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I’m going to make sure they regret it.

The path to the graveyard feels longer when I’m walking it alone, but I can feel with every step a growing certainty that I’m headed in the right direction, the shimmering air that guides my way growing clearer the farther I go down the trail. I should probably be a little stealthier in my approach as I stomp on dry leaves, snapping twigs under my feet and pushing through branches without thought. The air in my lungs burns with the pace I’m setting, but I can’t seem to slow down. I feel like I’m tied to the end of a thread, someone at the other end pulling me along.

I spot a marker I recognize from when I came here with Lachlan, and I pick up the pace even more as I hurry toward the end. That last thick patch of branches gives way when I push through them, and then I burst into the clearing—dying sunlight trying its best to filter through the canopy overhead. It doesn’t take me any time at all to spot them. Lachlan isn’t alone here, currently sitting slumped against a giant tombstone, his eyes shut and his mouth slack. It takes me a lot longer than it probably should to clock who is crouching next to him with a wheelbarrow on his other side, which he no doubt used to carry Lachlan here, seeming to be chaining Lachlan’s wrists.

I search my memory for any indication of this, for any hints that would have led me to believe that he would be capable of this, that he would have anyreasonfor this—but I come up empty. I can do little more than gape, my brain going offline for a good ten seconds before it all comes rushing back, and I finally remember how to use my words.

“…Brodie?”

He dusts his hands on his jeans before rising to his full height, turning to face me with an expression that hints he’s surprised to see me here, but isn’t at all apologetic to be here in the first place. And then I notice the large knife in his hand, a chill shooting down my spine.

“Hello, Key. I…didn’t expect you.”

Well, I think dazedly.That makes two of us.

32

Lachlan

At first, I can’t place where I am. Let alone what’s happening.

I come to in pieces—muffled voices filtering in just before my eyelids stop being so heavy that I can actually begin to open them. I blink slowly, assessing my surroundings; my head is throbbing and my wrists ache from the chains I can feel wound around them.

What the fuck?

My head is lolled to the side, resting against my shoulder, and when I try to lift it, another burst of pain blooms in my head, blurring my vision. I focus on breathing, on drawing air into my lungs as I cling to consciousness, only just starting to place the voices still drifting from nearby.

“What the fuck is this?” I hear someone ask, a woman, definitely. “What did you do to him?”

I know that voice.

I crack open one eye, catching the blurry shape of wild, red curls attached to a very tense-looking Keyanna.

Keyanna.

We’d fought. She’d asked for space. I remember that I was going to go after her. I remember making it outside before—

I blink rapidly, my vision just starting to clear. Brodie fuckingMacKay stands only a few meters away from me, his hands outstretched in a placating gesture as he approaches Key slowly, as one might a wild animal. Something that is admittedly a feat, given that he’s carrying what appears to be a wicked-looking bowie knife.

“Now, Key,” he says in a calm, even tone. “I can explain.” He points back at me. “He’s not what you think he is.”

If my head wasn’t throbbing so much, that might actually make me laugh. He has no fucking idea. I try to tug at the chain binding my wrists, feeling it give just a tad, but not enough to wiggle my hands free.

“He’s hurt!” Key practically hisses. “Did you do that to him? What the hell, Brodie?”

Brodie sighs, resting his fists against his hips, knife still carefully tucked in one hand. “I was hoping to handle this without involving you, but I guess there’s no choice now.” He points at me again. “Lachlan Greer is a monster.”

“Really,” Key snorts. “That’s rich, given that you’re the one holding a small machete.”

Brodie shakes his head. “No, you don’t understand. He’s anactualmonster. I’ve seen it. He’scursed, Key, and he’s been using you to find a way to break it.”

I open my mouth to say something, but my tongue feels heavy and like it’s made of cotton. I watch as Key goes still, cocking her head to the side, confusion etched all over her face. No doubt she’s thinking the same thing that I am.

How the fuck does he know about me?

“What…” Key’s brow knits; I assume she’s trying to gauge what all Brodie knows without giving too much away herself. “What do you mean?”

Brodie moves to a nearby headstone, grabbing a thick leatherbook from the top of it that I’m only just now noticing. By the look of surprise on Key’s face, she must only just be noticing it as well.