my gut. The club music grows fainter and fainter. Cooler air washes over me, telling me we’ve left the crowd of partiers behind. A door opens and shuts behind us and fresh air touches the backs of my legs. Gravel crunches under Braxton’s boots. We’re outside.

After what feels like forever, Braxton lifts me up and drops me to the ground. My feet land flat, but I still stumble back. My spine hits a cold, smooth surface—a car door, and he looms over me, punching his hands into the side of the vehicle, pinning me between him and the glass and metal of the car.

“You think you’re so tough, Clover.” Braxton’s words are mocking. “You probably think you’re brave for giving yourself to me in favor of saving your brother, but you’re a fool.”

“Better a fool than a knave.”

His head jerks back and his eyes narrow. He recognizes the proverb. “Really?” he scoffs.

“Foolishness is something someone is born with,” I shoot back, ignoring his disgust. “You deliberately choose what you are.”

He leans closer, his chest against mine, pressing tight until I can’t breathe without the scent of him clogging my nostrils. “And what am I, Clover?” It’s not rhetorical, his question, but a true curiosity. He wants to see how I see him.

How do I see him? I ask myself. Braxton is dangerous, certainly, and I’m the fool attracted to that danger. His hands fall away from the car and find my sides. Braxton’s grip is impossibly tight. His erection touches my belly. Is it a threat or a premonition of what’s to come? Maybe both.

“Tell me,” he urges. “If you’re the fool, then who are you a fool for?” It goes unsaid, but he’s putting himself up against Ace. Who am I a fool for? Him or Ace? That one is simple to answer. I’m a fucking fool for both, only in different ways.

One of his thick thighs slides between mine, pressing my legs apart as my dress rides up even further. I grit my teeth as he ignores my hands when I reach down, trying to keep myself covered. Instead, he grabs them and presses my wrists into one of his, jerking them both up and over my head. My breasts push up, squashed against the massive expanse of his pecs. Were I a weaker person, I’d beg the universe to make the fabric between us disappear.

“You’re not talking, Clover,” he taunts, the edges of his mouth curving upward as his knee lifts and presses against the crotch of my underwear, against my pussy. “What happened to all of that fearlessness?”

I grit my teeth. Never in my life have I ever wanted to unman someone so fucking much. “You think me keeping quiet is me showing fear?”

“Isn’t it?” he prompts.

Giving up on retreating from him, instead, I push forward, letting him feel the hardness of my nipples. I rub myself against his leg, stars dancing in my mind as the rough jean material of his pants scrapes against my clit through our clothes.

“That’s just the thing, Brax,” I say, panting. I meet his eyes and hold his stare. “I. Don’t. Fear. You.”

My words echo between us, and as soon as they escape, I know what I’ve done wrong. His brows lower down over his face, throwing shadows over the hollows of his cheekbones. The angle of his jaw and the cut of his features turn his once handsome face into a skeletal frame without a gaze, just darkness where his eyes should be. My heart damn near stops in my chest.

Fear—exactly what I’d just refuted having—pounds through me. It’s there and then gone. Adrenaline spikes, suppressing it as I force my own face to go placid. Bored.

He’s only human. He’s only human. He’s only human. I repeat the words in my mind like a mantra. It’s necessary in the face of his expression and the silence that follows my idiotic words. He may look like a monster come to steal my soul and deliver it to the underworld, but it isn’t bones holding me down against the car. It’s male, human flesh. I can’t forget that.

Unthinkingly, I pull away from him. It’s a natural reaction, one that he feels as my breasts leave his chest. He smiles—and the dim parking lot lighting only makes the expression that much more haunting.

“If that’s true, then where are you going?” His deep baritone takes on a hypnotic quality, almost lyrical in its timbre. “Stay right here, Clover.” He pulls me back against him. “You wanted me to feel your hot little body, right? Rub up against me some more. Show me just how unafraid you are.”

My eyes burn as I force them wider, taking in every piece of light I can as I stare up into his darkened face. “Why?” My voice comes out hard, and I’m grateful. “So you can try to shame me for it?”

He chuckles and the sound goes straight to my pussy. The responding clench of my inner muscles is a betrayal, though not a surprising one.

“Is that what you think?” Braxton seems to consider something for a moment. He allows me the small bit of space that I grasped at earlier and though I can’t see his eyes, I know he’s staring at me.

I say nothing, waiting for whatever it is he’s got going on in that fucked up mind of his to make its way out. His grip tightens against me—at my waist and my wrists. He could crush them if he so wanted, and I’m sure a part of him does want to. The only reason I can think of that he hasn’t yet is our deal. That and Ace. If he breaks me … where’s the fun in that.

Braxton’s consideration and the unreadable, no doubt malevolent, thoughts in his head aren’t what frighten me, though. What really disturbs me is my own reaction to it. My skin feels electrified wherever he’s touching me. I’m on edge. Wanting. Hurting. Craving something, but I’m not sure what. Before I have a chance to figure out what that something is, Braxton drops his head down and suddenly my entire world is filled with him.

His chest crushes against mine until there’s no more room left to breathe. “Fine then,” he whispers as his lips skim across my ear. His teeth are so close, as is his scorching hot breath. My body trembles. “You say you’re not afraid of me?” My blood turns cold at the dangerous note in his voice. “Tonight, you’re going to prove it.”

31

BRAXTON

THE ELEVATOR DOORS to the Tower’s penthouse suite slide apart, and Clover takes off running. Oh, she tries to make it seem like she’s not running, but by the time I take two steps into the apartment, she’s already down the hallway. I follow her with my eyes and a smile in place. It’s amusing how she thinks she can get away. I don’t give chase, not immediately. It’s not like she has anywhere to run to. Instead, I take my time. I let her think she’s capable of hiding from me, if only to delay the inevitable.

It’s fucked up for sure, but I enjoy the hunt of worthy prey.

And it’s easier, now, to wait, knowing what will happen eventually. It’s bound to, after all. Her and I. This little dance of ours has come to an end. She may not see my actions as kindness, but that’s what they were.

My legs eat up the distance to the liquor cabinet and I open one glass door, pulling out a hundred-year-old Scotch as I remove a glass from the hanging mounts. Somewhere in the apartment, Clover’s hurried movements echo up the walls as she rushes down the hallway. She doesn’t even bother to remain quiet as a door slams.

I grin. When was the last time I had this much fun? Was it torturing the drug peddling pissant that raped Avalon? I don’t even think I enjoyed that as much as I am this. My cock is so fucking swollen and hard that it hurts. Something else is going to hurt a whole lot worse before the end of the night—someone else.

I lift my glass as the moonlight pours in through the unshaded windows and hits it just right. There’s tension in the air. It curls around me, filling every crevice of my soul, and begging me to come play. I close my eyes and see blood and bruises. Clover did this to herself, I tell myself. She taunted the monster and now he’s ready to play.

The liquid in my glass sways as I lift it once more and drain what’s left before setting it quietly on the bar. I reach up over my head, grasping a fistful of fabric, and yank the black t-shirt I wore to the club off, letting it drop where I stand. I move towards the open hallway and the belt goes too, metal clinking against the wood floor. The sound echoes.

I make my way towards the only closed door among the rest, and my smile widens when I try the handle to find it locked. She’s only ramping up the violence by postponing what we both know to be inescapable. Because I am inescapable.

Putting one hand on the side of the frame and the other opposite it, I grip the wood in my fists, lift my leg and kick the door in. Wood shatters upon impact. The frame rips off the wall as the door crashes backwards, half of it coming right off its fucking hinges. It’s dramatic. It’s brutal. It’s addictive. The more violence she forces me to use, the worse it’s going to be for her.

“You should make this easier on yourself,” I advise coolly, my own words the only sound in the otherwise darkened room. My smile turns to a frown when I don’t see anything. I step further into the space and scan the surroundings. Cunning, I think when I realize she’s not here. The locked door was a diversion. This will be more fun than I thought.

“Come out, firebird,” I lift my voice, letting it carry throughout the penthouse as I retrace my steps. “You don’t really think you can hide from this, right? Didn’t you say you weren’t afraid of me?”

I make my way back down the hallway towards the living room. There she waits, her body backlit by moonlight. My amusement only grows infinitely when I see the kitchen knife in her hand. With her back to the glass windows, there’s nothing I can see of her face. My pulse fucking pounds in my veins. I want this. I want her—to mark her, rip her apart, and see the bloody bones underneath.

“If you wanted to play with toys,” I say, gesturing to the blade in her hand, “all you had to do was ask.”

“Why do I need to ask to play with toys when that’s all I am to you?” she counters. “Does a toy really need permission to play with other toys?”

Her voice doesn’t waver. If I didn’t know better, I would think she truly has no fear of me even as she stands there holding tight to the handle of that knife. Whether she knows it or not, though, I did see that brief burst of outright panic before she covered it up again. Ava thinks she’s hard to read? Not like this, she’s not. It’s only when other things get in the way that I find her so confusing, that her true intentions take a backseat and she becomes an enigma.

Right now, she’s as transparent as the windows behind her. “I haven’t been treating you like a toy, firebird.” I take a step forward and when she doesn’t budge, I chance another. So close. Almost there. “But if you want to be my plaything...” I burst towards her as the words leave my lips, trailing off. She instinctively jerks back, her hand rising and along with it, her pathetic little weapon. I grasp her hand over the hilt, turning her wrist, and relish in the gasp of pain that follows. She drops the knife and gasps again as I shove her back against the windows and place the sharp end at her throat. “I can certainly oblige.”

Her breasts heave against me, and her head tips back as she struggles to keep her neck from touching the blade she threatened me with. I smile as I press it forward, not allowing her that escape. A small sound emits from the back of her throat. Not a frightened cry for help, but a growl of irritation, of anger.

How enticing.

“Keep this in mind, firebird,” I say slowly as I drag the knife down her neck, touching the sharpest point to the little hollow there before I use it to draw a path between her breasts. “You asked for this.” Practically begged really—with each look, with each small sarcastic remark, with each minor rebellion. She’s been pushing me past this point of no return ever since I dragged her here from that shithole swamp.

My attention falls to her body as I keep her in my grasp. In the time I waited for her, she changed. No doubt she didn’t want to be in that ridiculous excuse for a dress that was more underwear than anything else and now she’s got on a black tank and soft workout shorts. Looks like the personal shopper the guys and I employ does a great job for women too.

It’s a simple outfit, one meant for movement rather than seduction. On her, though, any clothing is a seduction. It has nothing to do with the fabric that adorns her and everything to do with the woman beneath. The frustrating, ambiguous woman who’s more enemy than hostage.

Her breaths come in rapid fire pants, her chest rising and falling as she tries to gather as much air as possible. I can practically smell the adrenaline flooding her system the way it’s flooding mine. A light sheen of sweat coats her skin and the catch in her breathing stops for a brief moment when the tip of the knife nicks her just the smallest bit.

Clover lifts her head and looks up at me. Shockingly, there really is no fear there. Instead, the emotions I see are a kaleidoscope of confusion, lust, and a responding violence that mirrors my own. I’ve never taken a woman this far—held a blade to their skin and threatened their very lives—and received this kind of reaction. She looks just as stunned by it as I am.

“Can I just ask one thing?” Her words come out as a hoarse whisper. The knife pauses against her skin and a single droplet of blood forms against her collarbone. Slowly, watching her, I reach down with my other hand and swipe that drop away with my thumb. I bring the digit to my mouth and lick it away before meeting her eyes. It’s all the allowance she needs to ask her question.

“Are you going to kill me?”

My lips part and my hand drops back down, reaching for her waist, curving it to meet the outline of my palm. We’ve come this far, and I’m already lying to her. Something inside me rebels at the idea of giving her any assurance now when I don’t know the path that lies beyond us—beyond this.

Instead of answering, I twist the knife in my hand and cut straight down the front of her shirt. Her eyes widen, pupils growing impossibly large in the shadowed lighting of the room. I shove her ass against the windows and rip the shirt the rest of the way off before doing away with her bra as well. Now, all she has left is her shorts and those, too, won’t keep me out for long.

“Brax…” Is that a plea I hear in her voice? No. It’s a demand, an order.

I chuckle darkly. Few women in this world have ever felt brave enough to order me. I let the knife drop at our sides, needing both of my hands as I grip her naked waist and lift her into my arms. Immediately her legs wrap around me. What a good girl she is when she’s full of depravity. I want her to have more. I’m going to fucking fill her with so much of this deviant insanity, when she looks in the mirror all she’ll ever be able to see for the rest of her life—whether it be short or long—is me.

Me against her. Inside of her. All the fuck over her. I should be wary of going this far. I’ve been warned. She’s trouble, but trouble like her never looked so fucking fine and I want it for my own.

Clover La Roux doesn’t know it, but from this moment on she truly is mine.

32

CLOVER

BRAXTON IS DARKNESS PERSONIFIED. He makes my heart race against my ribcage, an untamable thing as it tries to break free from my bones. It’s going so fast it almost hurts. The small wound he made when he shredded my shirt pales in comparison. In fact, it only serves to heat my blood even more as he lifts me into his arms.

Instead of turning towards the couch like I expect, though, he goes the opposite way. His big body moves across the open space towards the doors leading out onto the terrace. The door opens and frigid air washes over my bare skin. Goosebumps rise along my arms and back. Fuck. It’s probably ten times as cold up here as it is down below.

Instinctively, I shiver and press myself closer to Braxton’s chest. Though I know he’s not here to help me, he’s not intending to do anything but his very best to break me, his warmth is undeniable. It’s like a flame in an otherwise pitch-black hole, calling out to me.

Braxton’s hand finds my lower spine and I tighten my legs around him at the feeling of all that heat on me. He’s like my own personal sun—only instead of giving life, he gives death and destruction. His head turns and he nuzzles against me, beard stubble prickling along the smoothness of my jawline. It’s arousing. It’s entrancing. My eyes slide shut all on their own and for just a second, I think this won’t be so bad. He’s truly not as terrifying as he seems to think he—

A startled scream rips itself free from my throat as teeth latch on and Braxton bites down in the place where my neck meets my shoulder. Fire shoots through me, chasing up the back of my head as I grit my teeth, enduring the pain. My skin splits and it’s only when blood begins to drip down my back and front that he pulls away.

I gape at him in horror, his lips coated in my blood as he smiles and releases me. My legs drop away and I back up a step. He doesn’t give me the opportunity to run, though—his fingers snag the front of my shorts and he yanks me back.

“Take these off,” he demands.

“What if I don’t want to?” I’m shaking in the freezing air, the feeling of being exposed and the soreness in my shoulder clouding my mind.

“Then I’ll rip them off,” Braxton replies, leaning down once more. He kisses my opposite shoulder, leaving almost an exact outline of his mouth in blood on my skin. I stare at the red on my pale skin. I’d dressed in red earlier, but I hadn’t known the color would follow me this far. “And Clover?” My shivering ceases at the low sound of his voice. I lift my head away from the bloody kiss mark and look up at him. He smiles, teeth gleaming dangerously in the soft moonlight. “You don’t want to know what I’ll do to the flesh underneath if I have to do it myself.”

His grip loosens its hold and as if I’m captured in a hypnotic trance, I touch the waistband of my shorts. I slowly slip them down over my hips until they fall to the stone beneath my feet and step out of them. Braxton’s eyes stare down at the place between my legs, now only covered by a small scrap of black cotton.

His head tilts to the side. “I should’ve kept the knife.” His tone suggests that the comment is more an afterthought to himself rather than a comment to me. I’ve only got a split second between when those words are spoken and when he lifts me back into his arms. "And you should’ve known better than to test the limits of my patience.” That last statement is definitely intended for me.

I don’t know what he means, though, as he strides across the terrace. I struggle to turn, to see where we’re going, but he doesn’t give me enough time. Ice cold metal railing touches my back and I scream in shock, fighting against the heat of him to get away from the temperature.

Braxton’s fingers make their way below as he sets my ass up higher. Maybe it’s one small spot of kindness coming from him that he didn’t remove my underwear because as cold as it was against bare flesh, it’s gloriously muted when I have that little barrier. I gasp for breath, slowly realizing exactly where he’s placed me.

My head arches up and turns as if on an axis as I look over my shoulder. Without thought, I sink my nails into his bare shoulders as I crush myself against him. “N-no.” My head goes numb as I stare at the yawning open space behind me.

He never did answer me, I realize. When I asked if he planned to kill me.

“Brax.” Despite the freezing air whirling around us, sweat pops up along my spine.

“What’s wrong, firebird?” The asshole in front of me sounds amused. “Are you scared of something?”

My head jerks around towards him, the movement too quick, and my ass slides slightly against the railing. I latch my legs around him. “Not here,” I snap. “Do what you want, fine.” I bite the words out, trying to suppress the quickly increasing fear and horror that’s filling me from within. “But not here.”

Brax puts both of his hands on either side of me, his fingers curling against the railing as he sets his legs apart, bracing himself over me. He turns his cheek and kisses the bite mark he made earlier. “Too fucking bad,” he says, his voice low. “You tested me, Clover, and this is your punishment. Take it like a good girl.”

I’m shaking—both internally and externally. My eyes burn with unshed tears. I hate them, and I’m only grateful that they haven’t yet fallen. His fingers touch me, right over the crotch of my panties as he slides them up and down. I bite down on my lower lip, tasting more blood. It floods over my tongue, heading straight to the back of my throat. I damn near choke on it as my thighs soften and my pussy grows wetter.

My whole body stiffens when Braxton moves to the side and slips his digits beneath the fabric. He slides two long, thick fingers into my cunt. Not like this. I don’t want to come apart like this. Panting, gasping for air that turns to ice in my lungs, I feel the dam burst. One tear leaks down the side of my face.

All it would take is one wrong move. One slip and over the railing I’ll go. I’m on more than a mental precipice, I’m on a physical peak that could truly mean the difference between life and death. The terror is overwhelming … and I never knew it could be so intoxicating.

At my back, the threat looms—a giant gaping hole of what feels like thousands of stories down to the cold ground. At my front, a monster watches my struggle and mounting panic with a gaze that only desires more from me. It desires everything.

“Open.” The command comes a split second before Braxton removes his fingers from my pussy and pushes them up towards my face. My lips part to protest, but he’s already there—gripping my face and forcing my mouth wider as he pushes the taste of my own pussy juice across my tongue. I flinch back and then glare at him over his hand and he grins. “That’s it, firebird. Get angry. You know I like you better when you fight.”

Fuck. Him. As the thought crashes through my head, a violence I haven’t known since that fateful night that Mama Luda left this world slams into me. He wants me to get angry? Fine. I can get fucking angry. I’m always fucking angry—it sizzles there beneath my flesh, a constant friend and enemy. Unlike him, I battle against my own violence. I crush it to save others, but I don’t need to with him.

If he wants me full of nothing but wrath and rage, then that’s what he’ll get.

My teeth sink into his knuckles. More blood pours into my mouth—not my own. It’s disgusting. It’s dangerous. I’m too far gone to care. He took a sample of mine; it’s his turn. Braxton’s head sinks back on his shoulders and he groans, his hips pressing forward as his cock rubs up against me—right between my thighs—through our combined fabric. The cold fades in the face of his satisfaction. He looks like he’s ready to come right now and he hasn’t even done anything yet. Not really. Not when I know he’s capable of so much more.

Are we fucking or fighting at this point, anyway? I don’t know.

Braxton withdraws his bloodied fingers from my mouth and grips my hip, yanking me forward so hard and so fast that I damn near fall off the railing. I shriek and clamp even tighter onto him. The chuckle that rises from him vibrates through his chest against my face. The tears on my cheeks dry and stick to my skin. No doubt they’re tracing black lines down my face dragging the make-up I had no time to remove with them.

“Undo my fucking pants, Clover,” Braxton growls against my ear, “and spread your thighs.”

I glance back over my shoulder once more. Is he really going to do this? I wonder. Is he going to fuck me on this railing? It’s almost worse than I could have imagined. It never occurred to me that he would truly put my life in danger as he fucked me. Not like this. A knife to my throat yes. Maybe even a gun to my head. This is something sicker.

How confident is he that he can keep me from falling? Does he even care at all?

When I don’t immediately do as he says, Braxton yanks me off of the railing completely and for just a moment, I think I’m falling. I feel nothing underneath me. My body is airborne and I ask myself, is this it? Is this how I fucking die? Fucked over the side of a terrace in the sky?

I read somewhere that back in the 1940s a woman jumped to her death from the Empire State Building. It’s a place I’ve never been. A world I’ve never known. But she lives forever in history as the newspapers thereafter dubbed her the world’s most beautiful suicide.

What a crock of bullshit, I think. Death isn’t beautiful. It’s bloody. It’s heartbreaking. It’s the singular truest end. No matter what anyone says, no one knows what’s beyond this life.

I come back to myself as Braxton turns me and shoves me, head first over the railing. My fingers grip the cold metal, my nipples slide over it, my breasts hang freely above absolutely fucking nothing. His hands go to my hips, and the tearing of fabric reaches my ears as Braxton rips my underwear down. It’s not purposeful—the rending of it—just a testament to his true impatience. He doesn’t even give me a chance to step out before he’s lifting one ass cheek in his hand, spreading me open to the air and himself.

Jeans press against the backs of my thighs, but the whole of my attention is centered on the distance between here and the ground far below. My insides tremble and I’m so focused on the height that I don’t even realize that he’s released himself from his pants until I feel the scorching hot slide of Braxton’s cock between my thighs. He lines himself up and without any preamble, he shoves himself forward—slicing right into my pussy.

I grunt as my whole body pushes forward, slamming into the railing. Everything tightens as the ground comes rushing up at me. This railing is too fucking low, isn’t it? It’s not safe. What fucking architect would make a railing so low this high up off the ground?

Braxton’s resounding groan at my back slides through my ears. Tingles race through my nerves, setting me on fire. I’m burning alive and I didn’t even know it was possible.

Wetness drips down my inner thighs and the smacking sounds as Braxton fucks into me echo up towards the night sky. It’s fucked up. Here I am, balanced over a railing—two seconds away at any moment from plummeting to my own death—and my pussy is clamping down on the psychopath sawing into me.

Braxton’s cock is so big, he’s stretching me around him. My legs tremble uncontrollably. My own voice echoes back to me as more tears leak down my cheeks. My muscles wind tighter and tighter, a spring ready to unload. It’s too much.

Hard fingers tighten on my waist and if I live through this, I know there will be bruises in the aftermath. The wind from this height whips my hair against my face, blinding me as Braxton pulls out until only the head of his cock remains inside of me, and then, in another quick singular movement, he thrusts back into me.

My hand slips.

A terrified scream bursts out of me as my upper body bends over the railing and my legs lift automatically with the powerful thrust. No. No. No. I can’t die like this. Not here. Not now. There’s nothing to grab onto. Just air and … fear. The very thing I claimed not to have towards him and he’s doing his damnedest to prove me wrong.

“Braxton!” Why I call out for him—for the man who put me in this predicament—I don’t fucking know. As soon as I do, however, he latches onto me and drags me back, his cock still deep within me, pressing so impossibly deep I swear to God I can feel him all the way in my throat. My pussy burns with the stretch in the hottest way.

“That’s right, Clover,” he says, banding his arms around my middle. “I’m the one you call for. I’m the only fucking one. No matter how close you are to the edge, it’s not Ace coming for you—it’s me.”

My pussy tightens and I gasp for breath, trying to come down from the panic that’s thrumming in my breast. I turn towards him and he lets me. His cock pulls out of me. “Take me inside,” I say. “Please, Brax. Please take me inside.”

He stares down at me, face shadowed like before. I don’t care if I sound frightened or weak. I can’t handle the mind fuck anymore. His hand arches up and his fingers touch my cheek, right where the tears are dried against my skin, I realize. “What are you scared of?” he asks. “Dying?” I hold my breath for a moment as his gaze moves from where he touches me to my eyes. “Or of liking the danger?”

I rock back on my heels. Holy fuck. He’s right. Death scares me, but that’s not what has me wanting to go inside. I’ve been in survival mode my whole fucking life. I’ve seen death, I’ve experienced it, and dealt it. But this, playing at the line with my own life and getting off on it is what disturbs me the most. I've been threatened with death so many times, and each time, I’ve turned to Evgenia. I’ve done things—let her do things—that no one should be proud of, but deep down … I am proud. Because in doing those things, I survived. I came out on top. In the place where only the strong live, I did.

Braxton steps towards me and it feels like up here on this frost-covered terrace, there is no one else in the world. Just him and I. “Well, firebird?” he prompts.

I arch my head back and stare up at him. Why is it that an enemy is the one who makes me realize that I’ve never been afraid of dying? That the only thing I fear is myself and the things I’m capable of.

I don’t answer him, not in so many words. Instead, I respond with my actions. I reach up and latch onto the back of his neck, dragging his head down as I meet his lips with mine. We’ve never kissed, this is our first. It tastes like blood and starvation. His hands ball into fists at his sides, but he lets me kiss him. I know that much. If he didn’t want it, he could very well pull away.

At any moment, he could stop this. I can’t, though. I can’t stop, and what’s more, I don’t want to. I push up onto my toes and slip my tongue into his mouth, relishing in the responding growl that emits from him. His arms snap back around me and in a rushing movement, he lifts me back into the sky and strides towards the railing once more.

Fuck it, I think as his tongue tangles with mine. If I die … then I’ll just fucking die.

And what a beautiful death it will be.

33

BRAXTON

I REMEMBER MY FIRST FUCK. Every guy does. Some might lie and say they can’t, but it’s an untruth. Mine was, at the very least, ten or fifteen years older than me. Mid to late thirties. Blonde. Fake tits. Nothing like Clover. I wasn’t attracted to her body, not even really her face—not at first. In the end, though, what drew me were her eyes. The desperation in them. The fear and the singularity of the ever-glimmering hope. Hope that someone would see her as more than a cunt to fuck. Hope that someone would recognize that there was a human beneath the flesh that she revealed to anyone and everyone.

I was not that someone.

Of all the men she could have fucked, I know I left my mark on her. I know she probably lies awake in her bed wherever she may be in the world wondering what really happened that night even years later because the first time I fucked a woman, I nearly killed her.

There was something in the caked-on makeup she wore. The careful strokes of bronze and skin-colored paint that attempted to hide all of her flaws. The eyeliner that smudged too easily. The lipstick that—when I fucked her throat raw—was left smeared across my cock.

When I dragged her top down—not even in a bed, but against the wall of a back hallway in some European club I’d gone to with Abel and Dean—I hadn’t even focused on her tits. They’d been bloated and too bouncy for a woman like her where everything else sagged. Thirties is by no means old, but for her—life had obviously not been kind. Perhaps she was an addict. Perhaps she’d lived a tough life. Perhaps it was simply her genetics. I didn’t care.

All I cared about was that when I lined the head of my cock up with her sopping wet cunt and pushed inside—feeling the heat of her pussy latch on like a living creature and drag me deeper—was that look in her eyes. She had the look of someone who wanted love and, at each turn as she tried to seek it out, had been denied.

I’m not so narcissistic and self-inflated to believe that it was fucking some sixteen-year-old kid that made her realize her worthlessness, but I was privy to the moment nonetheless. I have no doubt it had something to do with whatever else had been going on in her life—not that I cared then or do now. To me, she’d been a fuck. The only special thing about her was that she made me realize that everything my father had been doing to me, I wanted to do to someone else. Only, I wanted to do worse and do it better.

As I’d fucked her, she had cried. Big, fat tears had rolled down her cheeks. Her claw-like nails had sunk into my arms and she’d moaned and sobbed as I thrust into her. Other men would have stopped. Even if they didn’t care—most can’t stand the sight of a crying woman. It elicits several reactions—disgust, fear, discomfort.

Not me.

Her tears elicited within me the raging need to come. I hadn’t abhorred her brokenness. Instead, I’d been turned on by it. She had continued to cry as I rammed her against the wall, holding one leg up with my fingers digging under her knee to make sure I could reach as deep inside as possible. And something must have made her realize that she was in danger because after several minutes of thrusting and listening to her pain and agony as she shattered apart in my arms, she’d pulled back and looked at me in confusion. What she found in me, though, was not comfort. I’d scowled when I realized her tears had stopped and instead of pulling out, I’d wrapped my free hand around her throat and squeezed.

“Keep crying,” I’d told her.

When she didn’t automatically do as I said, I’d released her leg and pinched her nipple as hard as I could. I wanted to see more. More tears. More of her clunky mascara dribbling down her cheeks. More pain. I got what I wanted. The woman had cried more as I’d abused her tits, fucked her pussy, and in the end, pulled out and shoved her to her knees right before I came all over her wrecked face.

It was there, staring down at this stranger’s ruined dignity, that I came to a singular realization. I finally got it—why my father used the whip. All the beatings. All the ‘training.’ None of it was meant for me but for him. He got off on it. He likely did it to others because he, like the rest of humanity, was an addict. Only instead of drugs, he was addicted to hurting others. Just like me.

The darkness inside of me had stemmed from him. I was a possession of his. Property. An object to manipulate and damage at his will. All this time—ever since that moment, that realization—I’ve been searching for my own possession. The one thing that was mine to damage. To take to the brink over and over again. To mold to my standards, use and injure.

That’s why I hired escorts. Hookers. They were never mine and they never would be. They were there to fill the void until I found it. But now … now I have her. And fuck but I think that’s why Clover scares the shit out of me. Her sole existence is something that I’ve claimed for my own.

I can break her. Wreck her. Ruin her. Make her bleed. Make her come. Bend her to my will.

Unlike that chick in the club, though, Clover deserves at least some modicum of respect. Everything she does isn’t to seek something for herself. Not validation. Not love. Not comfort. Everything she does is done to protect her family. That’s what makes me hesitate in my desire to completely fuck her. It’s her sacrifice, her willingness to do whatever she has to in order to protect her family, that earns my respect. It’s something I have always and will continue to do for mine. I look at her, and I see a part of myself. A deeper part I wish I had never recognized because it only makes me want to hurt her even more.

Hurting her would be hurting myself and if there’s one thing my father fucking instilled within me it’s this deep, aching sense of utter revulsion for the man he created.

The man I can never run away from.

The reflection in the mirror.

Myself.

Clover is hotter than anything I’ve ever touched. Ever since I posed that question, she seems to have realized something about herself. Something I am not privy to and it pisses me off. I want to know everything when it comes to her—even the worst of her desires, the foulest parts of her hatred.

I set her ass on the railing once more and this time, she doesn’t flinch at the chill. The entire breadth of her attention is consumed by me, as it should be. There’s a whirlwind encircling us, both literally and figuratively. A dot of rain hits my cheek, but I ignore it in favor of focusing on her. I kiss her harder, driving my tongue into her mouth as a minor punishment. I demand more, and she gives it willingly. Her legs spread, the fear evaporating—fuck, even that’s hot—and I return to the place between her thighs, pressing inside the wet cavern of her pussy.

The muscles surrounding my cock tighten and squeeze, begging me with her body to unleash myself inside of her. Gasps rise from her throat with each new thrust as I push myself inside. Her full, lush ass bounces against the railing. Her nails dig into my shoulders, breaking the skin as fresh blood wells up. She’s holding on for dear life—literally. Because all it would take is one push. It wouldn’t even be much effort and over she would go, sailing into the night. Her life snuffed out like so many before her.

I’m on the edge of wanting to release her. Of wanting to see the shock of betrayal and the dawning horror of her own death take over her expression. The mere thought of it in my mind makes my cock jerk inside of her and she groans against my lips.

What’s holding me back? It’s a simple thing really. Death isn’t something anyone comes back from. Once you’re gone—that’s the end. Having lost Aunt Josie, it’s something I am viscerally aware of. The idea that Clover would follow that same fate—that I would no longer be able to smell her soft scent, taste her blood on my tongue, drive her into a corner and watch the play of emotions as she hides them away from me—opens a void in my chest. It feels like someone has punched clear through to where my heart beats and ripped the damn, useless thing free.

I feel … empty. Adrift. Bored.

I can’t stand being bored anymore. I can kill her anytime, I remind myself. But I can’t bring her back. So … now, I wait. I wait and I fuck her just a little bit further into the darkness.

It’s amusing—how different she and I are. Yet, at the same time, there is a kinship. We both draw blood. We both fight tooth and nail to get to the end of this moment, each of us driving the other to new heights.

She cries out, tightening around me and yanking her head away.

“Fuck…” The curse slips out of my lips as my eyes squeeze shut. Her inner muscles contract against me, milking me, begging for something I’m not yet willing to give. Not yet.

Clover’s orgasm lasts for several long breaths and when I finally reopen my eyes, I see the shadows of my grip along her flesh. The fingerprints on her arms, on her hips, on her waist. The blood on both shoulders. The teeth marks. My cock fucking throbs.

I pull myself out of her just as quickly as I entered. The damn thing slaps up against my abdomen, wet and wanting. Clover’s bedroom eyes lift to mine, confusion and satisfaction in their depths. “Turn around,” I order, stepping back from the railing. We’re back here again and I want something else. I want what she’s probably never given any other man. My bones practically vibrate with the need to mark her in a way no one else has.

She tilts her head to the side, but this time, she actually follows my command. She slips off the ledge and turns around, placing her hands on the railing. Her red hair slides over her spine and shoulder as she looks back, curiosity illuminating the green of her irises. The little baby hairs around her temples are wet with her sweat. Another droplet of rain falls and lands against her skin, slipping down her spine towards her ass crack. She doesn’t even seem to notice. The muscles along my upper back tighten with anticipation.

I grip my cock by the base. It’s wet with the remains of her orgasm. It’ll be tight, it’ll be painful, but I like that. I have lube inside, but I won’t use it. I want more of her tears and I’ll fucking have them.

“You can cry,” I tell her as I lean over her, pushing myself between her ass cheeks, up and up until I find her darkest hole. Her eyes widen.

“Brax?” Curiosity turns to realization and then trepidation.

“In fact,” I say. “I’d prefer if you did, firebird. Cry as much as you can. Scream as loud as you want.” It’s not like anyone will come to save her.

I push the head of my dick into her ass and her knuckles turn white as she grips the railing. She squeezes back unthinking, but there’s no keeping me out. I grit my teeth and thrust forward, sliding my dick halfway into her ass. It’s practically dry, the only lube is her own wetness.

“Fuck!” she snaps. “Don’t—”

I ignore her and cut her off with another thrust. Her back bows, her lips part and an animalistic sound escapes her. Good. I want to drive her down to her base instincts. Her asshole clenches tight around me.

“Let me in,” I order through a rough growl.

“It fucking hurts, you asshole,” she grits back.

My lips curve up into a smile. “Yeah?” I reach beneath her and feel her pussy. My fingers come away soaked. “You like the pain.” On the next withdraw, I spread the juice on my fingers down my shaft.

And just as I promised her she could, Clover screams as she stretches around me when I thrust back in. With one hand holding her waist, my other returns to her pussy and up to her clit. I rub my thumb over the needy bundle of nerves, circling it as her body automatically softens. Sharp pants sound in my ears. Hers. Rain falls again. This time, more than a few droplets. A soft sprinkle skims over both of our bodies, cooling them down as I work myself into her tight little ass. It’s a fight I have every intention of winning.

Clover groans, the sound filled with agony and just a little bit of a whine. I release her clit and grip one ass cheek, spreading it wide as I take in the sight of my dick sinking out of view. “Good, firebird,” I say, my breath sawing in and out of my chest as water slicks my spine and between my pecs. “So fucking good.”

“Please…” Her voice is raspy, hoarse. “Brax … please.”

Women aren’t so hard to understand when you get them to this point. They’re quite easy to dominate, but Clover is different. Her body might be like thousands of others, but her soul is tainted. Just like mine. Just like me, she truly likes the pain.

“You want more?” I ask her. My hand pulls away from her ass only to come down hard. The moonlight-like flesh shudders under impact and she arches up with a new scream lodged in her throat.

“Fuck!”

“Beg,” I order.

Her head turns back and forth, wet strands turning dark as her hair sticks to her skin. “No,” she bites out.

I slap her ass again, harder this time. “Fucking beg me to make it hurt, Clover.”

Her muscles contract, making it damn near impossible to slide my dick into her with ease. “If you want to hurt me, Brax,” she replies. “Then hurt me, but I’m not going to beg for something you already want to give me.”

I still, shock sliding through me. Her head turns back and our eyes collide. Electricity races through me, starting somewhere in the base of my skull and slipping down my nerves. It spreads throughout the rest of my body, filling me up with an energy I’ve never felt before.

How? I wonder. How can a wrecked little nobody make this happen?

She stands there, her ass cheeks red with my marks. Her body, riddled with the evidence of my hatred and lust. There’s no fear in her eyes. Just determination. And thirst.

“You don’t want to beg me, Clover?” The question isn’t one that’s meant to be answered, but she turns her cheek anyway as I pull out of her ass completely. The tight little ring of muscles pulses and contracts. It’s red, swollen. Bruised. Just like its owner.

My fingers move down to her pussy, sliding through the sloppy mess of her. I slide one finger into her and then another and another until I’ve got all of them but my thumb thrusting in and out of her sopping wet cunt. A feminine moan rings out into the air. It fills my head like a drug and the desire to rip more from her throat is intense.

“You’ll beg for your brother’s life”—My words echo in the wind—“but not for yourself?”

Her back straightens and I pull my fingers back, stroking my dick with the same hand that was inside of her, re-wetting it before I continue. I wait a moment, anticipating a response, but she surprises me. Instead, she looks back and reaches out, gripping the cheek of her ass that’s not bright red and pulling it out.

“Are you trying to understand me, Brax?” she asks, her voice breathless. “Or are you trying to fuck me?”

I chuckle and let it go. She’s not going to answer, but that’s alright because she’s already unknowingly told me the truth. Clover cares for others, but not for herself. That, too, is something I can relate to. It’s really too fucking bad we both met like this. I might have liked her in another life. I might have wanted her for something more.

As I place the head of my cock back against her asshole, I push forward, watching the play of burden and pain spread across her face. “This isn’t me fucking you, Clover,” I tell her as I stretch her apart.

“Then what the fuck is it?” she grits back, the discomfort of my cock in her hole making her irritable.

“It’s me stopping myself from killing you.” With that, I let go and shove—unbidden—into her darkest part, not stopping until she releases her own ass cheek to regrip the railing in preparation for my assault and my hips meet the fleshy undersides of her ass.

There’s no more room for talk. I fuck her hard, pulling out every few strokes to re-wet my dick with her pussy juice before sliding back inside. It’s not to keep from hurting her, but more to keep from ripping her apart. Already there’s a little blood on my dick, but blood and pussy juice do little as lube. I have no intention of stopping, however, just to make it easier on her. There’s little pleasure in it for her, but that’s not the point. This is for me. Still, whenever I think it’s too much for her, I’ll give her little clit some attention. I want to keep her here, right on the brink. Hungry. Scared. Frenzied.

I want her so fucking addicted that when I finally track her brother down, I can fuck her in front of him and drown in her body’s response no matter what I do to her. She won’t be able to stop her reaction. I’ll have her trained so fucking well.

Her pussy drips down her thighs as I thrust into her ass, back and forth, rocking in time with an invisible beat in my head. In and out, until my teeth grit and something voltaic rages up my spine. My fingers bite into her waist as I bring her back against me, ass to hips as the full length of my cock hits home. She cries, tears sliding down her face—dark tracks as they smear the dark mascara and eyeliner she wore at the club all over her beautiful features. She’s so perfect like this in her ruin.

She pants, flushed, eyes squeezing shut, teeth grinding against one another as she bears the pain I give her. Close. So fucking close. Both of us are on the edge, right there. Almost into that darkness I’ve been craving to bring her. All it takes is one little thing to push her over. Right over the railing in her mind rather than the one under her.

I pull back and slam into her with more force, drilling her ass as her eyes open and her lips part on a silent scream. My fingers reach beneath and pinch her clit, no finesse. No gentleness. All brutality. All cruelty. All for her.

Clover’s second orgasm is overwhelming. It’s violent—just like me. Her ass clenches down around my length and the next scream she unleashes reverberates into the air, echoing on the wind as my own cum floods her insides.

I grind my teeth as a growl rips up my chest. Blood smears across her shoulders. Bite marks and bruises. I’m fucked, I realize. So goddamn fucked, and I’ve got to find a way to free myself. Because it should never have been this good. Not with her.

34

CLOVER

WATER HITS my face and I pant, pulling away from it and turning, pressing my cheek against one of the stones layered into the wall of the shower. It’s both rough and smooth—the middle soft enough that it doesn’t grate against my skin, but the edges are cut in an angular way that makes the whole thing a mishmash of slightly off kilter grout and stone tiles. And my breasts are right at the edges of a few of the stones. Every movement, even slight, scrapes the rough parts against my nipples.

Fucking rich people and their fancy showers.

My thighs are still trembling from what just happened. I’m not quite sure if it’s the adrenaline still making its way through my body—the aftereffects of being fucked on the literal edge of death—or something else. My head is foggy and my body sore. I’m so focused on the feel of the heated water crashing down my back as I try to slow my breathing, I almost don’t hear the glass door opening. I look up as Braxton steps inside, his broad shoulders filling up what I originally thought was a massive space. With him, though, it feels impossibly small. He sucks all of the oxygen out of the surrounding space, making me feel lightheaded.

I fucking hope he’s sore, too. My ass is still on fire. My stomach cramps and I realize I haven’t yet done what I was supposed to when I came in here. I flip around, pressing my back against the stones as he approaches, striding through the rainfall of water until his shadow encompasses me.

“Turn back around.” His words are a command. Maybe to someone else, they would ensure no argument, but when it comes to him, I’m nothing if not rebellious.

I tip my head back as I look up at him, meeting his dark gaze head on. What could he be thinking? “Why?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he grips my elbow in his fist and forcibly spins me, shoving my face against the tiles where my cheek meets the coolness of the stone. “Hey!” I squirm as the same arm that turned me around presses against my upper back, holding me steady.

Fingers travel down my spine, between the cheeks of my ass and I wince. “Pull away,” he warns, “and you’ll regret it.”

I grit my teeth, but stay steady, letting him have his way as he finds the hole he just fucking destroyed. I really need to clean myself out now. My ass is sore, but my stomach feels strange—bloated and uncomfortable.

Brax pushes one finger into my ass and it comes out wet with the cum that’s still there. His arm leaves my back and for the briefest of moments, I hope he’s letting me go—but that’s wishful thinking. He grips my ass cheeks and spreads them painfully apart until I know he can see everything. My skin heats and I squeeze my eyes shut, knowing that I’m turning red all over.

“Let it out,” Brax says, holding my ass wide open. “You can’t keep it, firebird. Release my cum.”

“Let go, and I will,” I reply snidely. The thought of him watching as I push his cum out of my ass makes me want to die. It’s too embarrassing.

The heat of his skin slides against mine. One of his hands slips away from the side of my ass and then comes down hard, striking the flat of his palm against my skin and sending me up on my tiptoes as the pain spreads.

“Fuck!”

“I’m not going to ask you again, Clover.” He doesn’t sound affected at all by this situation. He sounds like a personal trainer telling their client to stretch. Not the psycho who just fucked his captive demanding she push his cum out of her ass while he watches like the fucking pervert he is.

“It’s not as easy as you think it is!” I snap. “Doing this in front of someone.”

“No?” His fingers dig deeper into the cheeks of my ass, sliding towards my crack and the still sore hole there. A shudder works through me as he slips one inside, swirling it as his other hand comes around and presses against the lower part of my stomach. “Do you want some help?”

“No…” My denial slips into a gasp as he presses back against my belly and I wince, feeling the unnecessary fullness inside. Cum dribbles out of my asshole, sliding against the cheeks of my ass as he digs it out. He slips another finger into my hole along with the first, turning them one way and then the other, scraping my insides clean.

Fuck, I think a moment later when I realize that the wetness between my thighs isn’t water. I can’t believe I’m getting off on this. I guess Braxton isn’t the only pervert here.

I slide my cheek across the stone tiles, my hips popping away from the wall as I try to escape the press of his hand on my stomach. My ass pushes back into his thighs and the remaining cum washes from me onto him and then completely away as water slides over the two of us.

The hand against my lower belly moves up, wrapping around my ribcage just beneath my breasts. Braxton uses that hold to pull me into his chest. I’m panting, wet and horny, and confused. It had hurt so much at first. Without lube, it’d felt like he was ripping me in two, but now that he’s not there—and the cum’s gone—it feels so fucking empty.

Braxton holds me against him as his hand leaves my ass and travels upward. Fingers grip my neck, squeezing along either side until my head goes fuzzy again and all I can hear are the harsh breaths against my ear when he leans forward and takes a lobe between his teeth, biting down until I swear his canine is going to pierce right through my flesh.

“What the fuck are we doing, Brax?” The question slips out, unbidden and unintentional. It’s something I’ve been wondering about since we were at the club.

His teeth release the lobe of my ear, but his hands remain against my sides. My neck hurts. My fucking sides hurt. I’m almost afraid to take a look at myself in the mirror. For several long moments, Braxton doesn’t say a word. The silence stretches—the only sound remaining is that of the shower raining against the glass, the stone, and our bodies—going for so long that I assume he won’t say another word for the rest of the night.

But then he shocks me. Braxton pulls away, turns, and picks up a washcloth. I watch him, curious and cautious, as he squirts soap onto it and then lathers it in his fists. I don’t move when he moves back against me—at least, I don’t intend to. The second the washcloth hits my shoulder—right where he bit me earlier—I flinch.

“Does it sting?” he asks.

I glare up at him as he continues washing me without stopping. “You didn’t seem to care when you did it,” I say. “Why start now?”

Wet locks so black they match his personality flop over one side of his forehead, the curls turning to springs against his temples. He looks so lost in his own mind, it’s not a surprise when he doesn’t answer me.

He finishes washing me and when he moves to shut off the water, I stop him with a hand on his wrist. He stiffens and pulls away, but after what just happened—after what I just went through for him—he’s not getting away that easily.

“Hand it over.” I hold out my hand, waiting for the washcloth.

“You don’t give the orders around here, firebird.”

I smile at the gruffness in his tone.

“Then don’t make me order you.” My hand doesn’t move and eventually, he drops the washcloth into my waiting palm.

I turn, grabbing the soap and lathering it back up. Braxton, for all his tough talk, doesn’t move a single muscle as I wash his arms and chest. I look up as I kneel and work my way up from his feet and there’s not even a smug smirk. Most guys wouldn’t be able to resist the sight of a woman they just fucked like he did on her knees before him. His dick doesn’t even stir.

“Does it have to hurt for you to get off?” I ask, forcing my tone to remain light as I scrub the cloth over his skin, washing away all of the sweat and rain and dirt. I ask the question, half expecting not to receive an answer, but when he speaks, he surprises me again.

“Not … always, but usually.”

My heart stills in my chest and it’s an effort to not pause and demand another answer. I have to play this cool, I realize. I have to play this right. There are two inner sides warring with my conscience. I tell myself I’m asking this because of what happened, because I need to know what I’m in for in the future. I need to prepare myself. It’s not quite the truth.

The truth is much simpler than planning for my immediate future as Braxton’s captive and Ace’s collateral.

I’m curious.

Braxton is far different from any man I’ve ever known in my life. Whether he realizes it, himself, or not—the two of us have been thrown together by circumstance. People’s lives don’t have one path they can take. If I’d just made one different choice, I probably wouldn’t even be here. Not in his shower. Not in his arms. And certainly not at Eastpoint.

I’m here for a reason, and a part of me thinks that it’s more about him than it is my brother.

“Do you know why?” I stand up and spin my finger in a circle. He glares at me but gives me his back, and the cloth nearly falls out of my grasp. His back is a roadmap of ink. One massive image colliding with several darker, smaller pieces that fill in the gaps. I vaguely recall seeing it in the hotel when he first kidnapped me, but this is the first time I’ve been so close to it since then. My fingers tingle with the desire to touch him. I wasn’t really able to do it in the heat of the moment, not the way I would’ve liked.

My bare hand touches his spine and the muscles beneath his flesh jump. I frown, feeling something long and raised under my palm. I track the line down to his hip. The tattoo stops right at the top of his ass, but there’s something beneath the ink.

“Not everyone needs a reason to hurt others, firebird.” Braxton doesn’t stop me from touching him. Not even when I’m sure he hears when the washcloth falls between us. My soapy fingers move across his shoulders and I find more than a dozen lines—some slightly diagonal, but most in a repetitive up and down direction.

A lightbulb goes off in my head and I bite the inside of my cheek. “What happened here?” The question is quiet, barely a whisper above the sound of the shower.

Braxton turns his head and looks back at me over his shoulder. “Trust is earned,” is all he says.

His meaning is clear. “And you don’t trust me…” I bite my lower lip. There are so many lines—scars. Some of the markings are smaller, shorter, older. My mind pieces the little bits of information together. He was abused. That much is clear. For years.

Who the fuck would dare mark him like this?

“Our relationship may not be based off of trust,” I admit, “but we made a deal, remember?”

“I’m well aware of our deal, firebird,” he replies. “This has nothing to do with it.”

I frown, confused. “Why do you call me that?” I ask, changing the subject.

“Call you what?” he asks as if he really doesn’t realize it.

“That nickname,” I say. “‘Firebird’? Why do you call me that?”

His lips pinch together and his attention returns to the doors. “All pets get a name.”

Irritation slithers through me. “Pet?” Is he fucking serious?

My hands leave his back as he turns to face me, falling away from the warmth and the scars he usually hides under ink and clothes. “Yes,” he says. “Pet.”

“Am I as good as a cat to you?” I demand.

One corner of his mouth tips up, amused. “You do have a great pussy.”

Sour acid bites at the inside of my stomach. “And ass,” I bite out. “Don’t forget all the holes you fucked, Brax.”

His smirk turns into a full-on grin. “Tight little ass too, yes,” he agrees. His hand arches up and he touches my lips. “And a beautiful mouth that takes my cock so well.”

I want to punch him. Better yet, my teeth itch to bite into him—to draw blood again. To make him hurt the way I’m hurting. I reach around him, shutting off the shower, before I open the door and step out, snatching a towel from a hanging rack on the wall. I cover myself, wrapping the cloth around my body as I step away from him.

“Angry?” Braxton’s question echoes off the tile and stone room as he steps out behind me. The soft drip of water slipping from his body and hitting the floor reaches my ears.

I don’t answer until I’m across the room. “Yes,” I hiss the word out, gripping the doorframe. My nails bite into the wood. “I’m more than angry, Brax. I’m pissed.” It would do no good to hide that from him.

“Why?” Brax sounds curious.

I look back, turning to face him. “Because you don’t even see me as human,” I tell him. “Do you see anyone as human?” And just because I can’t seem to fucking help it, I add, “Avalon, maybe?”

Braxton’s amusement falls away in a split second and his gaze grows sharp as he lifts his chin and glares at me. “What the fuck are you trying to get at?”

I shrug. “Not trying to get at anything,” I say. “Just pointing out the obvious.”

He crosses his arms over his massive, wet chest. My eyes slide down and then away. He must be real fucking proud of the stick between his legs. Either that or he truly doesn’t give a fuck how he looks because he hasn’t even bothered to grab a towel. “And what’s so obvious to you?”

I regret my words immediately. I turn away from him. It was nothing but some misdirected anger, a hint of an emotion I really don’t want to fucking admit to. I have no reason—no right—to be envious.

“It doesn’t matter,” I say in answer to his question. “I’m just here to protect Ace.” The words are said as a verbal reminder to myself as much as they are to him. “My duty here is to be collateral for his life. Nothing more.” At the end of the day, I’m just a hole for him to fuck. A body for him to abuse and use at his discretion.

“You agreed to this.” His words cut through me like a knife.

“Yeah, I did,” I snap, turning back to him. “And you’re using that fact as a goddamn weapon, aren’t you?” There’s no humanity in this relationship of ours. Hell, it’s not a relationship at all. Why the hell did I think otherwise? Even if it was for the briefest of moments.

Braxton doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he stares back at me. Mute. He doesn’t drag his eyes away from mine. No, he doesn’t need to. He’s got me trapped in that gaze of his—like a pathetic little butterfly caught in his web.

“You want to hurt me,” I tell him, taking a step back into the bathroom. The floor is cold under my bare feet. I don’t care. I let my legs carry me all the way to where he stands until his chest is barely a handspan away and our toes touch. “You want to bend me and break me, Braxton Smalls.”

“And you’re going to let me,” he shoots back. “All for him.” He spits out the last word like it’s a curse.

I shake my head. “To an extent, Brax,” I warn him. “You think you have me cornered because I agreed to fuck you in return for you not tearing ass after Ace, but understand this much.” I lean up on my elbows and stare back at him. He grits his teeth as his hands ball into fists. “I’m the swamp rat you picked up. I have not been catered to my whole life like the women you were raised around. I am my own person and when someone pushes too far, I let them know. You have rights over my body, Brax, but that’s as far as it goes.”

Braxton’s arms drop to his sides and before I know it, his hands are around my waist as he rips the towel away from my body and turns, shoving me up against the outside glass of the shower. “You think your body is all you’re giving me, Clover?”

I swallow hard. “Yes.” I turn the small lie into a silent prayer.

His wide mouth curves into a vicious smile. “Then you have nothing to fear.”

I stare up at him, hoping he sees less than I think I’m revealing. His hands against my flesh make me tremble. His eyes make me want to dive deep and find out where those scars came from. But I can’t. Because at the end of the day, I have everything to fear. I have him to fear—not how he can physically hurt me. Not how he could kill me at any moment. But how he could rip me to shreds without a single knife or weapon.

35

BRAXTON

I PUT the cigarette between my lips, and flick my lighter until the flame burns warm against my face. I hold it just out of reach of the end for a moment, watching the red and yellow spark flicker back and forth in the light wind. After a moment, I release the latch and let it extinguish without even lighting up. A cigarette ain’t going to do shit for my tension right now. I need something heavier. I need weed. Or better yet, about a gallon of cold, hard whiskey.

Normally, I’m chill after a fuck like what happened Friday night. That bloody, that violent, that satisfying—the high should’ve lasted me a good fucking month. It hasn’t even been a full week. My back itches, the old scars tightening as I squeeze my muscles, trying to stretch out the tension beneath my skin. It doesn’t work. Nothing works.

I put the cigarette away when I catch sight of my prey and shove the lighter back in my pocket. I snatch up my bag and hike across the campus green when I see Rylie leave from her last class of the day. I’ve already enlisted Avalon’s help to keep an eye on Clover while I talk business, so I know I’ve got time, but still … I want this over with sooner rather than later.

Rylie doesn’t look surprised to see me and she slows to a stop to give me time to catch up. It doesn’t take long. My feet eat up the distance between us until I’m standing right next to her. “Do you have what I asked for?”

She looks up at me and sighs, turning away—in the direction of the student union. “Buy me a hot chocolate and we’ll talk,” she calls back over her shoulder.

The corner of my mouth tips up. Just a few short months ago, she would’ve never had the balls to make that demand. Being Abel’s girl sure has changed her. I don’t argue and instead, follow behind her willingly. She’s still so small; it’s hard to come to grips with the fact that she won’t be that way for much longer. Another Eastpoint heir is on its way.

My mind takes off with that little piece of information, wondering what the kid will look like. Abel, maybe? Or her? Will it be a boy or girl? They should be finding out any week now. I find myself praying that whatever it is, it can withstand the harsh realities of this world, of our world. Abel is insane to want this—to want to be a father when we just fucking managed to crawl out from under our own. If anything, though, maybe our experiences will make us a little better. Hopefully, we won’t fuck up the future generation like the old generation fucked us up.

Rylie and I step into the campus coffee shop and while she grabs the two of us a private table towards the back, away from the rest of the clientele, I head up to the front and grab a black coffee for myself and a hot chocolate for her. Minutes later, I take a seat across from where she’s already got her laptop out and set her cup down next to the monitor.

Without a word, she snatches it up and tips it back, downing several gulps of it in one go. “Thirsty?” I comment dryly.

She shoots me a nasty look. “Not for hot chocolate,” she replies, eyeing my coffee.

“Ah.” I grimace, glancing down at my own coffee—not sure if I should offer it to her or not.

Rylie snorts. “You should really see yourself,” she says. I lift my gaze to hers. She smiles. “I’m fine, Brax. I can handle limited coffee for the foreseeable future. It won’t kill me—I’m just being bitchy.” Before I can summon a response to that, her attention returns to her screen. “And yes, in answer to your previous question—I do have the info you asked for.”

My body tightens, anticipation thrumming in my veins. I lean forward. “And?”

Rylie’s petite nose wrinkles against her face as she flips her monitor around for me to see. “According to all public documentation—Ace Volkov is a dead man,” she begins. “It’s really only when I dug a little deeper that things got a bit murky.”

“Murky how?” I demand as I scan the information before me. Just like in the files I collected about Clover, in the right hand corner of the first page is a picture of Ace—albeit a much younger and skinnier version of him. It looks like a mug shot, maybe something a juvenile detention center would take. He appears to be about seventeen years old in the image.

“Well, under his parents—his mother is listed as deceased a little over ten years ago,” she says. “She listed a man named Ivan Volkov as the father, but when I researched Ivan—he died well over thirty years ago, almost right after he immigrated to the US from Russia.”

I frown and glance over the top of the screen, taking in her expression as she lifts her hot chocolate back to her mouth and takes a sip. “Ace should be around his mid-twenties. If Ivan were really dead, then there’s a mistake. Either he’s not his real father or—”

“Ivan Volkov wasn’t dead,” I finish for her.

“Bingo.” She nods. “Honestly, Ace doesn’t have much information on himself—he, to quote the system, died about five years ago. Therefore, everything I’ve found was from the American public education system and it wasn’t pretty. After his mom died, he was shuffled from relative to relative before disappearing off the map completely for a year or two. He didn’t pop back up until about a year before his supposed death date.”

“And?”

Rylie shakes her head. “Nothing,” she says on a sigh. “No arrest record after getting out of juvie. No job prospects either. There’s no determining where he made money to live off of so that means there wasn’t a paper trail. It was all under the table. I hit a dead end and had to switch to Ivan Volkov and Clover—and of the two of them Clover is the one that’s the most above board.”

Rylie sets her cup on the table and turns towards her backpack, opening it and pulling out a notebook filled to the brim with various papers sticking out between the covers. “We already know about Clover,” I say. “Tell me about Ivan.” If Clover is key to the outer door, maybe he’s the code to the inner chamber.

Rylie’s lips press together and turn down, a small v forming between her brows as she flips her notebook open and begins combing through pages. “Ivan Volkov obviously had some connections to the Russian Bratva,” she confesses, pulling a few pages out of her stack and handing them over.

I scan the contents, but they’re pretty cut and dry—arrest records in their original Russian language—with a picture of a man who looks similar to Ace. Same eye color. Same skin tone. It’s clear, however, that this man lived a rougher life. His nose is much bigger than the rest of his face and slightly off center as if the thing had been broken too many times and the swelling just never went down. His eyes are deader, less cold and more exhausted. In some of the pictures, he appears young—no more than thirteen—and in others he’s well into his twenties and then thirties.

“How old would he be now?” I ask.

“Ivan?” Rylie looks up. “I’d say mid-sixties probably. I couldn’t actually figure out his birth date, it’s wrong on a couple of documents and I was using an online translator, so the accuracy of this information is sketchy at best.” She grimaces. “Sorry about that.”

I shake my head and hand back the documents. “No, don’t be,” I assure her. “You did a good job.”

“I did find something interesting, though,” Rylie says. “An address.”

I lean back in my seat and scrub a hand down my face, my lips twisting with irritation. “We already found the Port Charlotte place.”

Rylie shakes her head. “No, not that place. It’s a house in Georgia.”

“Georgia?” I frown. “Was it a temporary residence?”

Rylie’s little nose wrinkles up again. “Sort of. Actually, I kinda found it by accident. I’ve been working on finding a missing person for Luc and—”

Rylie cuts herself off as a low growl rumbles inside my chest. Memories of Friday night flash through my head. The fucker’s arms around Clover as they’d danced to the beat of the club music. Something vicious takes root inside of me. Rylie lifts her brows and gapes at me.

“I thought you guys were on decent terms now,” she comments, confusion clear in the hesitation of her tone.

I ignore it. “Does Abel know you’re working for him?”

She blinks. “I’m doing him a favor and yeah, I told him.”

“He’s okay with it?”

Her expression hardens and she grabs her laptop, flipping it back around and shutting it. “Why wouldn’t he be?” she snaps back. “I’m not on lockdown. I can do whatever the fuck I want, and if I want to help out a guy with connections on the off chance I’ll need help later, then I will.”

“Abel must be out of his fucking mind.” It’s the only explanation.

Rylie rolls her eyes and starts packing up her laptop into its case and then bag. “Or maybe he understands that he has nothing to worry about.”

“A Kincaid will always be a Kincaid.”

She gives me a bland look as she takes out a pen and clicks the top of it. Maybe I should’ve had that cigarette after all. “Sounds like you’re just a little peeved that he was all over a certain someone last Friday.”

My blood runs cold. “Excuse me?”

Rylie’s fingers freeze over the paper she’s pulled from the rest and started to scribble on. Then, with careful movements, she puts the pen down and looks up at me. There’s a fine tremble to her fingers, but she clasps them together as if to get them to stop. Her eyes meet mine with a fierce glare. I can’t tell if the shaking is because she’s angry or afraid. Perhaps it was too much to hope that she would lose all sense of fear of the rest of us—no it was just too much to hope that she would lose it in regards to me.

“Stop it,” she says coolly. "You’re not fooling anyone.”

I arch one single brow. “I’m not trying to fool anyone, Rylie.”

She levels me with another look and this one is less fearful and more impudent. For several long seconds, she doesn’t say anything. Finally, she shakes her head. “You’re fooling yourself then,” is all she says, and fuck if I know what to do with that statement.

She unclasps her fingers and reaches for the pen once more. “The address is suspicious because it was near Avalon’s old hometown,” she continues, switching back to the previous topic as if none of what just happened was of any significance. “We know that Ace was working with Frazier Senior and Smalls Senior, but when I was looking into the missing person for Luc, I found that his old man owned a shithole house down there. It isn’t completely out of the realm of possibility that Ace could’ve been working for several men at once. If he was working for your dad and Abel’s, then it could be possible that he worked for Kincaid Senior as well.”

She lifts the paper and hands it to me. “Here, this is the address. Have someone check it out yourself if you want, but my suggestion would be to see if you can talk to Luc’s dad. You could possibly get ahold of Ace through him if you really wanted to track him down.”

I take the page and fold it neatly before slipping it into my back pocket. “Thanks for the tip.” I stand to go.

“Just one question before you go, though.” I look down as I grip my bag and haul it up over my shoulder. “Does she know you’re still looking for him?”

There’s no need to wonder who the ‘she’ is that Rylie is referring to. There’s only one ‘she’ that I might try to hide this from. “No.”

Rylie blows out a breath and shakes her head. “Dumbass.”

“You’re getting cheeky in your pregnancy,” I comment dryly.

Her face goes slack with surprise as if she hadn’t expected me to make such an uncharacteristic reference to her state of being. After a moment, though, she chuckles. “Wait until it starts forming and getting bigger. I bet I’ll be more deadly than you when I’ve got a big-headed Eastpoint heir jumping on my bladder and kicking me in the ribs.”

I shake my head and reach out, ruffling the top of her hair. “Thanks for the help,” I say genuinely. “But I recommend you keep your opinions on how I choose to handle Clover to yourself.”

She shrugs. “It’s your funeral.”

I sigh. “Avalon’s a terrible influence on you,” I tell her.

“Maybe.” Rylie doesn’t even try to deny it. “Oh, one more thing—I gave Luc that same address. I found it for him, after all. So, don’t be surprised if you run into each other. Like I said, I highly recommend going to his father. If you can use someone like him to lure Ace out, then you’ll have your man.” She pauses and looks away as she gathers the rest of her papers and shoves them into her bag. “What you do with Clover … that’s your mistake to make afterward.”

I don’t give the comment a response or stick around to hear if she has anything else to add. Instead, I release the top of her head and start walking, heading out of the coffee shop in search of the very one I’m deceiving.

Some people think it takes more effort to lie than it does to tell the truth, but I know that sometimes, lies are the only things allowing us to sleep at night. The truth is far more dangerous than anyone wants to admit. It’s far bloodier and more arduous than simply closing our eyes and pretending that it’s all okay.

In the end, the only truth we ever really need is what we choose to believe.

I’ll keep letting Clover believe that she’s helping her brother, that she’s saving him from me when the reality is that he was dead the second he set his sights on Avalon—the second he thought he could hurt my family and live.

36

CLOVER

“NICE SCARF.”

I turn at the familiar voice, a scowl forming over my lips as I lift one hand and put my middle finger up. “Fuck. Off.”

Avalon straight up laughs. Bitch. When she’s done laughing, she shakes her head and wipes away an invisible tear. “Well, now I know for sure you’re hiding something under there,” she says, pointing towards my neck. “It’s been quite a few days, though. Shouldn’t whatever it is be healed by now?”

“I’m a redhead,” I remind her, pointing to the top of my head even though it’s clearly fucking obvious. “Bruises stand out and they last.” And the ones Braxton gave me are far worse than any I’ve ever had before. My hips. My thighs. My waist. I feel like a goddamn ragdoll that got beat to bloody hell. At least the ones scattered under my clothes are easier to hide.

In soreness, though, I find that the aches and pains do something strange. When I’m lying in bed at night—in the new room he switched me to since he broke down the door of the last one I was in—I dig the pads of my fingers into the ones on my sides and feel the dampened response between my legs. I might tell him how fucked up he is, but … unfortunately, it appears that deep down, I’m just as bad.

Avalon hums in the back of her throat and I reach up automatically, squeezing the fabric covering the bruises and bite marks that I’m currently doing my best to hide from the normal populace. I’m sure it would come as a surprise to no one that Braxton is a little rough with his toys, but I want to at least pretend like he didn’t just fuck me stupid and then put a knife through my chest a little more than half a week ago. Metaphorically, of course—or at least when it comes to the knife through my chest bit. I have no doubt he’d do that too if I pissed him off enough. Honestly, it might hurt less.

“How bad can they be?” Avalon asks as she joins me on the sidewalk after our last class.

“It’s none of your business,” I say, side stepping away from her in case she gets the idea to try and rip the suffocating scarf off to take a look at her friend’s handiwork. If they are, in fact, friends. I eye her dubiously.

“What?” She frowns.

I press my lips together, debating, but at the end of the day it’s none of my business whether or not she’s sleeping with her boyfriend’s best friend. Whatever they have—it’s obviously not exclusive. And just like before, it’s none of my business. I have no right to care.

“Nothing,” I mutter, turning back to the street as we wait for the crosswalk sign to turn green. The second it does, I’m off—striding across the white lines like the hounds of hell are on my ass. My legs are itching to go for a jog. Around campus. Back at the Tower gym. Doesn’t matter. All that matters is that I need to move—I need to feel like I’m going somewhere and leaving all of these fucking people and their problems behind.

I make it across the street with Avalon moving quicker behind me to catch up. We might be similar in height, but I doubt she’s faster than me. If I really wanted to get away, there’s no way she’d catch me. Not unless she used … I glance down at my ankle, scowling at the damn offensive restraining piece of jewelry.

Brax said it would shock me if I tried to take it off, but I’m almost past the point of caring. It’s not like I haven’t felt pain before. I handled him, didn’t I?

A lone, black sedan idles in front of a building several paces away—the tinted windows completely blacked out. So dark it’s impossible to see what’s inside. Other than that, the vehicle looks completely average—middle class, not super expensive, but not cheap either. Well maintained. No dings or obvious signs of wear and tear.

Despite all that, however, I find myself staring at it. It’s completely normal. So … what the hell is bothering me.

“You’re in a mood today, aren’t you?” Avalon mutters at my back.

Her words go in one ear and out the other. My entire focus is on that car. “You have no idea…” My words trail off as I keep my eyes glued to the car.

“What are you looking at?” Avalon stops at my side and as soon as she does, the car’s engine revs and it pulls away from the curb, turning and heading up the street.

“Nothing,” I say, shaking my head and heading back towards the parking lot.

“Wait a sec.” A hand latches onto my arm and irritation flares. I resist the urge to jerk myself out of her hold. I doubt doing so would offend her—Avalon doesn’t seem the type to get hurt by small things like that—but it would only prove to myself that I’m unable to control my emotions around these people. Around her. Around him.

“What?” My voice remains steady as I turn back.

She tilts her head up at me. As if she senses just how uncomfortable I am with her hand on my arm, she releases me and takes a half step back.

“You seem pretty on edge,” she says. “Was it that bad?”

“Was what bad?”

She arches one brow. “You’re not seriously going to pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about are you?” I remain silent as I wait on her. “Oh damn.” She takes a step back and eyes me up and down.

I scowl. “What?”

Avalon’s hair slides across her shoulders as she shakes her head at me. “You did it, didn’t you?” Though her words are phrased as a question, she doesn’t really seem like she’s expecting an answer.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

Stop it, Clover, a small voice in my head says. She’s just trying to get a rise out of you.

Yeah, I think back just as snidely. And it’s fucking working.

“You drank the Kool-Aid, girl,” she says, and I’m truly at a loss.

My anger depletes in the face of pure confusion. My face scrunches up. “What?”

“The juice,” she says. “The dumb bitch kind. I warned you—I really did. I told you not to get used to this place.”

“I’m not.” I say the words with more emphasis than necessary, stressing how much I mean them. This isn’t my life. Eastpoint is not where I belong. “I’m here for Ace—”

“Yeah, yeah, to save his life.” Avalon waves her hand in front of her flippantly. “You’re starting to sound like a broken record.”

“Probably because you keep trying to make it seem like I’m here for anything else.”

“I didn’t say that wasn’t what brought you here,” Avalon says. Her head lifts and she moves forward. My body stiffens, but I don’t move. I don’t back down. I wait until she’s toe to toe with me, the tips of her boots against my sneakers. “But things are changing,” she says, staring back into my eyes. “Aren’t they?”

Yes. They are. Because of her. Because of him. Because of my stupidity. My stomach rebels, churning and rolling. “Stop.” I inhale and let all of my emotion fall away. I push it down, burying it deep. My legs twitch with the urge to go for a run. I inhale and then slowly release my breath. “Whatever you’re trying to do, right now, just stop it, Avalon.”

“What am I trying to do?” she counters.

I don’t know, but it feels dangerous. When you grow up like I do—in the shadows of the forgotten—the sense of danger becomes second nature. Avalon has it written all over her in bright, flashing neon hazard signs.

They really are alike, I think—Avalon and Brax. Even silently admitting that makes my chest ache.

I stare back at her, watching this girl, trying to determine what it is about her that makes him so … human. When he’s with me, he’s more of a monster. A part of me wants to believe that I’m something he needs. He cares for her, but he wants to kill me. We’re two halves of the same coin. One side, light. One side, dark. The unfairness of it all doesn’t even hurt anymore. From birth, life is made up of unfair circumstances.

After what feels like the longest time, Avalon sighs. “Okay,” she finally says. “I’ll let it go for now.”

I turn away and start walking again, moving around her as I do. The sound of her footsteps on the pavement is the only thing telling me she’s following. “You can do what you want,” I say because it’s true. In her world, she’s free. More than free, she has the ability to control ties and strings and connections. She’s not just in a world of her own, she controls it, and she knows she does.

In my world, I’m nothing more than a tool. I bite my lip hard. No. I can’t be just a tool. Braxton might want to think that, but it’s not true. He agreed to my deal for a reason. He wanted me. Maybe it’s only sexual to him, but men are simple creatures. Sex is their expression. It’s their language. I grab onto that truth and I hold it close to my chest. My eyes burn with unshed emotions. The feeling of being adrift in a place I don’t belong—inside of this little group and this city, this university—is a torment I never expected. Isolation. Separation. Degradation. I’ve been forced to face all of it, and I’ve survived. That has to mean something.

“I know you’re in a shit mood, now,” Avalon speaks up from behind me, “but I came after you for a reason.”

“To keep an eye on the hostage?” I ask lightly.

Avalon rounds my side and stops when we hit the next street. “No.” She tilts her head to the side. “I don’t really feel the need to keep an eye on you anymore, and you should realize that Brax doesn’t either.”

“Oh?” Is it because they don’t expect me to run? I look down at the anklet on my foot. No, it’s because they think they’ve already got me trapped. The urge to rip the damn thing off my leg and take off rises.

Ace, I remind myself. You’re doing this for him.

Thunderclouds roll overhead. I look up and stare at them as the gray seems to overpower the rest of the skies. The scent of rain filters through my nostrils. I inhale deeply. I’m used to humidity, but here at Eastpoint, things are dry.

It hadn’t been dry that night with Braxton. Maybe that was another reason why I’d accepted the dark parts of him. Why I’d gone from sheer repressed terror to utter resolve. On that terrace, with my ass against the frozen railing and my back to the open skies, the heat and moisture in the air had made me feel at home.

Avalon sighs, a sign that she’s growing irritated with my lack of responses. I look up and wait. She crosses her arms over her chest. “I wanted to invite you somewhere.”

“Do I have a choice?”

The corner of her lips tilt up. “Nope.”

“Then what’s the point of prevaricating?” I ask. “Tell me where to be and at what time. I’m sure your puppy dog will make whatever you desire come true.”

The smirk falls away. “Careful, jailbird.” Another nickname that proves just how they see me. Weak. Imprisoned. If only they knew what I was really capable of. I clench my hands into fists.

I might be wearing the face of innocence right now, but I know that we’re both predators from different climates—Braxton and I. I walked into Eastpoint as a hostage, a bargaining tool. That’s not who I really am. And Avalon sees that. The ‘jailbird’ comment was meant to piss me off, and it does its job, but I don’t let it show.

Her gaze narrows. “I don’t know what you think is going on between Brax and I, but you’re wrong.”

“Am I?” Even though I know I should maintain my anger and not let the words come out, it seems my body has other things in mind.

Avalon’s expression darkens. Her upper lip curls back slightly and her brows lower. “Yes.” Anyone can lie with enough confidence. I stare back at her, looking for a tell. Something. Anything. She’s good, though. There’s nothing.

“Whatever you say, Ava.” I shrug and move to step past her, but Avalon's arm snaps out and stops me. I freeze.

“You don’t know, Clover, but Dean is everything to me.” Too many girls have claimed the same. In the past, I’d seen so many profess their love only to turn around and fuck their best friend or their brother or even their fucking teachers. Whatever they had to do to get out of their pathetic situations—love was never anything more than a weapon. Like a machete used to cut through a jungle, women use it to get what they want. I don’t say anything, though. There wouldn’t be any point.

"I love Brax,” she says, “and I would kill for him, but if it came down to it—Dean comes first. Brax understands that.”

How sad for him. “I don’t care.”

“Yeah?” Avalon drops her arm and steps in front of me until we’re back to our original position—face to face. Chase and run. Rinse and fucking repeat. I meet her gaze without hesitation. “For someone who doesn’t fucking care, you sure are irritated by the thought, aren’t you?”

I grit my teeth and squeeze my fists at my sides. She smiles, but it’s more teeth than anything else. “No need to answer,” she says. “I already know. And for your information—I think you’ll like where we’re going this weekend. Something tells me, you might even want to get in the ring yourself.”

I frown. “Ring?”

She smirks. “Yeah, it’s a fight ring. Underground. Bloody. Wild.” Her brows lift. “You could use a good dose of bloodshed.”

She has no fucking idea, but I don’t bother with a response. Like I said before—there’s really no point, whatever the queen wants, she gets. I never had a choice to begin with.

Not with her and certainly not with Brax. Whatever my fate is now, it’s intertwined with his and that’s a fact that drives home just how insidious this place has become. Eastpoint is a cancer and if I stick around, it’ll become terminal. The only question now is, do I find out if the cure is something Braxton can provide or do I go to plan B?

My head turns and I look up the road where the car from earlier had gone. The back of my neck tingles with awareness. I’m being watched. Is it Ace? I wonder. Has he found me already? Another question pops up—heavier and more pertinent—if it is him, what is he waiting for? And how long until I find out?

37

BRAXTON

I’M LOSING MY MIND. It’s a slow process, invisible to the naked eye, but there nonetheless. She’s doing something to me and it started long before that night on the terrace. It started the second she ran and I chased her ass—watching as she fought hard against the inevitable fact that she would become a pawn in this game of chess her brother and I are playing.

Even when she resigned herself to the fact and faced the challenge of her usage, trying to make it her own choice—to turn something inescapable into an opportunity—I found her intriguing. She, unlike most people, is truly amusing. At brief moments, her eyes are open to the world, revealing everything in her head—from her unspoken fear to her anger to her bone-deep sorrow. I’m not even sure if she realizes that last part.

Clover is a lonely girl. Devil that I am, I took advantage of that the night on the terrace.

Now, as I make my way into the old decrepit warehouse in the industrial district of Eastpoint, I find myself watching her with a keen eye. I hurt her. It’s obvious in the way she carries herself, though she tries to hide it. I’ve never felt guilt over something like that and I don’t even now; I just … don’t care for the way she walks around like I kicked her fucking puppy or some shit. It’s pointless.

“Why are we here?” I demand, finally pulling my gaze away from the redhead standing several feet in front of me as I turn and level my glare at Ava.

She shrugs. “I haven’t come in a while,” she says. “And D-man wouldn’t let me come alone.” She jerks her thumb to the man at her side.

Dean, for his part, looks as though he’s swallowed a particularly sour lemon. “Still don’t fucking want you here,” he mutters, clenching his hand around her waist as he drags her closer to his side and away from the already hyped crowd. There’s a wave of electricity dancing in the air tonight, a bloodthirst that always permeates these fights.

Once, long ago, I’d been resentful of them. Angry that I couldn’t partake, but as I’d gotten older—I’d realized something more releasing was waiting for me. Eastpoint is full of sharks and I’m one of them. Enemies are around every corner. People who would buy and sell their own offspring in favor of getting ahead. Traitors who use the Eastpoint names to make their mark. Where Dean is in charge of finding them, killing them if necessary, I am the one who gets information. Torture. Maim. Kill.

My insides tighten and a surprising burst of imagination fills my head. Clover covered head to toe in blood, laid out on a white bed. The image shifts and I’m fucking her, smearing that blood all over as she screams. I can’t tell if I’m killing her or filling her with my cum in the sudden fantasy. Maybe both. My dick hardens in my pants and I jerk my head up, following where I last saw her to find she’s stepped aside, separating herself from our pack, looking bored and alone.

“Got your eye on something, psycho boy?” Ava’s comment makes me look her way.

Crossing my arms, I rock back on the backs of my boots and glare down at her. I’m still not happy with her manipulations. “Nothing wrong with me observing something that’s mine,” I tell her.

She arches her brow. “Really? That’s what you’re going with?” She shakes her head, long black hair swinging left to right in the high ponytail she’s got it in. “No wonder the poor girl is losing control of herself.”

I scowl. “What does that mean?” I demand. “What do you know?” Did Clover say anything? Did she open up to Ava?

Ava stares back at me with pursed lips and a considering look in her eye. “You don’t hate her, Brax,” she finally says. “None of us do—well, aside from Abel, but he hates her on the principle that she’s related to Ace. He doesn’t actually hate her as a person.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

She sighs as she leans back into Dean. “It’s hard to want to hurt someone that you don’t hold any ill will towards.”

Not for me it isn’t. It never has been. I don’t get a chance to respond, though, before Dean speaks. “I feel bad for her,” he says, shocking me.

“You feel bad for her?” I repeat the words, unsure if maybe I’ve heard them incorrectly. His lips appear to be moving, but every time I replay what he said back in my mind, the same phrase comes back to me.

Dean nods. “She’s caught up in this as much as we were with our fathers. There’s no choice on her part.” He looks at me, his face serious and devoid of any sympathy he claims to have. Devoid of anything, really. Like me, he’s good at shielding his emotions behind a mask and considering where we are—surrounded by ruthless elite, here to see someone bleed and break—it makes sense why he doesn’t show me his inner face. Still, it burns. I want to know what he means. “From what I’ve seen and from what Ava’s told me, she doesn’t seem to want to hurt us. She doesn’t even know what her brother did. Why haven’t you told her?”

My gaze skims back to Ava. “What have you said about her?” I ask instead of answering his question.

Ava shrugs. “Just that she’s a lot like us.”

Like us? Clover? My attention returns to the girl in question. She stands out in a crowd with that red hair of hers—sure she’s not the only redhead in existence, but the only one with her shade. The shape of her body is like an hourglass. Her pale skin speckled with small brown dots like someone splattered paint on her when they were creating her. Right now, she looks almost ghost-like. As if a strong wind could blow her away. Fragile. Breakable. And while that, too, is mildly attractive to me, that’s nothing like Avalon, nothing like me. How the hell is she like us?

“She’s resilient,” Ava answers my unspoken question. “She’s here to save someone she cares about and let’s be honest, Brax—you haven’t given her the boy next door facade you give the people on campus. She’s seen the real you—all the way down to the murderous intent. She hasn’t run screaming.”

“Because she knows I’d kill her brother,” I snap.

“You’re going to anyway,” Dean points out. “Just because you’ve lied to her and deceived her into believing that she’s actually doing something to protect him, doesn’t erase the fact that she’s here facing his punishment in her mind. Any single one of us would do the same for each other. We’d kill for each other, but we’d also be willing to die for each other.”

“She’s not like us.” I deny it, but at the same time … haven’t I often thought the same? I grit my teeth and clench my fists. “She’s on one side and we’re on the other.” Small similarities and actions that are deserving of respect don’t make what she is anything less. She’s the enemy.

I flip my attention back to them and glare at Dean. “What exactly are you wanting from me?” I demand. “Shouldn’t you want her strung out and fucked over? She’s helping the man who tortured your girl.”

Dean doesn’t answer and instead, he looks down at Ava. “Our vendetta is against Ace, Brax. Not her,” she says. “She’s just collateral damage.”

“So what are you suggesting? Do you want me to let her go?” Never. She’s mine.

Ava and Dean exchange a look. Dean exhales slowly. “We just want to make sure you know what you’re doing, man.”

“I always know what the fuck I’m doing,” I snap. “I can keep her for however long I fucking need to.”

“Not saying you can’t, but at the end of the day—she wasn’t your prey to begin with. What are you going to do when she finds out you’re lying to her? Let her go?”

What am I going to do with her? The question echoes in my head, and I’m disconcerted to realize that I haven’t exactly considered what would happen to Clover after I dealt with Ace. Will I let her go? The very idea of sending her off—back to that bum fuck trailer in the marshlands sits like a boulder in my chest. Let her rot in the gutter after I kill her brother? Why should that bother me? I don’t know, but it does.

What if … she stayed? I could move back to Dean’s and let her have the Tower. It was my place, but … she’s so much a part of it now that I can’t picture it without her. She would like that, wouldn’t she? She wouldn’t have to live in a sinking death trap. She would be comfortable.

Hell, maybe I could just … keep using her. We could make our arrangement a little more permanent. When I do eventually track down her brother, perhaps I could even kill him without her knowing. That would be easier, wouldn’t it? She wouldn’t ever have to know.

My thoughts come to a screeching halt. What the fuck am I thinking? Killing her brother and hiding it? What would be the point in that? To spare her feelings?

Disgust curdles in my head. Fuck that. Her feelings aren’t important. Revenge is.

“Brax?” Ava’s call distracts me and I let a curse slip out. Turning from the two of them, I scrub a hand down my face.

“What I do with my captive is none of your fucking business.” I spit the words out venomously. Clover is mine—mine to do with what I want. Mine to hurt. Mine to fuck. Mine to break.

“Brax, that’s not what we’re—”

My cell buzzes in my pocket and I quickly pull it out. “I’ve gotta take this,” I say before I even look at the screen. “Watch her for me.”

I don’t even stick around to hear their response. As I stomp out of the warehouse and swipe the answer button on my phone, I feel their stares. Their concern. There’s nothing to be concerned about. I’ve got everything under control.

38

BRAXTON

“WHAT DO YOU HAVE FOR ME?”

“Nothing.” Troy’s voice comes over the line and it cuts into my ears like a knife.

“What do you mean nothing?”

“I mean, there’s nothing here,” Troy replies. “The house is abandoned. It was easy enough to break in. The door wasn’t even locked, and whatever valuables that were here are long gone. It doesn’t look like anyone has lived here for a few months if not a year or more.”

That is definitely not the news I wanted to hear after the conversation I just had with Avalon and Dean. A curse rumbles up my chest, but I shove it back down as I push out into the parking lot—away from prying eyes. My boots crunch over gravel.

“There’s no sign of him at all?” I demand.

Troy’s sigh comes through the other line. After the information Rylie gave me earlier this week, I had him go back to Georgia—back to Avalon’s hometown and the mysterious address she’d found. There had to be something there. Some hint or sign of Ace somewhere. Despite what Rylie had found—or hadn’t found as it were—he wasn’t a dead man. Not really. Papers could all say one thing, but I knew the truth. We all did. Ace Volkov was alive and well and so long as he lived and breathed, his sister would remain my captive and this God-fucking-awful feeling of failure and disgust would sit in my chest.

“Turn the place upside down if you have to, Troy,” I urge. “I’ll deal with the fallout if someone comes asking questions.”

“No, man,” Troy says. “You don’t understand. There’s literally nothing to turn upside down. It’s barely a house at all. The roof’s caving in. The floor is sinking. The furniture is old and threadbare. Whoever lived here, they haven’t been back in a long time. And even when they were here, they lived on the bare minimum. I’ve already gone through everything here. Short of digging in the backyard for corpses, there’s nothing more to find. No mail. No forwarding address. No … anything. It’s a ghost house. Empty.” A dead end.

I stomp towards the car sitting in the parking lot. Just hours before, Clover had sat in the passenger seat to my right—her warmth there, but just out of reach. I close my eyes as I place one forearm along the window of the passenger side and hunch over.

“Fuck.” I let the curse fly. There’s no point in holding it back. That fucking address had been, in essence one of my last-ditch efforts to find Ace. No matter what I fucking do, it feels like every single line I cast ends up coming out of the water with nothing attached. The bait from my hook is gone and I’ve got nothing to show for it.

No, maybe not nothing. I’ve still got her.

“I’m sorry, Brax,” Troy’s voice is full of sympathy. Fuck his sympathy, I think. I don’t fucking need it.

“What about the other thing I asked you to do?” I ask through gritted teeth.

“The trailer?” Troy replies. “I’m heading there next. I’ll lock it up tight. No worries.”

“Let me know when you get there.”

“Will do.”

I end the call before I can say anything else and in the following silence, defeat intrudes. Vicious and violent, it pours through my system until it fills me up from the inside out. I pull back and punch the door. My fist meets metal and the responding crunch is hollow even to my own ears. It’s not enough. I punch again and again until there’s a sizable dent that can’t be mistaken in the passenger side door of my SUV.

After several long moments in silence, I punch in the number that I never thought I’d even consider calling, much less follow through with. Yet, here the fuck I am, with the fucker I had hoped to never contact waiting on the other side. I put the phone to my ear and I wait to hear the response. Long seconds pass and then, he answers.

“Who the fuck is this?” Of course he’d answer his own fucking phone like that. Why am I unsurprised? Perhaps it’s because he’s predictable. Unlike a certain redhead I know.

“Five months ago, there was a man who kidnapped Avalon and tortured her,” I begin, gritting my teeth through the whole process as I give his description. “Have you ever seen him?”

Silence, and then, “I thought you didn’t need my help,” Luc Kincaid replies.

Fucker. “Answer the goddamn question,” I spit.

“No,” he says. “I’m not familiar with him.”

“That’s all I needed to know.” I go to end the call, but he stops me with one line.

“That doesn’t mean I can’t help you.”

My teeth grind against each other. I really don’t want to rely on him. Even if Dean is cool with him now, it’s hard to reverse a lifetime of conditioned hatred and distrust. “What do you know?” I spit the words out in spite of my own instinct to hang up. Whatever I can find is better than nothing. Whatever information he can provide is one step closer to finding Ace Volkov. I have to believe that.

“My father,” Luc says. “He’s got people he trusts. I can search them and find out if any of them fits that description. At the very least, I can put some feelers of my own out.”

“What makes you think you can do anything I can’t?” Bitterness rises within me. That and a severe desire to work it out of my system the only way I know how. Before, I would’ve called one of my long-time hookers, but now I’ve got another at my disposal. I’ve got Clover. I need to see her, to rip her clothes off and devour her as she rides me hard. I force myself to remain still. Clenching my own fists against the dented side of the SUV.

“How the fuck do you think Kincaids have survived Eastpoint, Braxton?” It’s a valid question. Like us, the Kincaids have been around a long time. They have their own businesses; their own operations. Rylie had mentioned the possibility that Kincaid Senior had been working with the same organization that Ace works for.

Instead of answering him, though, I prompt him for answers I want. “Rylie says you’re looking for someone.”

Tense silence follows, and then, “Yeah? What of it?”

Someone important, I conclude, if the tightness of his tone is anything to go by. “She gave me an address—I’m sure it’s the same one she gave you. I had my guy check it out.”

“And?” Luc demands. “Did he find anything?”

“No,” I answer him. “A whole lot of nothing. He said it’s been abandoned for quite a while.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

Why indeed? “Listen, Kincaid,” I snap, “I don’t fucking trust you. Doesn’t matter what Dean declares. You can’t rewrite history in one breath. You have something I need—I need to find someone and so do you. You’ve got to know that your current link is with us.”

“I’m aware of her connections, yes.”

“Rylie’s not just a connection, Kincaid. She’s Abel’s. Clean and simple. At the end of the day, her loyalties aren’t in question.”

“There’s no fucking fight between us anymore.” Luc’s tone is as hard as he is. Impenetrable. Barely restrained. That makes two of us.

“I have to find Ace Volkov.” Saying the name is akin to revealing my weakness, but I do it nonetheless. If anyone can lure the bastard out, maybe Kincaid can. At the end of the day, I’ll do whatever it takes to find the bastard. Even if that means making a deal with the only other devil that threatens Eastpoint. “And word is that you’re still trying to transfer from St. Augustine.”

There’s a beat of quiet over the line before Luc answers. “Are you offering to help me?” Luc asks.

“Maybe I am. A favor for a favor.” Finding Ace is more important than opening the doors to a Kincaid.

“And all it would take is help finding this Volkov guy?”

“Yes.”

“Done.” There’s no hesitation in his tone. “I already told you I’d help, if you want to give me something in return, who am I to turn you down? I’ll start an investigation and ask around.”

“How long?”

“Twenty-four hours at least,” he replies.

It’s not much, but it’s faster than I expected. “The deal is off if you can’t find him,” I say.

“What if I offer something that leads to finding him?”

“Fine.” I bite the word out. I’ve got nothing left to lose after all. Whatever is going on now needs to come to an end. I need to decide what to do with Clover. Leave her or let her go. Send her back or ignore her existence. Nothing seems right.

“Done.” The deal is set. Luc ends the call and silence meets my ears in the responding darkness of night. I turn and suck in a heavy breath. Clover might take the monster in me as well as anyone. She might be a curiosity, but that’s it. Clover isn’t my fucking girlfriend. She’s a bargaining tool.

I repeat it in my head as I count down the seconds, sucking back the frost laden air surrounding me. No matter how much I say it, though, it doesn’t feel like it’s sinking in deep. Every time I tell myself she means nothing, those big, luminous moss-green eyes of hers appear in the back of my head. Full of tears as she cries out.

I want her. I fucking hate her.

My enemy. My fucking hostage. Mine.

39

CLOVER

THE FIGHT CLUB Avalon mentioned is held in an old warehouse with paint that’s long since dried on the concrete floor and the rafters open in large gaping holes. I stare up, looking into the night sky, hoping that it’ll start raining again. At least then the outside world will feel just as murky as my internal one.

Since coming to Eastpoint, I haven’t interacted with anyone but Braxton’s group, but I can feel people’s curiosity. Even now, outside of campus, eyes remain on me. Unspoken questions linger in the air and there’s no expectation of an answer. If the Sick Boys want them to know the truth, they will. Until then, all they can do is maintain their curiosity in silence.

People crowd around a large erected ring that looks like someone has managed to weld together different parts of chain link fences into a type of cage. There’s a door and a bookie behind the structure, taking bets in rapid fire conversations. Unlike the rest, I step back and observe. Disconnected. Disinterested in anything but the object of my own personal obsession.

And that’s what I am: Obsessed.

Braxton Smalls has turned me into someone I never thought I’d be. Although we have hardly talked since that night, I can feel his eyes on me. It’s only when I sense that his attention has drifted elsewhere that I finally look back and stare at him. His dark hair is wet from an earlier shower, the dark ringlets of his curls sliding across his forehead, reminding me of what he looked like in the shower. He turns towards Avalon and Dean, his shoulders tensing as they talk. I can’t hear what’s being said over the roar of the people waiting for the next fight, but I can tell it’s not something that’s making him happy. His whole body is rigid, barely repressed violence curves along each muscle, tightening his biceps where they peek out from the black t-shirt he’s wearing. Dark lines of ink stretch up past his collar at the top of his spine. I want to feel his tattoo again, to run my fingers down his back and find each and every scar. I want to know more—where they came from and what they did to him beyond marking him.

I doubt I’ll ever have that opportunity. Braxton’s not the forthcoming kind.

I avert my eyes when I feel his attention return to me and I scan the crowd for familiar faces. That strange sensation of being watched remains. No one is being obvious about it, though. A new gaze finds mine—Rylie’s. I blink and stare back at her as she openly observes me. There’s nothing malicious or conniving in her gaze. It’s just an open curiosity and … almost pity. That last bit makes me uncomfortable enough that I drop my gaze and move back. I slide through the crowd, not going too far, but just enough that I can step away from the heat of the pushing audience and rest against a wall with my arms crossed.

It’s not long, though, before I’ve got an unwelcome companion. The golden-haired man that the others called Marcus steps up to my side. At first, he says nothing as he pulls out a brand-new pack of cigarettes and slaps them against his palm. Fuck, it’s been so long since I had a smoke. The stress of the last few weeks makes me crave one. I don’t even realize I’m staring as he rips the packaging open and litters the ground with it.

“What are you doing?”

It takes me a moment to realize that he’s spoken the question and another moment more to realize that it’s aimed at me. “Um…” I blink. “I was brought here?”

“No.” Marcus slips the pack of cigs into the back pocket of his jeans before pulling out a lighter. “I mean, what are you doing to him? To Brax?”

“I’m not doing anything to him.” But oh how I wish I was. If I’m being honest, I’d rather be back at the Tower with him right now than here. I’d rather be back on the terrace, stripped bare. Maybe even back in the shower, on my knees, taking his cock down my throat. It was rough the first time, and I have no doubt it’d be rough no matter how many times I do it. He’s too thick to be comfortable, too long and fucking powerful. That doesn’t stop my pussy from softening, though, or my mouth from watering.

Man, I think. I really do have this obsession thing bad. What had Ace called a fucked up situation? FUBAR? Yeah, this has fucking FUBAR written all over it. Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition.

Marcus puts the cigarette between his lips, but instead of lighting it, he clenches the lighter in his fist and turns to glare at me. I stare back in stunned silence at the sheer amount of animosity in his gaze. I’ve never done anything to him. Hell, I’ve hardly spoken to him. After a moment, he removes the cigarette and holds it between two fingers.

“You’re fucking with his head,” he says, his voice dipping low. It’s deep, a resounding baritone that can only be compared to Brax himself. “And I don’t fucking appreciate it.”

I blink. “You do realize he kidnapped me, right?” I shake my head. “I’m not doing shit to him—”

Marcus turns and punches the wall next to my head with enough force to startle me into cutting off my own sentence. Almost immediately, a responding wave of temper rushes up my spine.

Is he trying to physically intimidate me into silence? Oh fucking no he isn’t.

“Quit the fucking bullshit,” Marcus growls. “I’m just here to give you a warning, girl. Whatever you think you’re doing—stop. I know all about the reason why you’re here.”

“Then you know—”

He cuts me off once again. “And I also know the way you watch him when you think he’s not looking.”

I grit my teeth together and feel electric heat race through my veins. Like Braxton, this man has murder in his eyes. A darkness that belies the external image of him. They’re as alike on the inside as they are on the outside. More so than a passing glance can determine. While Braxton is all cut jawline and brown curls, boy next door meets football star, this man is like a golden avenging angel. Hard eyes. Pale champagne blond hair. Unassuming face.

They’re both like Venus fly traps—pretty and deadly. And neither of them realize that I can be just as dangerous if I choose to be.

“I think you have the wrong idea about Braxton and me,” I say, forcing my anger down and cramming it into a tiny little ball. Temperance. Control. I bite my tongue as I reach for the threads of my sanity that are slowly beginning to unravel.

“I think I know a devious bitch when I see one,” he replies.

“Is that a fact? Got a lot of experience in that department?” The snide comment comes out with lightning speed, and if his flared nostrils are anything to go by, it pisses him off. Good. I smile, baring my teeth.

“I don’t know what you think is going on with Braxton and me,” I say, “but it’s none of your fucking business. If he wanted your help, he’d ask for it.”

“He’s one of my best friends,” Marcus replies. “He doesn’t need to ask for it. I’ll always back him up.”

“Is that what you think you’re doing right now?” I ask with a scoff. “‘Backing him up’?” Why am I even shocked by the audacity of him? Oh wait, newsflash, I’m fucking not shocked. Not in the slightest. “For your information, I didn’t ask to be brought here. Your friend,” I emphasize the fact that this isn’t on me, “is the one that kidnapped me.”

Marcus looms over me, his scowl deepening with each word that comes out of my mouth. “Maybe you came here unwillingly,” he says, “but you’re not exactly trying to escape, are you? You think I don’t know what you’re after? You think you can seduce him and get into his fucking head? You’re nothing, little girl.”

Little girl? He’s asking for me to kill him, practically begging for it.

I shake my head. No. That’s not me talking. That’s Evgenia. Except … I don’t necessarily disagree with the thoughts.

“Escape?” I drop my arms and shove him back a step. His arm leaves the wall at my back and he stumbles slightly before coming back in full force, his anger multiplied. “In case you didn’t notice, I’m not exactly in a position to think about escaping.” I point down at my ankle. “Your boy has me locked tight.”

Marcus dips his head and looks at me from beneath his brow. “You’re resourceful, sweetheart. I’m sure you can figure a way out.”

“I am not your fucking sweetheart.” My blood practically boils as he stands over me. Behind him, a man’s voice lifts into the air—obviously talking through a loudspeaker as his words ring out above the crowd, announcing the fighters of the night. I don’t care. Everything else falls away but the man in front of me as I glare up at him. “You want me gone? Talk to Braxton. Until he agrees to leave my brother alone, I’ll remain. I’m not here because I want to be, asshole.”

“You sure about that?” He arches one dark blond brow.

“What?” My head rears back as I stare up at him. He might not be as massive as Braxton, but he’s still got a wide berth, muscles stacked on muscles, and a dangerous air. My spine hits the wall once more and I’m covered in his shadow as he bends close, his head blocking out the light.

Hot breath touches my throat and I shiver and shove myself as hard against the wall as physically possible to get away from the sensation. “You say you’re not here because you want to be?” I stiffen. “Then why do you look at him like a lovesick little girl?”

“Excuse me?” Panic races through me. Is that how I seem? Lovesick? No. I’m not in love with Braxton. I can’t be. He’s … a monster. A psychopath.

“You watch him. You want him. You’ve probably already fucked him, right?” My breath catches in my throat and I can hear the smugness in his next words. “Yeah, I know you have. I can tell just by your reaction.” Marcus’ words bring an uncomfortable heat to my skin. My breath comes in hard and fast. My head buzzes with mounting horror. “Is that what does it for girls like you? A good hard fuck? If that’s what you want, I can give it to you. Maybe then you’ll learn that there’s nothing special about you. You’re like a bitch in heat. A little training and you—”

Perhaps it’s his words that finally incite me. Perhaps it’s the fear that he’s right. I’m not sure. What I do know, however, is that I’m done letting him talk to me like that. I rear back and I punch him in the face. My knuckles graze across his cheekbones and almost as soon as I deliver it, I send a second one through—this time into his solar plexus. It’s so fast and surprising—even to myself—that he doesn’t even have a second to collect himself. He doubles over, but I’m not done. Violence sings in my blood, pushing me harder.

Evgenia rears her vengeful head. “You don’t get to fucking talk to me like that.” My voice sounds calm—just like that night all those months ago. “I’m not your captive and I’m not your fucking toy.”

"Shit.” Marcus hisses through his teeth.

“What did he say?” I freeze, the question coming from a familiar voice above the crowd. No one has noticed our little dispute here in the back. At least, no one insignificant. But he has.

I lift my head and meet the dark, impenetrable gaze of none other than Braxton Smalls. Despite his question, despite his words, I have to wonder … did he hear? Does Braxton know?

Marcus’ words hit too close to home. They make me sick to my stomach. My limbs tremble with barely restrained anger. I want to hit him again. I want to take him to the floor and put my hands around his throat and squeeze until he stops breathing altogether.

Maybe Braxton isn’t the only monster here. Maybe it makes sense for me to love him. As wrong as it is.

How? I ask myself. How could it be possible?

The answer is just as obvious. Braxton is capable. He’s strong. He’s dangerous. He’s protective—a dark knight doing the only thing he knows. He accepts his villainy and he uses it to his advantage. He cares about so few people—the pitying outsiders that surround this place, their entire focus on the two women beating the fuck out of each other in the ring right now—are nothing but inconsequential insects. Those Brax chooses to treat as human are more than that; they’re family. Avalon. Dean. Abel. Rylie. And him—Marcus.

“It doesn’t matter,” I say, finally answering Brax’s question.

He looks angry, his muscles tense. His brows lowered. His eyes set in a glare that threatens to overwhelm me. I don’t let it. Instead, I straighten my back and I lift my shoulders—glaring right back at him if only to hide what I’ve just learned about myself.

Braxton’s more than an obsession, and that fact—more than the man himself—scares the absolute fuck out of me.

40

BRAXTON

RAGE—WHITE hot and violent—pumps through me. It colors my vision and reigns supreme. It takes me over from the inside out until my limbs are shaking and the sounds fade into the background. I’ve never been so angry. Not even when I’d seen my father point a gun at my best fucking friend and pull the trigger. I’d beat him unconscious and then I’d fucking done what I should’ve done years before. I killed him. Elric Smalls was a monster in his own right—my own father—and I’d enjoyed ending his pathetic and disgusting existence.

The emotions I’d felt in that moment, with my hands around his neck, with my fists in his face, with his blood coating my knuckles is nothing compared to watching Marcus touch Clover. This is different. This is completely about possession.

Mine! The word screams through my mind, a savage truth that spreads through my limbs. Marcus is a brother. Maybe not an Eastpoint heir but close enough to one. He’s always had our backs—my fucking back—but right now I don’t remember any of that. All I can see is his hands on her arms, his body covering hers, away from others, her back to the wall. His head dips and her body stiffens and I. Go. Fucking. Homicidal.

My boots stomp onto the concrete ground of the warehouse. All around me, the noise of the crowd getting hyped for the next fight goes silent in my ears. I zero in on my prey, storming through the surroundings. I don’t care who gets in my way—I don’t see them. People fall under my grip as I easily lift them and toss them from my path in my pure, unadulterated desire to get to her until they move of their own free will and nothing is standing between me and the two figures standing as far away from the crowd as possible.

“Jesus fuck—Brax!.” A hard hand grips my shoulder and pulls me to a stop several feet away from the couple in my sights. I turn, fist at the ready only to freeze. Dean stares back at me, eyes wide and bewildered. “What the fuck are you doing? That’s fucking Marcus!”

I snarl back at him. “He’s touching what’s mine.”

Dean’s brows shoot up and he shakes his head. “No, man. He’s not—look—”

I turn at his pointed finger and see the truth as Marcus backs up a step, still completely unaware of the danger he’s in. From the direction I’d first seen them in, it’d looked like they’d been … kissing. But his face isn’t full of desire and hers isn’t full of satisfaction. There’s no heat. Only coldness. Only … rage? Clover’s skin is turning a shade so dark and red it’s damn near matching her hair. Her eyes are coated in a sheen—the same kind she gets when she’s too frustrated to speak, when her emotions are piling up and she’s struggling to shove them back down. She cries when she gets angry—just as she had the night I fucked her. It’d been angry sex. Violent, on the edge of death sex. And she’d cried—not out of fear, but out of pure unrestrained madness. The same kind that I have inside of me.

Only this time, there’s no untapped desire as she glares up at Marcus with her upper lip curled back as if she smells something repulsive.

Immediately, my muscles release. What … why had I thought … why did I … what the fuck was wrong with me? Dean’s hand falls away from my shoulder.

“What the hell is going on with you?” he demands.

I don’t know, I realize. I’ve got no fucking clue. Just seconds ago … I’d been ready to tear through a man I’ve known almost my entire life. All for her. Clover La Roux is a fucking poison. She has to be. No one else has ever made me lose control like this. I’m always in control. I have to be. One slip and the true monster that resides within me could be unleashed. I force my shoulders down as I stare at the back of Marcus’ head before switching my attention to her. She’s saying something, but I can’t hear what it is from all the way over here.

The way her lips move reminds me of how she’d glared up at me while I’d taken her mouth. She was an interest then, a curiosity and an amusement, nothing more. But now…

“Brax.” Dean’s voice pulls me back from my own chaotic thoughts. I meet his gaze. “Whatever you’re thinking—stop.”

“I…” What am I thinking? It’s all slipping away. My thoughts. My reasoning. My fists clench and unclench. “Fuck.”

I turn back in time to see Clover retract her arm and release it. She punches Marcus square across the jaw in one movement and in the next, she grabs ahold of his shirt, keeping him from going too far when the movement shocks him and then she delivers a second punch right to his gut.

“Holy … shit.” That’s not me speaking but Dean. “What the hell did he say to her?”

I want to know that too. “I’ll deal with it,” I say, moving forward. This time, as I approach, it’s with less intent to kill—though the image of Marcus’ head hovering over her and his hands on her still sit like a pestilence in my head.

Clover looks stunned by her own actions and even more so when I speak. “What did he say?” It’s a demand, not a question.

Her head slowly lifts and twin pools of bright, moss green peer back at me. Shadowed and tumultuous. She’s a brewing storm ready to unleash and I’m already dangerous enough as it is on the edge. I shouldn’t encourage it. I shouldn’t—but I want to—especially when she stares back at me and says, “It doesn’t matter.”

The hell it doesn’t.

I’m moving before I’ve even given my body permission to. My hand locks around her arm and she doesn’t resist as I pull her away from the wall and away from Marcus. “I was trying to warn her off,” Marcus coughs as he straightens.

“You don’t need to,” I tell him. “She’s mine to deal with.” She’s mine in general. Marcus coughs out another breath and Dean moves around, helping him to stand. Marcus isn’t the type to overplay his pain; he’s not the type to overreact. Just what the hell did he say to Clover to make her mad enough to actually punch him not once, but twice. The urge to rip the pocket knife out of my jeans and gut him with it on principle alone rides me hard. I resist, but it’s not easy.

Marcus is one of my best friends—he’s as solid as they come. Dean’s right, he’d never do anything to betray or harm me. This is all because of her—my reactions, my unnecessary thoughts. It’s all because of the woman standing stone faced at my side.

“Come on,” I grit the words out, “we need to have a talk.”

She doesn’t say a damn word as I cart her past Rylie and Abel and Avalon as they watch on with faces full of curiosity and confusion. A deep, unsettling emotion rises within me. I’m out of my fucking mind and she’s the one making me that way. I need to do something to make it stop.

I slam out of the warehouse and back into the cool, fresh air of the parking lot. Gravel crunches under our feet—the only sound in the otherwise abandoned space. Clover still hasn’t spoken. Most people would start defending themselves when faced with the possibility of trouble but not her. Her lips remain firmly shut and when I glance down at her, I realize her face is as impassive as it can be. She’s hidden it again—her anger. That, too, will need to stop.

Once we’re far enough away from the entrance, into the shadows and away from the prying vulture eyes of those inside, I drop her arm and round on her. “You want to explain to me what the fuck that was about?”

“No.” That’s it. Just no. No explanation. No reason. Just a wall of impenetrable nothing in her expression and a cold response.

I scrub a hand down my face, feeling years older than I actually am. “Let me rephrase—what the fuck was that about, Clover? Answer me.”

“No.”

“God damn it!” I turn away from her and let loose a string of curses that would make a sailor fucking blush. This is insane. How can a five-foot-six little girl with no money and no background drive me to this? She’s a nobody. Yet, I was ready to destroy a man I’ve known my entire fucking life not but five minutes ago. For her.

My fingers sink into my hair and I grip it hard, yanking, wishing I could pull it all the fuck out. Something to distract me from how crazy she makes me. Clover doesn’t say anything.

“What the fuck are you doing?” The question escapes me with a growl of frustration.

“I’m not doing anything,” she finally responds after what feels like forever.

“Bullshit.” I lift up, releasing my hair as I turn to glare at her. “You’re a fucking parasite,” I accuse.

“Yeah? Then why did you bring me here if I’m such a fucking burden?” Her own eyes flash in the darkness and she crosses her arms, the fabric of her shirt pulling tight across her chest. My eyes drop immediately to the v cut where a small hint of breast peeks free. Fuck me, but I really shouldn’t be thinking about bending her over the hood of some fucker’s car out here and railing her until she opens up and tells me the truth, but I can’t help it.

I look at her and I want her. I want to wreck her and ruin her. At the very least, I want to make the attempt—because at the end of the day, I feel like she would still rise again. No matter what I throw at her, Clover has that damnable resiliency Avalon mentioned. It’s a turn-on as much as it’s a problem.

“I want to know what Marcus said to you,” I tell her again.

She shakes her head. “Honestly, Brax, I don’t give a shit what you want. I don’t want to tell you.”

With a deep rumble, I stalk towards her. She doesn’t even flinch when I back her against the outer side of the warehouse and cage her against the wall. “I. Wasn’t. Fucking. Asking. Clover.”

“And I’m. Not. Fucking. Telling. Braxton.”

This is it, I realize. This is why she’s so consuming to me. I push and she retaliates. I demand and she refuses. She challenges and it’s so fucking hot.

My fingers find her throat and grasp it, holding tight. She tips her head back as if she’s giving me better access. Her eyes stare right into mine and I swear she can see everything. All of my past. All of my scars—both physical and mental. If eyes are the windows to the soul, mine are stripped bare before her.

And for the first time in ages, something truly fucking terrifies me.

She does.

There’s only one thing that will stop these thoughts. Only one thing that will distract her from searching for something she’ll never find within me. I have no mercy to give her. Whether she’s an innocent in my plot for revenge or not, I will use all the tools at my disposal to hurt the man who hurt my family. I will protect them. It’s not my fault that she ended up on the wrong side of that duty. So, I do the only thing I know will stop this moment from getting any deeper. I tighten my grip around her throat until her mouth opens on a gasp as she seeks out breath. The second her lips part, I dive down and kiss her, pushing my tongue inside as she chokes on the lack of air and my hand squeezing the sides of her neck.

Pleasure and pain. Like it always is with her. Like it always will be.

41

CLOVER

SOME PEOPLE THINK they’re invincible, but I know the truth. No one is fucking invincible. Not even the strongest, darkest, most bloody of monsters. As Braxton devours my lips, I have the strangest feeling that he’s crumbling. Something inside of him is breaking and he doesn’t want to admit it. I take his kiss and I close my eyes. I kiss him back, resisting my body’s own need to reach for air. There’s nothing there anyway. He holds my throat like he’s intending to strangle me. Right here. Right now.

The desire to kill is always inside of him, hiding out just under his skin. I’m not sure if he’s in constant resistance, or if it comes and goes in waves. If it does come and go, right now it’s sitting front and center, and it makes me fucked in the head to get wet to the fact that this man wants to hurt me.

Good relationships aren’t built on blood and guts and pain and lies.

Good relationships don’t threaten to unravel your sanity.

No one ever said that we had a good relationship, though. In fact, no one ever accused us of having a relationship at all. That’s not what this is. It’s a bargain, a deal. An invisible contract that binds us together.

I tilt my head back as his tongue invades and slides against my teeth. I want to clamp down. Bite him. Draw blood. After my little conversation with Marcus, Evgenia is out in full force and she’s enjoying the freedom. Will Braxton like her? I wonder absently as he starts moving against me.

He finally releases my throat, and I suck in a breath as he pulls back. I don’t have much time, though. His hands go immediately to my shirt and he yanks it up and over my head, dropping it to the gravel below.

“Turn around.” The words are a growl, a demand that I can’t refuse. One that I don’t want to refuse. I’m high on emotion, running on the fumes of my own exhaustion. I’m tired of resisting it. Of avoiding him. I want to know what Braxton truly feels—what he wants from me. This should tell me, shouldn’t it?

My body pivots until I’m facing the building. The solid outer wall is rough against my bare skin. Braxton’s hands move around my waist, finding the button and zipper of my shorts. He undoes it all and yanks them, along with my underwear down, stopping as they reach my knees. My legs are pinned together and I curse, shifting from one foot to the other as I try to get the shorts and underwear to go down further, at least enough so I can release one leg. I don’t even care about getting caught out here at this point. Braxton doesn’t let me.

A wide firm palm touches my head and he bends me over. “Hands on the fucking wall, Clover,” he grits out.

Oh fuck. There’s something sinister in his tone. Something that sends adrenaline pouring into my system. I place my hands against the brick—the sharp edges digging into my palms as Brax shoves me forward until my ass is completely out and I’m damn near bent in half.

The sound of fabric shifting reaches my ears. Something cold and metal touches my back and I freeze. Another knife?

Yes, I realize a moment later when Brax uses it to cut through the strap of my bra. He completely cuts through both and then undoes the clasp, letting the now useless piece of clothing drop to the ground at our feet. My breasts are bare to the world, swinging beneath me as I try to catch my breath, but he’s not done.

Braxton presses the flat of the cold blade against my spine and holds it there for several moments. My body freezes on its own accord, too afraid to move and risk cutting myself against his weapon. Compared to mine, his skin is hot where his fingers brush along parts of my back. It makes me feel like I’m melting. My heart’s fucking pounding in my chest. Sweat coats my skin.

“Tell me something, firebird…” Braxton’s baritone travels up along my spine, entering my ears and making me shiver. “You’ve seen what I can do for you—can do to you—but you’re not running. What do you really feel when I bend you to my will like this?”

I swallow roughly, turning my head as my hair falls into my face. It’s hard to see him like this, but I still try. “Why does it matter what I feel?” I ask. “You made a deal with me. If anything, this is what you want.”

He chuckles and the sound is truly frightening—low, deep, reverberating up my back as it rumbles in his chest and against my body. I feel bare out here, stripped down to almost nothing and vulnerable before him. My pussy clenches automatically.

“If you think you don’t want this, then you’ve got a lot to learn, firebird,” Braxton says. “I know when a woman doesn’t enjoy what I give her. You like it.”

I hiss through my teeth, jerking as Braxton flips the knife and cuts into my back. I feel blood well up and dribble down my side. My insides contract. My eyes burn.

“You still don’t want to admit it?”

Every single sound is going off like gunshots in my head. Each breath. Each movement he makes. It takes me a moment of deep concentration to force it all back down so I can answer. “Why…” I pant, sucking in breath after breath as my own words scream in my head. “Why do you want me to so badly?”

The blade pauses against my back and then pulls away. A burst of movement jostles me as Braxton’s whole body presses into me as he slams the blade into the wall above my head. I lift my eyes and they widen as I realize it was nothing more than a little pocket knife. A dime a dozen kind of pocket knife, but he managed to imbed it between a layer of mortar and brick. There’s a small amount of blood peeking out from what I can still see of the blade.

Braxton’s chest warms my back as he bends over me, reaching around to take hold of my throat once more. “I just want you to stop hiding who you are in front of me, Clover.”

Does he? My ribcage tightens at the thought. I’d lied to him when I told him he only had the rights to my body. Even though now, I wish it wasn’t a lie, a part of me is still hopeful. Because, in moments like this, where he’s driving me into a corner filled with sharp objects that threaten to rip me apart, I hope it’s because he wants me to accept him. Right now, I’m not in the frame of mind to be delicate with his feelings.

“Are you scared?” I ask.

He pauses against me. “Excuse me?”

“Are you scared?” I repeat the question, even though I know it offends him.

“Scared of what?”

There’s really only one thing that he could be scared of right now. “Me.”

Silence follows that one word and then his heat disappears from my back for a split second before Braxton’s hands latch onto my arms. He drags me up and away from the wall, turning me to face him as he shoves me back into the brick. I wince as it bites into the cut he just put there. The handle of the pocket knife sticks out right next to my head as he looms over me.

“Why the fuck would I be scared of you, firebird? You’re nothing but a pawn in my game.”

My lips spread into a knowing smile. “Then you have nothing to fear.” I throw his own words back in his face, and I know the second he recognizes them because his expression darkens. Braxton’s palm finds my shoulder and he shoves me down.

I grit my teeth to keep from crying out as the hard graveled ground digs into my legs and knees. Only one strip of my skin is protected from the underwear and shorts still clinging to my legs, but the rest is bare to the indifference of nature as I kneel before him, looking up at the monster that controls my world. My life.

“I think that’s enough talking from you, sweetheart,” he says, reaching for the buckle of his belt and undoing it. He pulls his cock free and holds it in front of me. “Open your mouth.”

Oh, yeah. I fucking terrify the fuck out of him.

My lips part and I reach up, gripping him at the base as I lick over the head. I keep my eyes on his, watching the play of emotions over his features. His abs contract as I suck the head into my mouth and lave the underside with deep, long licks.

“All the way, Clover.” Braxton pushes more insistently on the back of my skull, shoving his cock further into my mouth until the corners of my lips are stretched impossibly tight and tears prick at my eyes. He smiles. “Yeah, that’s what I want to see,” he says. “Your little mouth so full of my cock you can’t talk back.”

Asshole. I glare up at him as I continue to suck him, rolling my tongue along his velvety length. It takes concentration to suck off a man of Braxton’s girth. Breathing through my nose, I focus more intensely as he starts to thrust in and out of my mouth, pulling almost completely free until just the soft head sits on my tongue before gripping me tight in his hands and shoving until he threatens my gag reflex.

I run my hands up against his abdomen underneath his shirt. His stomach tightens when I touch the ridges of his six pack. His skin is hot, practically burning my fingers. Thunder rolls overhead. Another rainstorm is brewing above just like the one that’s brewing down here.

My thighs clench and release as Braxton’s fingers slide through my hair and he starts to make small little noises. The grunts and cut-off groans he releases filter into my ears and make a direct path for my pussy. Unable to control myself, I let one hand slide down to my clit and I start to rub it as the other one holds him firmly while I suck him back down. “Fuck, that’s it, firebird.” Braxton groans low in his chest, the sound rumbling like a growl.

I squeeze my eyes shut as I feel muscles beneath his skin jump and contract. Bits of dust scrape against my skin. Rocks dig into the flesh of my legs. I’m starting to ache, but I don’t care. My lips wrap around his length and I shove my head forward, needing more inside of me.

If I had my way, we’d be back at the Tower. I’d climb on top of him and ride him into oblivion. My fingers move faster and faster now as I feel him tensing. His fingers grip at my hair, and without a warning, he suddenly rips himself free of my mouth.

My lips part. Pants come fast and hard. His eyes center on mine. Sharp. Unyielding. Fucking terrifying.

“Tongue out,” he commands. I open my mouth wider and stick my tongue out, meeting his gaze as his hand falls to his own dick and he starts to jack it. His fist flies over his cock with lightning speed and I love watching the orgasm as it starts. His jaw clenches. His eyes close. His lower body jerks just as a spurt of cum erupts from the head of his cock and lands right inside my mouth.

White jets of release continue to spurt out. Another lands just outside of my mouth, against my lips, and then he opens his eyes, staring down at me as he directs his cock head downward. The rest of his cum rains against my tits, dripping from my pebble hard nipples. My fingers press into my clit until I reach my own release, shaking as he covers me in his cum and possession.

When he’s done, he releases me and I feel like a puppet cut from her strings. I sink back against the wall—my legs numb and my chest in agony as I suck in breath after breath after swallowing what he gave me.

Braxton tucks his cock back into his jeans and zips up. For several long moments, he doesn’t say anything. Hesitantly, I reach for my destroyed bra and use the remains to clean myself up—wiping his cum from my face and chest and tossing it away. He doesn’t comment as I stand on shaky legs and pull my shorts and underwear back up, buttoning and zipping them before reaching for my t-shirt and dusting it free of the grime that lingers everywhere as best I can.

Even though my nipples are obvious through the thin fabric, it’s still better than walking back into the warehouse naked. Or maybe he’ll actually take me home.

Wait, I think. Since when did I start thinking of the Tower as my home?

It’s not. Not yet. But maybe… I look to Braxton, but he remains silent, his eyes fixated on some spot against the building behind me.

I frown at him. “Brax?” I step closer. “Are you okay?”

When I move to touch him, he jerks away and blinks down at me, seeming shocked by something. “I’m fine,” he says. “You did a good job tonight, Clover.” His eyes fall to my chest and he blanches. “If you want to sit in the car until the fight is over, that’s fine.”

“What?” Shock rolls through me. Good job?

When Brax finally manages to meet my gaze, it’s with a look of boredom. “You’ll distract people with your tits like that,” he gestures at me. “It’d probably be better if you just stayed out here. I’ll figure out what Marcus said when I talk to him. You’ve done your duty for the night.”

“My duty?” Disbelief and confusion war for space in my head.

Braxton blows out a breath. “Don’t make this into anything, Clover,” he says, straightening his shirt and running a hand down the wrinkles along the front edge. “We’re just completing the terms of our agreement.”

I feel like someone just poured acid into my tear ducts. I step away from him, stumbling against the brick building as I turn. “Where are you going?” I hear Braxton’s question behind me, but I can’t respond.

My chest feels hollow—like he just carved a big ol’ chunk out of it. I look down, half expecting some gaping wound but there’s nothing. My legs start moving. One step in front of the other. I don’t even see where I’m going. I can’t see anything through the haze covering my vision.

Oh fuck, I think. Am I crying? No. No. Suck it up, Clover. Where the fuck is Evgenia when I need her. She doesn’t cry. She knows just how to deal with this kind of shit.

“Clover!” Braxton’s deep shout sounds behind me, but I ignore it. I’m halfway across the parking lot, with no destination in mind when he finally decides to come after me. His booted feet stomp into the gravel at my back and his hand latches onto my arm, jerking me around to face him.

“Don’t you fucking walk away from me,” he grits out.

I don’t even stop to think. Just how I didn’t with Marcus. My knuckles snap against his face as I throw the punch and Braxton’s whole body jerks as his head snaps to the side. Maybe that’s it. Maybe I just need to stop thinking so deeply about everything. It’s clear now that I’m not anything to Braxton. Just a pawn, like he said.

That doesn’t make the agony sitting on my ribcage any less painful, though, and what does one do with agony? They fucking share.

42

CLOVER

I AM ANGER PERSONIFIED. Yet, within that anger, there is a resoluteness, a resignation to this play I’ve entered. I am a puppet to Braxton’s mastery and I realize that now. I have no control and yet, I am obsessed. With him. With Eastpoint. With the story unfolding around me.

“You forget your place, Clover.” Braxton’s words are cold as he looks back at me. He doesn’t even acknowledge the punch, and that burns in my gut.

“Do you care about anyone, Brax? Anyone at all?” It’s a simple question, and I have a feeling there’s a not so simple answer. He arches a brow as I yank my arm away from his grip. I roll my tongue into my cheek and turn my head to the side, huffing out a quick, silent laugh. “Of course, you do,” I answer myself. “Them. You care about them. Your friends.”

He doesn’t say anything. “Just answer me one thing,” I say. “Do you love her?”

“No.” That’s it. Just ‘no.’ And in that ‘no,’ I have the real answer. Because he didn’t ask me ‘who.’

I laugh again and shake my head. My next words are fueled by anger, resentment, and some other emotion I can’t name. “You fucking liar.”

“Not about this. I don’t love her in the way you’re thinking,” he says. “She’s different.” Of course she is. That’s how it always is. The one girl he wants is the one he can’t have, that’s what makes her so fucking different.

A muscle ticks in his jaw when I look back at him. He remains as still as any statue.

My chest clenches tight. “You’re a fucking asshole.” The words are a scream in my head, but when they come out of my mouth, they come as a whisper.

Brax grits his teeth. Turbulent emotions swirl in his gaze as he finally turns and stomps away, his boots crunching across the gravel parking lot. He only gets a few steps before he suddenly whirls back and points at me. “You knew what you were getting into!” he yells. “You knew what you were doing when you made that fucking deal, Clover. I’m not your friend.”

I laugh, and the sound is harsh in my own ears. It’s anything but amused. “Oh, don’t you worry, Brax,” I tell him. “No one would ever make the mistake of thinking you were my fucking friend.”

“Then what the fuck do you want?” He lifts his arms and spreads them wide. “What will make you stop this?”

“Stop this?” I shake my head. “What are you even talking about? I haven’t done anything!”

“Bullshit! I’m talking about you!” He snaps, pointing at me before digging his fingers into the dark hair at the top of his head. He takes a chunk and grips it tight as if he wants to rip it out. I wish he would. Maybe a bald spot might make him even marginally less attractive because even now, even with the pain in my chest stabbing into my heart and my whole body trembling with the agony of this moment, he’s still fucking beautiful to me. Like some dark villain, handsome and stunning, and so fucking evil that I wish I’d done anything else but offer him that pathetic excuse.

“I don’t know what the fuck you think you’re doing, Clover,” Brax continues, spitting at me as he curses. “But it’s not going to work. You’re not going to get in here.” He points to his temple. “You’re not going to crawl into my head and fuck this all up. I’ve made up my fucking mind—it was made up long before I ever met you.”

I want to scream until this pain in my chest eases. I want to fall to my knees—uncaring of whether or not the gravel will dig past my clothes and cut into my skin. I hope it does. I hope something comes along and pierces my actual flesh so I’ll have some physical proof that this pain is real and not all in my head.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, gasping for breath. I feel close to hyperventilating. My eyes burn with every blink. I’m fighting back the tears. I don’t want to cry. I don’t want to show him how much he’s hurting me.

My legs itch to run, but the anklet around my leg keeps me in place. Why, though? The pain of being tasered is nothing compared to what I’m feeling inside right now. I’m not scared of it. And if I really dig deep, I know I’m not scared of Brax either.

God knows I should be. Braxton Smalls is the single most terrifying creature I’ve ever met. More than a child-like mother. More than a distant, mostly absent father. More than Mama Luda and the man who killed her. He’s got the face of an angel and the heart of a devil.

I feel like something inside of me is breaking—slow cracks forming and coalescing until they’re ripped apart and the only barrier to the outside world is gone. I’m open. I’m vulnerable. I’m damaged. And, above all, I’m not holding back anymore.

“I’m not doing anything to you, Braxton.”

“The fuck you’re not!” Braxton’s arms drop to his sides. His gaze focuses on me, darkening, and suddenly, he’s marching towards me. His long legs eat up the distance, crossing what feels like yards in the span of a heartbeat until he’s standing over me, blocking out the illumination from the street lights.

His hand snaps out and he wraps a fist around my throat. A gasp escapes and I reach up, locking onto his wrist as he squeezes, not completely cutting off my airflow, but restricting it severely until each breath is hard fought and hard won. This is his go to. As if he thinks a hand around my throat means he can control me better, like having his thumb pressing into my pulse reminds me of how easily he could kill me when the words don’t seem to do the trick.

“You’ve been doing it since the second I brought you here,” he growls. “No—before—the first night. At the hotel. You’re trying to get into my head. Maybe it’s your survival instinct making you think that if I like you, I won’t hurt you, but that’s not going to happen, Clover.” He leans into me, his face in front of mine. “I could fucking kill you at any moment.” A glimmer slides over his eyes.

It’s not a threat, but a warning. I know he could kill me. That was never in question. Anyone can be a killer if you push them far enough, but it’s not just anyone that can enjoy the kill.

Rage slides up my restricted throat and burns across my tongue, but he keeps. Fucking. Talking.

“I know what you want to do with me. You want to analyze me, Clover. Break me down. Broken boy. No parental love. No restraint. No hope. Don’t put me in your box.”

“I didn’t ask about your parents,” I point out. “And I’m not putting you anywhere.”

“You want to.”

Silence.

“You see, I have restraint. I could’ve killed you the night I found you. No one would have even considered me as your prospective murderer. You would’ve been just another girl dying in the gutter—a victim of ‘needless’ violence. An unsolved murder in one of those documentaries, years down the road. And I would have moved on with my life, feeling no remorse over the death of one little, insignificant girl.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

“Why didn’t I what?” he seethes.

“Kill me?” I move closer. “If you’re going to remind me of how you could kill me every time I piss you off, then just fucking do it.” He doesn’t respond. “No?” I let my eyes travel over every plain of his face. “Then shut the fuck up.”

Putting both hands out, I shove at his chest. He doesn’t move, and I’m so far beyond caring about a reaction from him that I don’t even fear repeating my earlier actions. I rear back and punch him again. Braxton’s head snaps to the side and his grip eases, but he doesn’t completely relinquish control. Not until I push his hand down and take a step back. Again, there’s no reaction to my violence. Just cold distance.

“You want to kill me, Brax?” I challenge him as the tears I’ve been fighting back start to slip free. They stream down my cheeks, making the wind that slaps my face that much colder. Another roll of thunder sounds overhead. “Then. Fucking. Do. It.” I spread my own arms out as more tears come, open and willing. “You keep making your fucking threats, but you haven’t followed through.”

“It’s not time yet.” His voice is low, his words dark.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Sarcasm drips like poison from my lips. “I didn’t know we were sitting around waiting for your schedule to clear up, Mr. Murderer.”

“This is all about my schedule, Clover,” he barks. “I’m the one in control here. It’s not my fault you didn’t realize the monster you made a deal with.”

“You’re fucking human!” I yell. “I know you are. I see you with your friends, with Rylie and Avalon. You’re kind. You have the capability of compassion—with them.” I’m panting and my chest feels like it’s caving in. “But not with me. Never with me.”

Not even when I’m silently begging for it, when I open myself and give him the ability to use me that no one else has ever had. He doesn’t say anything and for some reason, that makes me even more angry. I want to pound on his chest. Kick him in the balls. Maybe even go for his eyes or throat. I don’t fucking know anymore. All I do know is that I’ve never wanted to hurt someone the way I want to hurt him right now. Not even the man who killed Mama Luda, and that man had turned me into someone just like him—a killer. So what am I now? Who is he turning me into?

“I am not some fucking whore you just call whenever you want to be angry and take it out on someone,” I snap.

“That’s exactly what you are, Clover,” Braxton says, the words cutting into my consciousness like a scalpel through flesh. “You sold your fucking soul to me in exchange for Ace’s life.”

“Fuck you!” I scream.

When he reaches for my arm, I react on instinct. My arm flies through the air so fast, that it isn’t until after I hear the ringing smack of my hand hitting his cheek and feel the stinging in my palm that I realize I’ve slapped him. I prefer the punches, but I don’t regret it. What I regret is ever thinking that a man like Braxton Smalls could be anything but a product of his environment. He’s an arrogant, egotistical psychopath, and I was crazy to think there was anything more beyond that.

I take a step back, half expecting him to hit me back this time, but he doesn’t. Brax’s lips are parted and his eyes glitter like black diamonds in the shadows of the parking lot. I back up even further and then I turn and begin to walk away, stopping only when Brax’s voice reaches me.

“Where are you going?” he asks.

I have no clue. Thanks to him, I doubt Mama Luda’s trailer is still standing. Hell, it was practically caving in before he’d even taken me from it. It’s likely been reclaimed by the swamp now. I start walking again.

“I said…” Braxton’s growl grows louder and his voice goes from warningly calm to infuriated. The sound of his stomps echoes off the pavement as he marches forward and then his hand is on my elbow, gripping it, and whirling me around to face him. “Where the fuck are you going?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I say. “Anywhere is better than being here with you.”

Brax bears his teeth at me and leans down. “I’ll fucking kill him,” he says. “You leave and he’s dead.”

I stare up into those wicked, hazel-gray eyes of his and for the first time in my life, I think I truly hate something. Before, I could never find it in me to despise someone. No matter how they’d wronged me. Perhaps that was why Ace had sought me out. Trusted me with his deepest, darkest secrets. Because to him—he needed one person in the world who wouldn’t judge him. Somehow. Someway. Brax had needed me too, but all I’d asked for in return was complete and utter honesty.

“You’re a liar,” I tell him. He blinks down at me, but he doesn’t deny it and that—more than anything else—tells me that my guess is correct. It hurts. Fuck. It feels like my chest is being ripped open and my heart is shredding into a million pieces. “You were never going to let him go,” I continue. My eyes burn all the more, more tears sliding down my cheeks. “You were using me.”

Braxton’s hand falls away from my arm and somehow—whether he realizes it or not—it’s the final nail in our coffin. “How did you know?” he demands. “Who fucking told you?”

I laugh, but it’s a bitter sound. “You did,” I answer honestly. “Just now.”

Shock coats his expression and it would be hilarious if it wasn’t so fucking painful.

“I let you control me because I thought I was getting something out of it.” My lashes flutter, wetness sticking them together. “Now, I know that, too, was just another lie you sold me.”

“I didn’t sell you shit, Clover,” Brax argues. “You’re the one who did that. You sold yourself.”

“You’re right.” Of course, he’s right and it fucking hurts that he is. “But if I sold myself to you,” I continue, looking straight at him … no, straight through him. Because there’s nothing in him that I should look at anymore. Nothing that I can allow myself to want. “Then it’s my responsibility to play the repo-man.”

“You think you can take it back, just like that?” he demands. “No. Clover. You can’t escape me.” He really believes that. I can see it in his face. Braxton Smalls sees himself as a God. All powerful. All seeing. It really must be a blow to his ego—the fact that he can’t find Ace.

I know I can get away from him, but I don’t say it. Instead, I stand there—feeling far emptier than I ever have in my pathetic, poor excuse for a life.

Braxton shakes his head. “Fucking hell.” The curse is muttered into the cold night air. A single raindrop lands on my cheek and slides down to my jaw. It joins the rest of the wetness on my face. I don’t care anymore. I feel numb. Hollow. “Wait here,” he demands. “I’m going to let the others know we’re leaving. I’m taking you back to the Tower.” He pauses as he pivots towards the warehouse and looks back. “Don’t even fucking think about leaving, Clover.” He pulls his phone free and waves it through the air, a clear threat. “You know you’ve got no freedom here. I’ll just track you down, and if you leave, Ace is dead.”

Ace is already dead. Doesn’t he realize that that threat won’t work anymore? I caught him in his lies. I don’t say anything, though.

Braxton shoves his phone back into his pocket and this time he removes his keys and clicks a button that makes the SUV we arrived in flash its headlights down the row of vehicles to the side. “Go sit in the car,” he commands.

“Fine.” I grit the word out, filling it with as much resentment as I can—he’s expecting it. It’s an answer to his order … and a lie. I turn towards the car, my steps slow, but definite. He waits until I climb into the vehicle before he actually heads back into the warehouse. The second he’s out of sight, though, I jerk the car door back open, slamming it shut behind me as I run for the building.

My legs sprint towards the spot we’d just been at and I find where he left the pocket knife embedded into the wall. It’s my only hope right now. I grip the handle, holding it tight, and jerk it free. The metal scrapes against the mortar and with the strength I use, I damn near fall over backwards. This is it, I realize. My only opportunity. Because there’s no doubt in my mind that after tonight, things are going to change if I stay.

I gather my shirt and lift it to my mouth, clamping my teeth on a big chunk of the fabric as I take the blade end of the knife and find the wire along the anklet. I suck in one quick breath and then another and another. My body starts to tremble before I even put the sharp edge to the line. The memory of being shocked by this damnable device is clear in my mind. It’s going to hurt, that much I know … I just don’t expect how much. A scream rockets up my throat as electricity shoots through me the second I cut into the wire. The heat of it burns down my limbs until the tips of my fingers feel numb. I collapse against the ground, the knife falling out of my grasp as my body jerks. Muscles spasm. My mind fogs over. More tears track down my cheeks.

I don’t know how long I lay there, jerking with the pain, but I force myself back onto my knees, breathing through my teeth. Little spasms continue to rocket through me, but I don’t have the luxury of time. There’s no telling how long Braxton will take inside. He could come back out at any moment. A hiss releases through my teeth, my breath burning out of my lungs, as my limbs shake hard enough to make unraveling the wire take far longer than it should. I hurry to unlock the otherwise ordinary anklet, letting the metal fall to the ground. The fact that I have to hurt myself just to get away is like some sort of universal sign of ill will. I don’t care anymore. I’ll do whatever I have to to find my freedom once more. Whatever trust I had in Brax is gone. I should’ve never given him any.

When I stand up, I nearly fall back over. All that running I’ve done and this is what kills me. I suppose it’s just a reminder that I’m human. This … and the shattered remains of the heart inside my chest. Braxton fucking lied to me. Now, I know the truth. All of this was always temporary, and every second was a deception. My body seizes and only my hand against the wall of the building manages to keep me standing. My vision wavers but my resolve doesn’t. I push one foot in front of the other until I’m across the parking lot and down the road. If I’m truly going to make this work and get away, I need to be smart. I need a car. I need cash.

I guess the years I spent taking care of both myself and my mom are about to come in handy. More than that, now I don’t have to risk shit by getting into contact with Ace. Now, I can warn him. Maybe he already knows. Whatever the case, my life at Eastpoint is over now. It’s time to get back to the real me. It’s time to call Ace.

43

BRAXTON

I LIKE TEARS.

I like seeing the evidence of my effect on a person—on a woman. Before tonight, I’d liked seeing them on Clover. This is the first time I’d seen her tears, though, and I hadn’t felt a damn thing. Not arousal. Not interest. Not deep, aching desire. Nothing save for … guilt. An unfamiliar emotion that bites at me like insects beneath my skin—filling me with the desire to scratch at my flesh to pick it out of me. A desire I ignore as I walk back into the warehouse.

I hear the roar from the crowd as they watch two guys beat the fuck out of each other in the makeshift cage, and I don’t feel my own responding need to make someone bleed. In fact, I don’t feel anything at all but the urge to turn my ass right back around, storm outside, and kiss Clover until she forgets everything I just did and said.

There’s no doubt in my mind that when I go back to her, anything we’ve developed between us over the last few weeks will be wrecked. But she’s still here, I remind myself. She can’t leave. Even if she thought she could, there’s no doubt that I’d be able to track her down using the anklet. No one in their right mind would risk hurting themselves to remove it.

“Brax?” A familiar voice calls my name, distracting me and I glance up, spotting the others above the crowd towards the opposite side of the warehouse. I lift a hand and drop it when Dean nods. I cut towards them, people moving quickly out of my way as I slide through their masses.

When I reach Dean and the others, Ava glances behind me and frowns. “Where’s Clover?”

“In the car,” I say. “I…” I don’t know what to tell them. They need to know about what just happened, but how do I describe it? We fucked and then fought? I fucked up and told her the truth? Or maybe she manipulated it right out of me. I don’t fucking know anymore. I shake my head. There’s only one answer I can come up with. “She knows,” I tell them.

Rylie’s eyes widen and she leaves Abel’s arms to come up to me. “She knows what?” she demands, but it’s clear she already has a guess.

“She knows I’m still searching for Ace.”

Abel strides up behind her, his brows low as confusion fills his face. “So?” He looks between us. “Why does it matter if she knows?”

Rylie and Avalon exchange a look. “And she just … got in your car?” Avalon asks.

“She’s pissed,” I admit. “I doubt I’ll be getting much information out of her for the time being.” Not unless I really take things too far. Not unless I do to her what I’ve done to others. Not unless I torture her in the truest sense—with blades heated over flames and seared into vulnerable flesh. With pliers to nails. With more than a tiny, pathetic little ankle taser.

The very thought makes my stomach roll.

Anyone else, and I’d be all for it. With a man or even a woman like the bitches we’ve fucked with before—Corina or even Avalon’s mother—I’d be more than happy to sink back into the depths of my depravity. There’s something repulsive about the thought of doing it to Clover, though.

Every devil has his limit, and it seems, I’ve hit mine in a violent little redhead who likes to hide her emotions as much as she likes to cut me down with her curses and her words.

“Braxton.” Avalon’s tone has me jerking my head back up as I realize I’ve drifted once more.

I clench my jaw and then reach up with one hand on the side of my neck as I try to crack my tense muscles. “Don’t worry about it,” I force casualness into my tone. “I’ll deal with it as well as I always have.”

My phone buzzes in my pocket, no doubt another call from Troy. I ignore it in favor of focusing on the here and now—I’ll call him back when I get home. No doubt Clover will go straight to her room and lock herself away.

“You fucking told her?” Rylie repeats, shock clear on her face and in the pitch of her voice. Maybe it’s something about pregnant chicks or the difference in her now than how she was months ago, but when she advances on me, I put my hands up and glance at Abel. The fucker doesn’t do a damn thing, though. He just watches on with obvious bewilderment.

My teeth grind together so hard that I can practically hear bone cracking. “I didn’t exactly have a fucking choice,” I say when I’ve never felt the fucking need to defend my actions in my life.

Rylie shakes her head, the purple flyaways left out of her ponytail waving around her temples. “No, no you didn’t, if you actually told her—then you wouldn’t have left her out in the parking lot.”

“I didn’t leave her out in the parking lot.” I scowl. “I made sure she got in my fucking SUV first. I came in here first”—I look to Marcus, at the back of the group—“to find out what the fuck happened earlier and then second, to tell you guys I’m heading out with her.”

“She really didn’t tell you?” Marcus asks, stepping forward.

My hands clench into fists at my side. The memory of him standing over her and the mistake I made of thinking they’d been … getting intimate burns into my mind. Though I know the truth, it still doesn’t sit right. In fact, even now, it’s hard looking at him without wanting to throw a punch of my own. I release my fists and reach up, feeling along my jaw. Clover, despite her size, packs a mean one.

Marcus blows out a breath and shakes his head when I don’t say anything—silence is enough of an answer in itself. “I called her a bitch in heat,” he admits. “Insinuated that she was whoring herself out. I just … fuck man, I see the way you look at her.” He gestures around to the others. “We all do. I just wanted to make sure she wasn’t manipulating you or that if she’s trying, she’d think twice about it.”

I have no right to feel angry at his words. I practically said the same out in the parking lot. Hell, I said worse. Despite knowing that, however, the haze in my mind descends and consumes me.

“Shit!” Dean jumps forward just as I launch my body across the space between Marcus and me. In a split-second Abel has snatched Rylie out of the way and shoved her back and covered her body with his as Dean dives towards me and shoves me back with his body. “Stop it, Brax! God damn. Abel!”

Avalon moves toward Rylie and it’s only when she covers her that Abel feels comfortable enough to leave, and suddenly, I’ve got two of my best friends holding onto me, their muscles straining as I fight to get past them to murder my third.

“Braxton! What the fuck!” Marcus gapes at me in shock, but he doesn’t run. He’s not like the pissants we’re surrounded by. “Calm your shit, I didn’t hurt her!”

“Brax!” I hear another yell, but this time it’s not from either Dean, Abel, or Marcus. This time, it’s from Avalon. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Rylie hurry towards the exit, and Abel curses. Avalon steps into my line of sight, distracting me. I push harder against Abel and Dean.

“Get out of the fucking way, Ava,” I grit out.

“No.” She glares at me. “You’re a fucking idiot. Stop fucking around!”

“I’m gonna fucking kill him.”

Avalon sucks in a breath and her next words shoot down into my soul, stopping all forward momentum. “The longer you’re in here, trying to kill someone who just wanted to protect you, the further away she’s getting.”

I freeze. “What?”

She gives me a pitying look, and for Avalon, that’s a rare emotion. She does not pity. She barely feels anything other than anger and horniness. I’d heard the screams from Dean’s room enough when I was staying at the Carter mansion to know.

“Do you really think she’d just sit out there like a good girl?” Avalon asks. “Really? Are you that arrogant?”

I back up and Dean and Abel finally release me, though I notice neither of them move away from Marcus. Their eyes lock on me, watching for any sign of deception. They know me fucking well. It’s still in my mind to dive around them to get to my prey. Only Avalon’s face and words have me curious and confused enough to remain where I am.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” I demand.

Avalon scowls. “She’s like me, dumbass,” she says, storming forward and shoving through Dean and Abel. Dean goes to grab her and yank her back, but not before she gets ahold of my shirt. She grabs onto it and leans up onto her tiptoes to get right up in my face like the bravest bitch I ever fucking met. “What did I do when Dean went too far?”

It hits me like a fucking Mack truck. She ran.

I don’t even think. I turn and dive for the exit, slamming through anyone in my way—my heart hammering in my chest. No. No, I think. She wouldn’t.

Just as I come to the exit, Rylie appears, cheeks flushed with wide, terrified eyes. As gently as I’m able to, I lift her and deposit her to the side, out of my way. Hurried footsteps follow behind me as I race out into the parking lot.

I head straight for my SUV. The windows are tinted and it’s dark, but even so, I should at least see some shadow of her figure sitting in the passenger side seat. My hand latches onto the handle and I yank it open, expecting an angry woman with her arms crossed or maybe even a fist in my face. I get neither. I get … nothing. Absolutely nothing.

The car is empty.

She’s gone.

I rip my phone from my pocket. She can’t have gone far. I can still track her.

As soon as my phone screen lights up, I see it. I hadn’t received a phone call earlier, but an emergency alert from the app tracking Clover’s anklet. My throat closes up when I see the red error message at the top of my screen. It’s still tracking but … it’s not moving. The last location present was right here in this parking lot.

“Shit.” I hear Abel’s curse and then the sound of several footsteps crunching through the gravel.

“Brax…” My eyes are glued to the screen. I ignore Avalon’s call as I turn and follow the path on the phone to the anklet and … I find it. The anklet with no Clover attached, left right in the dirt where I shoved her to her knees and fucked her mouth like the whore I called her.

Of all people, it’s Marcus that steps in front of me as I stare down at the silver links and the severed wire. She’d hurt herself—cut the wire despite my warning, despite knowing what it’d do to her—just to release herself from me. To escape me.

“I’m sorry, Brax.”

He shouldn’t be. He’s not the one who truly drove her to this. I am. He’d insinuated that she was little more than a whore for hire, but I’d called her as much outright. I stumble back, my chest tight. Hard arms come around me. I shake my head. My fingers clench around the phone, growing tighter and tighter until the glass screen forms a crack right over the error message. The roar that leaves my lips comes from somewhere deep within, a dark place I didn’t even know existed. And there’s only one thought left.

She’s gone.

44

CLOVER

EVERYTHING BEGINS and ends with power. What you allow to have power over you—your emotions, your actions, your heart—eventually wins. And I was a fucking idiot for forgetting who the fuck I am. For letting him have that power. Instead of keeping myself safe, I let him take control. I let him have everything he wanted, and deep down, I think I was hoping he’d want something more. More than revenge. More than sex. More than power. I think I was hoping he’d want what no one else ever has.

Me.

Tires screech across the pavement as I tear down the road. The twin solid yellow lines that divide the old road are the only color in the otherwise dark night. Rain lashes against the windshield and it doesn’t let up for even a second until I’m hours away from his stupid Tower. I pull over into a dingy, shithole gas station and I just … fucking … lose it.

Every goddamn thought. Every emotion. Every single piece of myself that I left behind in Eastpoint are craters dug beneath my skin.

I scream until my lungs hurt and it feels like my ribcage might crack in half. People pass the car and they have to hear me, but they take one look at the crazy girl sitting in the driver’s seat of a crappy old car and keep walking, shoving their heads down—eyes on the sidewalk—so they aren’t subject to anything uncomfortable.

Everyone wants the control, but no one wants the responsibility.

The palms of my hands are sweaty as I pull them away from the steering wheel, they shake and tremble—a sign of my weakness. I want to go back. I want to change everything—my actions, my words, my care for the monster who locked me up in his fucking Tower. I curl my fingers and dig the points of my nails into my palms until the skin breaks and blood leaks out.

Once I’ve screamed my lungs dry and each exhale is filled with pain from my torn and chafed throat, I just sit there in the remaining silence. It’s deafening.

I rock back and forth, my eyes locked on a singular point somewhere in the distance. One of the bright neon signs hanging in the gas station window advertising warm hotdogs and cold cola.

I unclench my fists, and I reach around myself, hugging my arms around my body as if doing so will somehow make me feel more stable. Something is wrong inside. I’m fracturing apart. Like all of the pieces that make up who I am are splintering, again, like they did so long ago.

I am Clover La Roux. I am also Evgenia Volkov.

I am the daughter of a poor woman who knew only poverty and sadness and desperation. I am also the daughter of a runaway Russian mobster. I am the sister of someone who hurt a girl he cared about.

I am all of those things, but in this moment, every single one of those parts of me breaks into shrapnel. The cracking of my psyche drives up into my soul. Shivers skitter down my spine. My cheeks grow tight as I bite down on the skin inside my mouth, tasting blood. Tears track down my face.

I always hated that—that everything seems to make me cry. Anger, frustration, anxiety. And now, a full-blown mental breakdown brings out my tears. It didn’t matter to him, though. He loved it. Watching me cry was a turn on for him. The sick fuck.

And I hate myself a little bit more inside because, even that, made me feel like maybe … we were made for each other. Because I can’t change who I am and he seemed to like something about myself that I didn’t. He didn’t like me despite my flaws. He liked me because of them. Whether he wants to admit that shit or not.

No matter how much I’ve tried, now is the point I realize that there is no changing myself. There is no throwing away the parts of me that I detest. They are what make me who I am. And as I sit in the front seat of this stupid shitty ass car I stole, I realize that. With blood covering my hands and sliding to the back of my throat—I look up into the rearview mirror and see the girl staring back at me. I know, as much as I want to, as much as I wish I could, there is no going back.

This is the point of no return.

I’m broken.

And in my wreckage, as I pick up the pieces and shove them back together, uncaring of whether or not they fit right anymore, I realize that maybe being a mixture of all of these qualities isn’t such a bad thing. Maybe it’s time that Clover and Evgenia become one.

I am Clover. I am Evgenia. There is no difference.

One side is good. One side is bad. Both sides fucking crazy … over one bloody cruel psycho.

45

CLOVER

FUCK LOVE. It hurts. Movies and books all make it seem so fucking easy. Fall in love. Realize it. Confess. Happily ever fucking after. It never happens like that. I down my next shot and don’t even feel the burn of the vodka. I’ve never really tried to give my Russian/Irish blood a run for its money, but it’s certainly getting a workout now. I can’t say how much I’ve had to drink in the last three days, every drink and shot all blends together, and I’m still not drunk. I still remember him. My insides are a damn train wreck. My stomach rebels as a fresh wave of alcohol makes its way inside. My head is fuzzy, but at the same time, I’m sensing a type of clarity I haven’t had for a long fucking time. Everything seems crystal clear. I was the idiot for thinking it was complicated.

When the chair next to mine moves and a familiar presence takes a seat, I don’t look over. I’m angry. At Brax. At him. At myself. At fucking everyone and everything. The bartender looks up and glances over at the man to my right. I don’t remember what I said for her to turn away and attend to someone else on the other side of the bar rather than approach us, but it must’ve been bad. Bad enough that there are two bottles of vodka, one already mostly empty at my side and she’s ignoring my brother. No woman ignores my brother—he’s too good looking for that. So her complete and utter disregard of him means I was absolutely terrifying. I’m not used to scaring people away. It feels kind of good.

Ace sighs and then stands up on the rungs of the stool, reaching over the counter and grabbing a shot glass before sitting back down. “Fuck, solnyshka,” he says, grabbing ahold of the vodka and pouring himself a hefty dose. “I haven’t seen you like this in a long time.”

“Haven’t felt like this in a long time,” I admit, pushing my now empty glass his way. He eyes me and then fills it. Smart man.

“Want to tell me what happened?” he asks.

“What do you think happened?” I laugh, the sound full of condescension. “A man happened.”

“Want me to kill him?” If the question were asked by anyone else, I wouldn’t take them as seriously as I do Ace.

Instead, I scoff. That would be just the thing, wouldn’t it? Pit Ace and Brax against each other. Ace doesn’t even realize that they already are.

"No,” I say, picking up my glass and putting it to my lips. I’m shocked I’m able to talk as well as I do with a tongue that’s gone numb to the taste of firewater.

No, I don’t want Ace to kill him because I know I should’ve done it myself.

So, why didn’t I? It’s not because I couldn’t. I know I’m capable. Evgenia is and at the end of the day, Evgenia is me, isn’t she? There’s no more denying that. I’m not two people. I’m both; one and the same. I’m Clover, the American gutter rat, and Evgenia, the daughter of a Russian mobster.

“Is this why you’ve been missing at Mama’s?” Ace asks.

“Why do you think I’ve been missing?” I demand. “Did you even try to fucking find me?” After all the shit I went through for him, if he didn’t even—

“Of course I fucking did, Clover,” Ace snaps, a bit of growl filling the insult in his tone. “It was like you dropped off the face of the Earth. The trailer was a wreck. I was sure you’d been taken. You have no idea how fucking worried I’ve been.”

“You’re right,” I say. “I don’t have any idea.”

“It’s dangerous right now,” Ace says. “I hoped that you’d found a place to lay low. After what happened to Mama, I should’ve moved you somewhere else and it’s not like you’re not able to take care of yourself.”

He’s right. I’ve always taken care of myself. That’s how it is. No one in this world is going to protect you forever. How idealistic I was to think Ace would need my help.

I grit my teeth as I swallow another mouthful of alcohol and without looking at him, I set my glass down hard on the counter, earning a few nervous glances from the patrons. They know me well enough. I’ve been in this fucking bar every goddamn night for the past three days, waiting for him to get here.

“You,” I say, fingering the rim of the glass. “You’re the reason why I was missing.”

Ace doesn’t demand an answer; he just waits. He’s always been good at that. Waiting. Observing. Always hanging back for the perfect moment to take someone out. Though he’s never said as much.

“You hurt someone,” I say.

He stiffens at my side, but after a beat, he responds. “I hurt a lot of people.” I feel more than see Ace’s shrug, his arm bumping mine with the movement. Even without looking, I know it’s a forced casual movement. Ace doesn’t do casual. He does intense and he does it fucking well. I release the glass and reach for the bottle of vodka.

“Yeah, well, you went after the wrong crew this time. The wrong girl.” Bitterness sits on the back of my tongue. If any moment would be the moment to hate her, this would be it, and yet, I find that I can’t. Not really. Avalon is strong, she demands respect, and I reluctantly give it. Maybe Braxton loves her, but she has someone. She’s devoted and Brax is … on the outside.

Poor bastard. At least, we both know how it feels to not be wanted the way we need to be. It’s not much of a consolation.

At my side, Ace’s shoulders tighten—I can feel the muscles contract as he brushes against my arm. That tells me all I need to know. I laugh again and it’s anything but amused as I tip the bottle over and let it fill the shot glass to the rim. “Solnyshka.”

Little Sun. How bitter I am to be called something I’ll never be. The sun is the center of the galaxy, but I’m no one’s center. I’m the outer lying planets, the forgotten ones. The moons that crumble and disperse into the vastness of the universe. No one gives two shits about those, just as no one gives two shits about someone like me.

“Well?” I prompt him. “Nothing to say?”

“What did they do to you?” he demands.

To anyone else it would be the words of a concerned, protective older brother. And in part, it is. But it’s more than that. It’s Ace’s own internalization of ‘this belongs to me and someone fucked with it.’ It’s nothing for me to get so warm and fuzzy about. He and Ivan may have dragged me out of the gutter, but after living with Braxton for the last few months, I realize they all treated me the same. An object to own and protect for their own benefit.

Maybe Avalon had the right idea in the beginning not letting anyone close. But the Sick Boys don’t treat her like an object. Not something to be passed around. They’re protective because they give a shit.

Jealousy is an ugly monster. Uglier still because I want what she has. Someone to look at me and not see poor, little Clover. Stupid little Clover. Doesn’t know what she’s doing. Doesn’t know that the people she sacrifices for are the same people who don’t regard her as human.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” I ask instead of answering him. “Did you find who came after Mama?”

Ace is quiet for a moment and then he lowers his head. “It’s … complicated,” he replies.

Of fucking course it is, but is he going to uncomplicate it for me? Is he going to give me a straight answer? No. He never fucking does.

“You need to stay low after we leave here,” he continues. “I’ll give you another burner—”

“Got one,” I say, holding up the flip phone I got from a cheap convenience store a few cities back, the very one I’d managed to call him on. Good thing I memorized his number because my old burner is still with Brax. “Besides, will you even answer again now that you know I’m safe?” Is that care? Or is it the feeling of losing something you own?

Does anyone see me as more than a tool?

“Solnyshka…”

I slam back a shot and instead of setting the glass down, I throw it. Smashing it into the mirror across the room. The reflective surface cracks and shatters, raining down on the floor as all other movement in the bar goes dead silent. Ace looks at me and I know what he sees, an angry little girl who’s this fucking close to coming unhinged. He doesn’t see the truth. I’m already past the point of no return, and this little meeting is only to hammer the last nail in the coffin.

No one in the building moves. Ace looks around and scowls. “Fucking show is over,” he snaps. “Get back to what you were doing.”

That seems to do it. The bartender jumps into action, rushing out from behind the counter with a dustpan and a broom. The guys playing pool bend back over their table and the old rednecks on the other side of the bar lift their glasses to their lips. It’s as if the action never happened, but I can feel the stares—the curiosity. The fear. The last is a drug I shouldn’t get too used to, but for now it feels good. It feels fucking amazing to be feared for a change.

Is that why Braxton likes it?

I can feel my eyes burn at the thought of him. Not in sadness, but in pure, unadulterated rage. I hate the fact that when I get pissed, I tend to cry. Tears make a person appear weak.

Ace turns to me, setting his arm on the counter and blocking out the rest of the room as he leans into my space. “Clover—Evgenia—tell me what happened,” he orders.

I snatch the bottle of vodka and instead of reaching for a new glass, I just tip the whole damn thing back and swallow mouthful after mouthful. When I’m done and well and truly past the point of no return, I slam it back onto the counter and look at him.

“An acquaintance of yours came to the house,” I start. “He kidnapped me, took me back to his town, and kept me there.”

“And you didn’t try to get away?”

I snort. “Of course not, Ace. I made a deal instead.”

His brow furrows. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I made a deal,” I repeat. “Me”—I point to myself—“for you”—I point at him. “You were the one he was aiming for, anyway. I knew he planned on finding you and killing you and I wanted to buy some time to warn you. I thought I was helping.” I shake my head. “It was all pointless.” I was so fucking stupid.

His lips part in what I can only assume is shock. “Why the hell would you do something like that?”

I shrug. “I don’t know anymore,” I say. “Good damn question—why would I sacrifice myself for my brother? Maybe it’s because I fucking love you, dumbass. Maybe it’s because I felt like if I stayed, I could get information for you. Maybe I stayed to finally feel fucking useful.” Who the fuck knows anymore? Certainly not me.

I reach for the bottle again, but he snatches it out of my grasp. “Stop,” he growls. “Fucking stop.”

“No.” I rear back and punch him. His head whips to the side and before the bottle can drop from his fingertips, I snag it from midair. I take another swallow and this time, when I look back at him, there’s blood trickling from his nose. He wipes at it, staring down at the red on his thumb, then he looks at me as if seeing me for the first time.

“What the fuck happened to you, Clover?”

“A fuck of a lot,” I answer. Too much, I think. “Enough that I’m not satisfied being kept in the dark anymore. I want to know the truth, Ace. From your own lips. Did you do it?”

He wipes the blood on the rough jean fabric of his pants leg and blows out a breath. “You know I can’t tell you about what I do.”

My lips twist. “Yeah, well, you know what? I’m really fucking tired of that.”

“Clover, you know it’s dangerous.”

“Life is fucking dangerous, Ace.” I shove the bottle away and snatch up the leather jacket on the back of my stool, pulling it on as I get up.

His hand locks onto my upper arm. “Where the fuck are you going?”

“None of your fucking business.” I yank myself out of his grasp. “You made your choice, Ace. I’m not involved in it anymore.”

“Did you run away from them? Are they tracking you?”

I shrug. “Don’t know. They’re probably trying.” Not that I have any intention of being captured again.

I turn to go and he follows behind, stopping with a curse before turning back and slapping a few bills on the counter. I snort. Even as a criminal, he can’t deny the people living in the gutter. Maybe that’s all I am to him—a charity case with a blood connection.

I push out into the quickly cooling air of the parking lot. Gravel slides beneath my booted feet as I make my way to the shit Camry at the back of the lot.

“Clover!” Ace calls behind me. “Clover, wait up!”

I don’t wait. I keep chugging along, not nearly as drunk as I wish I was. Ace stomps behind me, intent on stopping me. I reach the driver’s side door of the car and pull out my key, jamming it into the keyhole because the vehicle’s too old to have automatic locks before Ace steps in front of it, blocking my way.

His hands settle on my shoulders and I freeze. “Listen to me,” he begins, “if I’m right and you had a run in with who I think you did, then you need to know that they’re dangerous. I don’t want you anywhere around them.”

“Don’t worry, I have no plans on going back.” I push back, taking a step away from him.

“Then where do you plan on going?” he asks. “Back to Mama’s?”

I shake my head. “I don’t fucking know anymore, Ace.” I throw my hands wide. “Maybe I’ll just drive straight off a cliff. I won’t know until I get there.”

Not having a plan actually feels kind of freeing. There are so many possibilities open to me. The world is wide and I’ve got the whole place to play. And when you’re not trying to be good anymore, everything else is at your fingertips. I should’ve buried the good girl a long time ago and embraced the Evgenia mindset: take what you need, survive, and fuck the rest.

He eyes me, and I hate it. Ace has a way of analyzing someone—completely shutting off his emotions and diving headfirst into what I call his “undead” persona. Where he’s neither human nor anything else. He just exists. And the only reason I know about it is because of Mama and Ivan.

I laugh and shake my head, letting my arms drop to my sides. “Just go back to your organization, Ace,” I tell him. “Go back to The Undead and continue being invisible. Do what you should’ve done in the beginning and forget about me.”

Ace’s whole body goes on red alert. The veil comes over his expression and wipes away all humanity. “What did you just say?”

My eyes close and I release a breath. “I said, go back,” I repeat. “Go back to The Undead.”

Silence … and then. “You shouldn’t know anything about that, Clover.”

I shrug. “Yeah, well, I do.” And then, just to twist the blade a little deeper, I tell him how I know. “Ivan gets a little chatty when he’s drunk.”

“How long have you known?”

“Since Mama’s death,” I say. “After the funeral. He was pretty upset. Losing his last connection to the old country really fucked with his head, you know. I mean, maybe you can pretend like you don’t give a shit about emotions, but even he isn’t that cold.”

Ace slowly nods as if that makes sense, but his expression doesn’t change. It doesn’t soften. His eyes are pure granite, only one glimpse of something can be seen in their depths and it’s something I’ve never seen from him. Fear. “Clover.” I stare back at him. “No one can know that you know that name. The Undead isn’t something civilians are aware of.”

I arch a single brow. “No shit, Sherlock.” I shake my head. “No one knows. I’ve never fucking mentioned it, and I don’t plan to.”

Hands latch onto my upper arms and I jerk as he gets in my face. “I’m fucking serious, Clover. If anyone knows that I still see you—that you know that name—you’re dead. We both are.”

“You’re already dead,” I remind him. “After all—once you’re Undead, there’s no going back, right?” At least, that’s what Ivan had said. It was the reason they were gone for months at a time. The reason we never went out together. The reason everything about our little family was kept secret. As far as the rest of the world is concerned, Ace and Ivan Volkov are dead. Little does Braxton know, but that was the true reason he couldn’t find shit on Ace. They’re a part of something much bigger than I think the Sick Boys ever considered. A worldwide organization of supposed dead men, working under the orders of corrupt politicians and businessmen. What a fucking world we live in. I could laugh if I didn’t think it was so fucking sad.

“Clover—” Ace cuts himself off and bites out a curse. “You’re in danger. I still haven’t figured out who hurt Mama—”

“It was probably a thief,” I say, my voice sounding hollow to my own ears. “No one had any reason to hurt her. It was a B and E. Simple and easy. Just let it go. Not everything has to have some fucked up elaborate conspiracy behind it.”

“Solnyshka—”

“Stop,” I cut him off, pulling myself from his grip one arm at a time. “I’m leaving. Get out of the way.”

“What about them?” Ace asks. “What if they come after you?”

“Your organization?” I ask. “Or the Eastpoint boys?”

He doesn’t answer. He can’t. He wants to know what I’ll do if either comes for me. I blow out a breath and think I could really fucking use some weed about now. Something to take the edge off that the alcohol obviously didn’t even touch. “I’ll do what I should’ve done to begin with,” I say, reaching for the key still stuck in the door of the car and turning it, yanking the frame open even as I turn back and look at him over my shoulder. “I’ll fucking kill them.”

46

BRAXTON

HOURS SLIP into days slip into nights and that’s all I see—the night. I watch each one come and go, and the only thing I can do is drink. The Tower turns into a pit of alcohol. Bottles scattered around every surface. The only room that remains untouched is hers.

Damn her for doing this to me. Damn my fucking arrogance for giving her the opportunity.

I don’t know what time it is when I wake up, sprawled out on the couch in the Tower’s living room, but I do know I’m not alone. There’s a pounding in my skull behind my eyes and when I try to open them, the pounding becomes a piercing pain. The taste of bile and vomit sits in the back of my mouth, turning an already foul morning wake-up call even worse. “Fuck.” The curse rumbles up from my chest.

“Yeah, that’s what happens when you down thousands of dollars worth of liquor in a single night.” The comment comes from the figure standing against the windows overlooking the living room. The ding of the elevator alerts me to the fact that she came with backup.

Fuck me. Can’t a fucker wallow and sulk in his own fucking house? There’s a reason I haven’t moved back to the Carter estate. It seems that reason doesn’t matter to these assholes.

Avalon steps up to the wall and hits a button and immediately, the shades covering the windows and protecting my eyes from the scorch of sunlight begin to rise.

“God fucking damn it!” I roll off the couch, landing hard on the floor between the cushions and the coffee table as bright ass sunlight pours into the room—burning into my already blurred vision and searing my corneas.

The pounding in my head turns to red hot spikes being shoved through my brain matter and scrambled about like I’m being prepped for mummification. I can practically feel it leaking down the back of my throat—or maybe that’s hangover vomit. Seems plausible.

A familiar masculine voice speaks. “You were right.” Dean.

“Aren’t I always?” Ava replies. I glance up, squinting through the sunlight as I watch her toe away a particularly dismembered chair. Not sure which one it is—but it’s hardly recognizable at this point. The only reason the windows aren’t open and in pieces is that they’re shatterproof. What can I say? We’ve all got enemies and are known to break shit.

I repress my next groan and instead, plant one hand on the couch and the other on the lip of the coffee table. “All this over the bitch?” Abel’s voice in my ears feels like sandpaper on an open wound, but his words only serve to incite the violence that’s been sitting in my chest for weeks.

“If you don't shut the fuck up,” I grit out through clenched teeth, “I’ll make your kid a fatherless bastard before it’s even born.”

“Can’t do that,” Abel replies. “Riot girl and I are already married. Lil’ bean could never be a bastard.” He doesn’t even acknowledge the threat. It seems I’ve truly lost my edge.

“Alright.” Avalon claps her hands together. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

Dean and Abel make their way across the room and I’m lifted onto my feet by their strong arms. My legs shake from disuse and my head rolls. My stomach churns, threatening to upchuck the last several days' worth of Scotch, whiskey, Fireball, and generally whatever shit I had on hand all at once.

“Come on, man,” Abel says. “Let’s get you showered up. You smell like ass.”

“Fuck off,” I mutter, but I don’t resist as they urge me towards the hallway. The elevator dings and then the doors open as we pass by. Marcus steps out. I pause, straightening away from both Dean and Abel.

He frowns. “For what it’s worth,” he says, “I’m sorry.”

My chest is an empty, aching cavern. I grit my teeth, but instead of responding, all I offer is a shake of my head. “Later,” I say. That shower is starting to sound more appealing.

When I get back to the master bedroom and head into the shower, I kick out my nosy ass best friends and crank the water hotter than hades, letting it wash over me. With my palms planted flat on the stone, I remember having Clover in here.

I tense all over as my back tingles with the recollection. I’d let her touch them—the scars my father had left behind. Never before have I let anyone touch them. Not even the guys. They know about them, they had seen them fresh and patched, and then they had seen them when I’d gotten the whole mass of my back tattooed over. But no one aside from the tattoo artist had ever touched them, and even he had been wearing gloves. She hadn’t.

I’d let her run her bare palm all along my back and I’d found that I’d kind of liked the sensation of her flesh on mine. Unbroken, feminine flesh against the wreckage of my life.

I close my eyes, letting the heat of the water wash away the stench of alcohol. After I finish showering, I step out with a towel wrapped around my hips and catch a glimpse of what I look like after days. It’s not a pretty fucking sight. I touch the bristles on my cheek with a scowl and then reach for the razor. Ten minutes later, freshly shaven, and clothed, I make my way back out into the living room.

Voices reach my ears before the actual sight of them does. Once I round the corner, however, I’m presented with new faces. Rylie is expected where she sits perched at the counter, laptop open, and Abel at her side. It’s the fucker talking to Dean that I wasn’t expecting.

“What the fuck is he doing here?” I bark.

All heads turn in my direction. Marcus and Ava are the first to move. They drop whatever broken piece of furniture they’re trying to cart out of the way and move back into the main space.

“He’s here to help,” Ava says.

“You did ask me for a favor, if you’ll recall,” Luc points out as he steps away from Dean.

That had been before. Before everything had gone down. Before Clover had taken off. Rylie—as good as she is—can’t hack and retrieve shit from the burner I’d swiped from her originally. I don’t pretend to understand the technical shit. All I know is that it’s fucking useless, and so am I. No matter how many times I call Troy, he swears up and down that she still hasn’t returned to the trailer on Port Charlotte. There’s no doubt he’s probably getting tired of watching the place, but I can’t have him leave. Not now. Not when she’s in the wind and that’s the only fucking tie to her I’ve got.

Then again, if Luc did get a hit on Ace, then Port Charlotte won’t be the only lead I have. It’s fucking hilarious, I think. How the situation has switched. Before, Clover was my tie to Ace and now … now he’s my tie to her.

“Did you find anything?”

Luc blows out a breath. “It’s not good.”

Dean gestures to the couch. “Let’s sit and talk,” he suggests.

I don’t bother to resist. Fuck it, if Luc can lead me to my girl, then I’ll use whatever is at my disposal. I plant my ass on the couch, lean forward and prop my elbows on my knees, and wait.

“I did find something,” Luc admits, coming further into the living room and propping himself against the now barren alcohol cabinets next to the windows. “But it only scratched the surface. There’s an organization that men like my father use—and men like yours would as well. It’s called The Undead. Very exclusive. Very discreet.”

“What do they do?” Ava asks.

Luc shrugs. “Whatever the fuck you want them to. Anywhere from kidnapping, to rescue, to fake identities, to bodyguard. They’re an elite organization of underground criminals that don’t exist.”

“Don’t exist?” I frown. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

The answer doesn’t come from him, though, but instead our own resident hacker. Rylie turns and lifts her laptop from the counter as she hops down and strides into the main room. “It means, the people who work for it are dead,” she says. “Which explains why the death and birth dates I found didn’t make sense. The people who work for this organization fake their deaths when they become official members.”

“Clover isn’t in.” It’s not a question, but a statement.

“No, but her brother is,” Rylie replies. “And her father.”

“Okay, so how do we get to Ace?” Dean asks. “We just put in a request? Can we request him personally? That doesn’t seem very cloak and dagger of them. Considering they’re supposed to be an organization that doesn’t exist.”

“No, it’s not that easy,” Luc agrees. “I only got a name and a brief description from my own sources. I didn’t get anything else.”

I slam my fist down on the coffee table with a dark curse. “Then what the fuck was the point of bringing this information here?” I demand. “If it’s useless in helping me find her.”

“Yeah, you’ve been doing such a bomb ass job of actually getting off your ass and looking for her these last few days,” Avalon comments, her tone full of sardonic dryness.

“Baby…” Dean’s voice is a warning, but Ava being Ava isn’t fucking having it.

“No,” she says. “He knows what he’s doing. He’s throwing a fucking temper tantrum after he lost her.” She turns and points at me. “What was the point anyway?” she demands. “Why were you so intent on hurting her? To get to Ace? Ace isn’t even your enemy, he’s mine.”

“Baby, we let him take the lead.” Dean steps in front of her as Avalon advances across the room towards me.

“I wanna hear it,” she says. “I want to hear the truth, Brax. Right now. Why are you really so intent on finding Ace? Sure, he tortured me—but that should be my problem to fix, not yours.”

“You haven’t done shit in looking for him,” I snap.

“Because I’m enjoying the fucking downtime, asshole!” she shouts. “In case it hasn’t occurred to you, but Dean almost fucking died! Have you not figured out that maybe I don’t want to risk doing something that could put him back in that situation so fucking soon?”

I shoot to my feet. “You don’t have to!” I yell. “I’ve got it.”

“You’re fucking losing it then,” she accuses. “You don’t got shit. Abel warned you—” She points at me, her anger deepening the lines between her brows. “We all did. I told you she wasn’t as meek and innocent as you seemed to think she was. But you had to go after her, you had to push her. All for Ace. Why are you so fucking obsessed with him?”

“Because he hurt you!” I scream. My chest rises and falls in rapid movements. I can feel the echo of my words. “Because it was my father who ordered him too. My family fucking tried to kill you and my best friend. He’s still out there. We don’t ever let anyone off, but he’s fucking free as a goddamn bird—after he tortured you, tried to kill you.”

“Brax…” Avalon drops her arm and stares at me. “That’s not your responsibility.”

“The fuck it’s not!” The words come out fast and hard. “My father tried to kill you, Avalon. Mine.”

She takes a step forward. “And you killed him for me, for us.” Dean stares at me and lets her go, watching the two of us.

“It wasn’t just your father, man,” Abel says, his voice so quiet it’s damn near a whisper.

“But mine was the ringmaster,” I snap. “You know it as well as I do—he was a fucked-up bastard. He’s probably the one who planned Chaz’s murder and then Avalon’s.”

Avalon moves until she’s standing in front of me, and even though there are four other people in the room, my whole focus zeroes down to the two of us as she grabs onto me. Her nails sink into my arms, gripping the sleeves of my shirt.

“Ace was working for my father,” I say. “It’s my family who tried to hurt you.”

“That’s not your fault, Braxton.”

It is, though. Isn’t it?

I don’t realize I’ve spoken that last bit aloud until she leans up and shoves her face in mine and responds. “None of it is your fault,” she says. “Not Ace. Not Me. Not Chaz. And Brax … not even the scars are your fault.”

My chest burns with agony. I want to shake her off, but I’ve already hurt her enough. I can’t bring myself to do it, and bitch that she is, she takes full advantage of my weakness for her.

“Braxton, look at me.”

I can’t breathe. I feel like there’s a pressure on my ribcage, squeezing tight. There’s no air.

“Braxton!”

I meet her eyes.

“You don’t get to choose your blood, but you can make your own family and that’s what we are. We’re a fucked up, sick as hell, family.” The pressure eases, though only slightly. “So what do you want to do now?”

All my life I have waded through rivers of blood. Kill or be killed. Betray or be betrayed. There’s only one thing I want to do now.

“I want to find her,” I say. No. “I will find her.” Or I’ll die trying.

47

CLOVER

I DON’T KNOW where I am. Along the coast is all I can sum up, and that’s because the smell of salt permeates everything—especially the walls of the soggy bar basement I’m currently sitting in. No one had basements in Port Charlotte. The water was too high. Here, there are cliffs, though. I drove along the rocky edges last night as I contemplated my next move. No matter what I decide, I’ll need money.

Finding a place to stay isn’t difficult. Sometimes it’s a hostel. Sometimes it’s a motel. Most of the time, though, it’s the car I’m currently riding in. One thing I never told Braxton, but I’m sure he must have figured out by now, is that I can manage on my own just fine. When it was just my mom and me and she was fired from whatever dead-end job she’d been working to pay rent for our piece of trash living arrangements, I took care of it.

I’m good at making quick cash—smart enough to understand street rules. No matter where I end up, the people are all the same. Wherever humanity lands, sin crops up. Greedy follows in the wake of people, and I’m good at using that greed to keep me afloat. Enough to keep gas in my stolen car and alcohol in my blood.

“Fold.” The man across from me grits his teeth through the word as he throws his cards into the middle of the pile of cash and other shit people have offered to keep them in the circle just a little bit longer. The roll of twenties I tossed in over an hour ago sits right on top. Around the table, I feel eyes slide my way, and then just like that, one by one, each of them follows in his path until I’m the only one left.

I show my hand and hear the curses before I rake in the money. “Alright boys,” I say casually as I fold the new addition of my nest egg and slip it into my bra. “Thanks for the game.”

“Every fucking time,” one of them mutters. “Fucking cheating bitch.”

I don’t take the insult to heart. To be honest, I don’t take shit to heart right now. I’m not even sure if I still have one. Whatever is keeping me alive is a broken relic at this point. The gambling and money and drinking are lame filler to the void in my chest.

Despite the cheating comment, no one else pipes up to agree. My hands had been above the table the whole time and I’d made a show of relaxing and keeping my eyes off of their cards. There’d been no counting. Just pure luck and skill.

“Have a good night,” I offer as I finish putting away my haul. “And good luck.”

One of the men puts both hands on the edge of the table and stands up. He glares at me as the light from the swinging bulb attached to the basement ceiling throws a strange sheen on his bald head. “Are you coming back tomorrow night?”

I consider his question for a moment and shrug. “Not sure,” I finally admit. “It might be time for me to move on.”

His mouth opens, but he never says a word. Instead, he turns his cheek and then shoves away from the table, stomping around me as he heads for the staircase leading up to the bar above. Cold washes through me as the rest of the players turn to each other and begin talking amongst themselves. Even though I’m the winner of this hand, and have been for several nights in a row, I’m no closer to these men than I was when I arrived. I don’t try to get to know them. They don’t try to get to know me. As it should be.

I should’ve been like this when Braxton came for me, I realize as I climb the stairs into the bar above. I should have remained detached. Maybe if I had, I wouldn’t be so broken now.

The man who left the gambling table in the basement sits at the bar’s counter, nursing his woes and loss in a tall beer as I bypass him and head outside. I pause when I feel a vibration in my pocket. There’s only one person who could possibly call—Ace.

I sigh and pull out a pack of smokes from my jacket pocket. Leaving Eastpoint has truly reversed time, I think as I find a place to lean against the side of the building, between it and the one next to it. Taking out a cigarette, I slip it between my lips. It’s like I’m a delinquent in high school all over again. A loner who smoked weed by the dumpsters while preps attended class. I’m just as I was then—exhausted by a life of survival.

Then again, there’s a simplicity in survival. I don’t have to worry about a monster like Braxton Smalls and I don’t have to protect a brother who disappears and lies.

I pull the phone out and pinch it between my ear and shoulder as I scrounge through my pockets for a lighter. “Hello?” I say around the end of my cigarette.

There’s a brief silence on the other end and I straighten, reaching up to hold the phone against my head. Silence is not something Ace would give. It’s not him. Which can only mean one thing … Braxton is a lot smarter and resourceful than I originally thought.

“You just going to breathe into my ear like a stalker?” I ask, removing the cigarette from my mouth and holding it between two fingers. “Or are you gonna talk?”

“Where are you?” The demand in that deep baritone of his flutters into my head.

“You can track a burner phone, but not my location?” I laugh without any heat. “You surprise me more each time.”

“Stop fucking around, Clover.” The growl in his voice still does something to me. It makes me close my eyes.

“I’m not fucking around, Brax. I’m just living.”

“Are you really willing to give up our deal?” he asks. “After all you gave up for him?”

“Why do you care? Because you can’t use me as bait anymore?” Silence reigns once more. I find my lighter and hold it in my fist along with my cigarette.

Brax’s next words are unexpected. “Just come back,” he orders, “and I’ll forgive you. Come back on your own and we can start this over.”

“Start what over?” I ask, leaning back against the brick wall of the alleyway as I pin the phone between my shoulder and ear again as I roll the lighter and cigarette between my fingers.

“The deal,” he says. “You come back and I won’t go after Ace.”

I laugh. That’s fucking rich coming from him. “What makes you think I’d believe that shit, Brax?” I shake my head. “Do you really think I’m that naive?” He must. “I know I was stupid enough to have stayed as long as I did without a fight, but really—we both know that I was just buying time.”

“Fuck!” I love hearing him lose his shit, I think, as I finally give up fucking with my smoke and put it between my lips once more. I light up—the flare of the flame in my hand warms my face as I place it against the end of my cigarette.

“The fact is,” I tell him as I blow out a steady stream of smoke and place the lighter back in my pocket, “if I were to come back now there would be no deal. You’d just go back to locking my ass up and using me as bait for Ace.”

“You’re the one who ran, Clover!”

I adjust the phone, switching it to my other ear as the right one grows numb and a crick begins to form in my neck. “I didn’t run, Brax,” I tell him honestly. “I left. There’s a difference.”

“What’s the difference then?” he demands. “End of the day—you walked away and there is no more deal which only means one thing.”

“And that is?” I prompt him, but I can already guess.

“I’m going to string your fucking brother up by his balls and torture him for days,” Brax says. “I’m going to gut him like a fucking pig and when I’m done, I’m going to find out where you’re staying and send you the remains.”

I blow out another stream of smoke. “How magnanimous of you.” I deadpan.

“You think I won’t do it?”

I laugh. “Go ahead,” I tell him. “Find Ace. Kill him. Be my guest.”

There’s a beat, and then, “You don’t mean that,” he snaps. “You’re bluffing. You think I won’t do it.”

Oh, I know he will. I’m just not sure I care anymore. It’s hard to care about anything when the thing pumping inside my chest died three weeks ago. I’m honestly more shocked it’s taken him this long to track down the phone I’m carrying. I have no doubt he’s got someone working for him. I haven’t been avoiding CCTVs and if he’s real smart, I know there are people with the skills and cell towers to figure it out. At the end of the day, there really is no going off grid when you’re reliant on technology.

“What’s this really about?” I ask. “You said so yourself before—you were never intending on letting him go. What would the point of me coming back even be?”

“You’re angry,” he says.

I take the phone from my ear and roll my head on my shoulders back and forth. Damn, this crick is annoying. “I’m not angry, Brax.” I sigh as I put the phone back to my ear and the cigarette back to my lips. I inhale, letting the rush of nicotine invade my system. It’s not really doing it for me tonight. I wish I’d grabbed some weed instead.

“Then what are you?”

The corners of my mouth curve upward, but I’m anything but amused. “I’m the worst thing a woman can be,” I tell him. “I’m done.” Done with him. Done with Ace. Done with everything and every fucking one. I should’ve turned away from Ace and Ivan the second they’d showed up in that trashy motel room right after my mom died. I should’ve known better than to trust another living soul.

I’d sacrificed myself, gotten too close to the enemy, and this is what I have to show for it—a shattered heart and no more expectations.

“Clover…”

“Now, are we over this? You go your way—find Ace, if you can that is, torture or kill him. You do whatever it is you need to do and I’ll go my way. I’ll disappear and you’ll never hear from me again.” After all, a man like him should have never even met a girl like me. We were already from two different worlds and I would have never known the sickness at Eastpoint, the darkness in him had he not dragged me into it kicking and screaming.

I should’ve fought harder, I think, but … the past is the past and there’s no changing my stupid mistakes now. All I can do moving forward is not repeat them.

“This isn’t over.” Braxton’s words are cold and quiet. “It will never be fucking over. I will find you, Clover, and when I do, you’re going to regret running from me.”

At that statement, I can’t help but chuckle. “I think one of my regrets is ever staying in the first place,” I say honestly. “But my biggest regret? My biggest regret is you.”

With that, I end the call. There’s no point in keeping the burner. He’s found out how to reach me through it and though it’s annoying because this was my last line to Ace as well, I take the flip phone and hold it out from me, cracking it in half before I drop it to the ground and step on it. Maybe it’s better this way. Maybe a clean break is what I need. I drop my cigarette next to the remains of the cell and step on it as well.

If that’s the case, then I’ve just got one more stop on my journey before I leave it all behind. My chest aches at the thought of going back, but I know it’s necessary. Going back to the place it all started is how I can let not just Braxton go but Ace as well. I can’t move on if I don’t cut off this rotting rope. If I keep holding onto them, they’ll only turn me into a weak little girl and I’m not that.

No, I’m Clover Evgenia Volkov La Roux. Weak is the furthest thing from what I am.

48

BRAXTON

“CAN YOU TRACK HER?” The phone in my fist damn near cracks with how hard I grip it.

My biggest regret is you. Absently, I rub my free fist over my chest as those words make an ache stab deep. This whole situation is beyond fucked.

Rylie looks up briefly from her computer, her brows drawing together before she returns her attention to the screen. “Yeah, I can,” she answers. “Just … give me … a minute…” Her voice trails off as her slender fingers fly across the keyboard. Each second fills the space with tension and silence. I can feel it winding tighter and tighter until the muscles beneath my flesh threaten to release with a violence I know will only leave me and anyone nearby in tatters.

I take a step away from Rylie and turn towards the window as Abel enters the room, followed by Avalon, Dean, Marcus, and … Luc Kincaid. I ignore the fucker’s presence, choosing instead to look out across the lights of Eastpoint, wondering how they can seem so far away when I’m in the center of it all.

It’s not over, I think. It’s far from fucking over.

“Georgia!” Rylie says suddenly. I turn towards her, but she frowns. “Some place on the coast, it looks like...Brunswick. The phone isn’t moving anymore, though. She probably trashed it.”

“It’s what I would do,” Avalon agrees.

I snatch up my jacket and then my keys. “We’re coming with you,” Dean says.

“Do what you want,” I say.

“Wait!” Rylie gapes at Avalon as she, too, starts moving towards the elevators. “We can’t all go.”

“Dean. Marcus. Abel.” I grit out the names. “You guys can come, but you—” I point at Luc. “You’re staying here.”

“Fuck.” Avalon mutters but doesn’t argue as she turns her ass back around and heads for the couch. “Well, if I’m stuck on the back burner with preggers and Kincaid, then don’t expect us to be here when you get back.”

Dean sighs and leans over the back of the couch, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Go home and get some sleep, Baby,” he says. “I’ll call you later.”

"Keep us updated, Riot girl,” Abel calls out.

Hours later, with black pavement racing beneath the SUV’s wheels, just as we’re creeping up on our destination, I get another phone call. One that changes the game.

“Got it,” I say before leaning to the side and swiping my finger along the GPS.

“What’s going on?” Dean asks from the passenger side. Abel and Marcus both lean up from the back, Marcus’ palm planted on the back of my seat and Abel’s in the same position on Dean’s.

“Change of plans,” I say, veering into a new lane as I mentally calculate our new arrival time. This path, at least, I’ve driven before. I swipe away the directions heading to Brunswick, Georgia on the phone. “Troy called—she’s not there anymore.”

“Where is she?” Marcus asks.

Dean guesses before I get a chance to say. “Port Charlotte?”

“He’ll keep her there until we arrive,” I say with a nod.

Abel blows out a breath from the back. “At least we know where she’s at.”

“I wouldn’t get too comfortable,” Dean argues. “We’ve still got a couple of hours to go.”

Five and a half to be exact. Or so the GPS says. My foot presses down harder on the gas. We can make it sooner than that. Marcus leans up from the back. “Troy’s sharp, man. You know he won’t fail you. He’ll keep her put. There’s no need to rush.” Maybe not for them, but there is a need for me.

I need to see her. To … what? Apologize? Apologies won’t get us anywhere. At the end of the day, how can I let Clover go? How can I picture myself with her when there’s still her brother to contend with?

“Leave him be, Marcus,” Dean says. “It won’t kill us to speed a little.”

No one says it, but there’s nothing little about the speedometer inching past 100 mph. And there’s nothing little about the riot of emotions crawling up my throat as I realize that in a few short hours, I’ll have her back in my arms.

Clover. Firebird. I’m coming for you.

EPILOGUE

BRAXTON

I PULL up the call log as I turn the SUV off the main strip of road that runs along the coast of Port Charlotte right into the semi-hidden long gravel driveway of Clover’s stilted trailer. We cut down the trip by nearly two hours, but still, it feels like a lifetime has passed since I got the call that she’d be here. There’s an old pickup truck sitting out front next to the same one I remember from when I was first here. Both are rusted and not in the best of shape. What concerns me more, however, is the fact that there are no lights on in the trailer above. I find Troy’s cell number in the log and press it. The phone rings for several seconds and then goes to voicemail.

“Something’s not right.” Troy always answers. I pop the door open and the rest of the guys follow suit.

“What’s up?” Abel asks as he and Dean round the side of the SUV as Marcus comes up behind me. I call Troy’s phone again. And again, it goes to voicemail. I scan the surrounding area, spotting the old square window air conditioning unit that Clover had pushed out in an effort to get away from me the first time I’d come here. It’s half sunk into the mud beneath the trailer now, practically disappearing into the darkness of the swamp—like some ominous sign of ill will.

“He’s not answering.”

“Looks like the door’s open.” Marcus points up to the frame of plywood that hangs slightly ajar over the front door.

Dean and I exchange a look and almost in sync we pull out our guns and check the clips. Abel and Marcus fall back as we take the lead. “Marcus, stay here,” Dean says. “Keys are still in the ignition. Get in the front seat and roll down the windows. Be ready to haul ass.”

“Understood.” Marcus doesn’t hesitate to follow the command as Abel sighs and pulls out his own gun, fingering the safety off.

My chest tightens. Dean steps up to my side. “You want me to take the lead, man?”

I shake my head. “No.” Clover’s mine. This is my mission. “I’m lead.”

He doesn’t reject it, just nods, and I start moving. My boots feel like they’ve been lined with lead. Each step is heavy and loud—louder even than the frogs and sounds of marshland life out beyond in the shadows past the trailer.

As Dean, Abel, and I creep up the stairs towards the front door, I strain my ears for a sound of human life. Conversation. Breathing. Anything. Nothing responds. Dread sinks into the pit of my stomach. When we get to the door, Dean takes position at my back, gun drawn and pointed. Abel moves towards the side of the plywood door, but despite our carefulness if there’s anyone inside there’s no fucking way they haven’t heard us. Each step creaks. Each breath I take feels like a blaring alarm, alerting whoever is on the other side of our presence.

One. Dean mouths. Two. I nod. Three. I suck in a breath. Go! Abel’s fist tightens on the door, and he jerks it open. I storm inside with Dean at my back. Our spines slam into each other as we lift the barrels of our guns and point around the room. Darkness and silence greets us.

As well as something else…

“What the fuck…” Dean’s voice is low, hoarse.

My eyes widen when I take it in.

Broken glass. Overturned chairs in the kitchen. Cushions ripped from the couch. Splintered wood from the broken coffee table that had, at one point, been sitting between the threadbare couch and old television set. Dark stains on the walls and the kitchen floor. The stale air carries with it … the scent of blood. Of death.

My legs feel shaky as I move away from Dean and slowly lower onto my haunches. The side of my gun presses into the kitchen’s vinyl flooring as I set it down and touch the edge of a dark pool of something with the tip of my finger. Even in the dim moonlight pouring in through the window, when I pull my hand back, I can tell what it is.

Red covers the pad of my finger and my heart jumps into my throat.

No.

“Clover!” I scream her name as I jerk back to my feet, hoping against hope that she’ll respond. That I’m wrong. Fuck. I have to be wrong. It’s not hers. It can’t be hers. I know the smell of death well enough to know that something is far from being right. Unlike the excitement I might usually feel, this scent brings with it only panic and fear. Someone died here tonight. And we missed it.

“Shit!” Dean practically tackles me to the ground right into the pool of blood. It soaks into the front of my shirt, making its way past the fabric to my skin. It’s not as warm as it should be, and the edges are obviously flaked and drying, but the center of it—where most of it had collected—is still very much wet. Is it hers? Is the blood coating my stomach Clover’s? It can’t be. I won’t accept it. “Shut the fuck up, we don’t know who could still be here,” Dean hisses in my ear.

“No one’s here,” Abel replies as he steps into the doorway. “I don’t hear anything.”

I shoulder Dean off of me and rip my phone out from my pocket once more as I palm my gun. I call Troy’s cell again and clutch my phone in my fist. At first, none of us hear it, but then the buzzing noise goes off again and our heads turn as one—following the small noise towards the back room.

Abel lifts his gun once more. “Want me to go first?” he asks.

“Go outside and call Rylie,” Dean orders. “Take a photo of the truck’s license plate and have her run them.”

Abel’s gaze burns into the side of my face, but I don’t turn around. I don’t acknowledge it. The idea of committing violence makes me jumpy—like an addict seeking out their next fix. For the first time in my life, though, the idea of violence makes me sick to my stomach. There’s so much of it covering this place. This trailer that she grew up in. The place she returned to when she left me. This is her real home. Not me. Not the Tower. Fuck, the Tower isn’t even my real home. My real home is the bedroom I have at Dean’s place. It’s waking up to Clover’s red hair scattered over my pillow. It’s tracing the freckles etched into her skin with my eyes over and over again until I can’t see anything but her.

“Braxton.” Dean’s voice cuts through my thoughts with enough force to make me realize that he’s likely been calling it for a while. I turn and look at him. “Whatever we find back there…” he starts.

Is my fault, I mentally finish. He won’t say as much, but it’s the truth.

As if to prove how well he knows me, though, Dean’s gaze hardens. “We’ll deal with it as a team. Understand?”

Words clog my throat, unable to release themselves. I have nothing to say. Nothing to respond with. So, I just nod. His gaze hardens and he steps towards me, reaching up and just before he touches me, he stops and pulls back. Smart of him. At the end of the day, I am a product of my raising. I was violent as a teen and even now, I can feel the urge to destroy swelling up within me. He can likely see it on my face.

“Come on,” he orders, pointing the end of his gun into the darkness beyond the back hallway.

Following him towards it, I look back and finally, I see it—the method of chaos in the room is a path leading towards this exact place. Whatever is back there. Whatever’s there in the back room … it’s not good news.

I step over broken glass, my booted feet crunching over the remains of a framed photograph. Dean is on edge. His muscles tighten over his shoulders as he moves in front of me, taking the lead position that comes so natural to him. My finger touches the trigger of my gun, but I don’t lift it. Something tells me that Abel’s right. Whoever was here. Whoever wrecked the place has already come and gone and whatever they came for … they must have it.

We press onward into the back bedroom, the very same bedroom I’d watched Clover climb out of all those weeks ago. Only this time, it’s a little different. The center of the water bed is a pungent swampy mess. Clothes are strewn everywhere with little care along with various other knickknacks and things that clutter up the space, the back window is broken—but it was like that before. The biggest difference is the body laying half between the bathroom tile and the bedroom carpet. As Dean and I move towards it, the light filtering in through the open window reveals the face.

My chest seizes.

“Troy.” Dean lowers his gun and kneels next to the man, and I step up to his side. He reaches forward and touches the man’s throat. I wait. One second ticks by. Two. Three. Finally, Dean drops his hand and sinks back.

“No.” I go to my knees at Troy’s side as well and make the same motion.

“He’s gone, Brax.” Dean’s words echo in my ears, sounding empty, but I press my hand against the man’s throat regardless. I glance to where Troy’s hand lays, absolutely soaked in blood, over his stomach. There’s no pulse under the pads of my fingers. This is it, I realize. This is the sign of death.

With shaking hands, Dean lifts his hand and looks down Troy’s abdomen. “Gunshot wound,” he says. “It can’t be much older than a few hours.”

It must have happened right after he called me, I realize. And just like that, I know—this is all because of me. Because of her. Clover. Ace.

This is bigger than us. Someone came here. Someone took Clover, and they killed Troy in the process.

“Who…”

Dean shakes his head. “I don’t know.” Of course he doesn’t know. How could he? But the question still pervades my mind. Who is responsible for this?

Troy’s phone buzzes in his pocket, the screen lighting up through the thick fabric of his jeans. I glance down at my phone. I hadn’t even noticed when I dropped it, but it’s still attempting to make the call. A call that will never be answered.

I pull my hand from his neck and reach into his pocket, pulling out Troy’s cell and opening the last message. It hasn’t even sent yet, but I know who it was meant for because my name is there in big bold letters at the top of the screen.

GIRL IS HERE. Two men approaching. Orders? [failed message]

TWO MEN ATTEMPTING abduction of target. Request orders. [failed message]

HAD HE TRIED CALLING OR … no. There likely hadn’t been time. Troy is smart. He takes action when he thinks it’s necessary and it’s clear that’s what happened here. He took action and he wound up dead because of it. Did he even see, though, that his messages had failed? They hadn’t even gone through. If they had … could we have done anything?

“Fuck.” Dean’s curse is low and agonized. I hand the phone to him as I stand up.

There’s a buzzing under my skin, an anxious spread of emotions that I can’t name. Concern? Guilt? Remorse? Rage? Four checks. All of the above. And more.

My limbs are numb, but I also feel like they’re shaking. One glance at my hands tells me that they’re perfectly still, though, and it’s all in my head. My mind is utter chaos. A riot that I can no longer control, but my body is doing what it’s been trained to do—reveal none of it. I can't stand it.

I turn away from Dean and Troy’s body and grab the first thing I can—a cheap antique lamp sitting atop one of the few still standing pieces of furniture left in the room, and I throw it. The glass shatters against the wood paneling walls and rains down, joining the rest of the broken pieces on the floor. Silence fills the room.

Dean is the first to speak. “We’ll find her, Brax,” he assures me. “And we’ll find whoever did this.”

I glance up into the broken pieces of the bathroom mirror. In the darkness of the trailer’s bedroom, I can barely make out the shadow of my own reflection. I reach down and grip the bottom hem of my t-shirt—the same t-shirt coated in, no doubt, Troy’s blood.

I killed him.

And I lost her in the process.

A sick bastard it may make me, but not seeing Clover’s corpse in this room fills me with a pathetic sense of relief. I know we still need to search the entire place, but Troy’s messages said that they’d been trying to abduct her. Not kill her. She’s not here. In my gut, I know that now.

I’ve known Troy more than half of my life. He taught me how to fight. He taught me how to breathe through the pain my father dealt. He taught me how to lead in more aspects than one. He was a friend as much as he was a loyal man. Now, he’s gone. And I’m … relieved it’s not a red-haired girl I’ve known for less than a few months?

Truly … disgustingly … sick.

I close my eyes—cutting off the sight of my own reflection in the mirror and I sink into the darkness, relishing in its comfort. There are three facts I know now to be true:

One. Troy is dead.

Two. Clover is gone.

And three … the men who killed my friend—the ones who took Clover—are marked now.

Whoever they are, they are already dead. No one can hide from the monsters that lurk in the dark, and I have never been more grateful to be the monster they should fear.

I will end them, and I will find her.

THANK YOU FOR READING!

Oh no! Did this mean ol’ author drop y’all over the side of a cliff? Yes. Yes, she did. Is she sorry?

Meh.

I like torturing you. It’s right up there with booze, sex, and chocolate in terms of greatest things ever.

Anywhoodles, I hope you’re ready for more because Braxton and Clover are definitely not over. They’ll be back in Bloody Cruel Monster coming soon! Only this time … who is the real monster? Brax? Or someone else?

Pre Order the next book here!

And don’t forget to review 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

Contemporary Series:

Sick Boys Series

Pretty Little Savage

Stone Cold Queen

Natural Born Killers

Wicked Dark Heathens

Bloody Cruel Psycho

Bloody Cruel Monster (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 (completed)

Break Volume 1

Break Volume 2

Break Series Collection

Contemporary Standalones:

Poisoned Paradise

Expressionate

Wildest Dreams

Criminal Underground Series (Shared Universe Standalones)

Sweet Possession

Scarlett Thief

Sinister Engagement

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 (completed)

Daimon

Necrosis

Resurrection

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

Epigraph

Author’s Note

Acknowledgments

Prologue

1. Braxton

2. Clover

3. Clover

4. Braxton

5. Clover

6. Braxton

7. Clover

8. Braxton

9. Clover

10. Clover

11. Clover

12. Clover

13. Braxton

14. Braxton

15. Clover

16. Clover

17. Clover

18. Clover

19. Braxton

20. Clover

21. Clover

22. Braxton

23. Clover

24. Clover

25. Clover

26. Braxton

27. Clover

28. Clover

29. Braxton

30. Clover

31. Braxton

32. Clover

33. Braxton

34. Clover

35. Braxton

36. Clover

37. Braxton

38. Braxton

39. Clover

40. Braxton

41. Clover

42. Clover

43. Braxton

44. Clover

45. Clover

46. Braxton

47. Clover

48. Braxton

Epilogue

Thank You For Reading!

About the Author

Also by Lucy Smoke