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Before meeting her, I’d never been alone or lonely. These concepts had been foreign to me, much like love and attachment.

But once I moved in and became her stepbrother, my life had never been the same. She was mine. I couldn’t breathe—couldn’t survive—without her.

Needing her was awful. That human emotion damn near destroyed me. I endured it. I wouldn’t swallow their meds. They’d make me foggy. They would’ve fucked with my memories of her.

I tricked them. And I had Jerome fill in the void with her pictures and information about her whereabouts.

If ending a person’s life is the price I have to pay, so be it.

What’s one less person on this overpopulated earth, anyway?

In the grand scheme of things, Brian Perry’s existence makes no difference whatsoever.

I pull my gloved hands out of my hoodie pockets. After texting Shiloh’s dad, I dropped by my apartment and changed into my jeans. Grabbed the gloves, two paper clips and here I am.

My weapon choice for today, that part I leave up to fate. Whatever I find in this man’s home will have to do.

It’s still daytime. I can’t just walk around with a butcher’s knife or a baseball bat around the city. I even left my mask at home.

The things I do for Shiloh.

Click, click, click.

I pick the lock at record speed.

Thank you, Shiloh’s dad, for being a bastard and locking her up in her room some days.

My mark launches himself at the door when I push it open. He’s already closer than I would’ve liked.

“Who the fuck are you?” His hand slams on the door. An attempt to close it.

Futile attempt.

My foot blocks him.

“What the—” he starts.

Never finishes.

I shoulder my way inside his apartment. The force of the blow almost sends his body flying into the air. He lands on the floor, skinny and useless.

Shock renders him silent while I reach behind me to flip the lock.

Theclickwakes him back up. He opens his mouth to scream, his brown eyes bulging.

I get it. It’s not every day that a six-foot-five lean guy picks your lock and breaks into your apartment.

But I can’t let him make a sound.

I’m on my knees, my hand covering his mouth. His eyebrows fly up his forehead. The look he’s giving me is manic, fingers raising to claw at my forearm.

One shake of my head and he stops screaming into my palm. Stops fighting.

Poor idiot. He thinks it’s some kind of code tobe quiet and you might live another day.

I haul the blond man up to his feet, dragging him to the small kitchen to our left.

It’s kind of sad how empty his apartment is.