Page 12

CHAPTER 11

The ride back was dead silent.

For the first time ever, I think Callan was at a loss for words. His usually untouchable ego is obviously bruised, and the power he speaks of so often is slipping away from him, little by little. Everything he’s built with his newfound family is about to be ripped apart, and he’s petrified. As he should be.

When he pulled up to my dorm, he didn’t linger. No smug remarks, no grip on my wrist, no cruel words. He just shoved me toward my car with an order to finish the task I’ve been assigned, tonight. Which is complete and utter bullshit.

Evan is waking up. Soon, he’ll open his eyes and tell everyone the truth. The truth that Callan and his precious Lords have been so desperate to keep buried. And yet, despite the inevitable fall of his empire, he’s still sending me out into the woods to burn evidence. As if the ashes of my music box can silence Evan when he finally speaks.

Now, it's pitch-black out, and I’m expected to drive twenty minutes out to some desolate lot in the woods and destroy what I can only assume is evidence in a serious investigation.

My headlights cut through the thick shadows as I pull up to the clearing. With my engine still running, and my lights still on, I whip open my door. After slipping on a pair of black leather gloves, I grab the spade Callan threw in my car, my box, and my flashlight from the passenger seat.

I knew the world wasn’t sunshine and rainbows, but I never imagined secret societies running around in the dead of night beating people up or killing them.

Welcome to the dark side, Avery. Not only are there no snacks, there are three broody assholes hell-bent on controlling your every move.

With a sigh, I get out of the car, feeling the dried arousal in my underwear with each step. It’s about as annoying as the man who put it there.

A shiver runs down my spine when I think about our shameful act. How could I have been so weak?

A sharp gust of wind has the trees bustling, making my nerves feel even more on edge. Crisp leaves rain down, scattering all around me. It’s early winter, and thankfully, there hasn’t been any accumulating snow, but the crunch beneath my shoes makes me feel exposed. Like someone might hear me. Or worse, like someone might be watching me. I clutch the box tightly, the light of my flashlight bouncing off the trees.

Then, relief washes over me when I see the post with the weathered red ribbon.

Not wasting a single second, I stand to the right of the marker, muttering the instructions under my breath.

"Six steps forward. One…two…three…four…five…"

I see it. My heart jumps into my throat as I crouch down beside the black rock. Reaching into my coat pocket, I pull out the spade. My fingers tighten around the handle as I plunge the blade into the solid ground.It’s cold, so I have to really work to even make a dent in it.

My breaths cloud in the night air as I dig, and once I’ve got a decent-sized hole, I drop the spade to the ground. Reaching for the box, I run my gloved fingers over the delicate details, tracing the design one last time.

A pang tightens in my chest. After tonight, I’ll never see it again. Much like everything tied to my mom, it’s just another piece of the past that I have to let go of, whether I want to or not.

I can’t help but wonder if the picture of my mom and I is still in there. Or, if I’ll ever see it again.

The whistle of the branches sends a shiver down my spine, making my nerves pulse with awareness. My head snaps up, scanning the darkness for any sign that I’m not alone.

When I don’t see anything unusual, I chalk it up to the wind.

Still, my pulse doesn’t settle as I glance back down at the box resting in my lap. Curiosity coils inside me. I’ve had this box for days, temptation gnawing at me. Now, with only moments left before it’s buried forever, this is my last chance to see what’s inside. To not only look for my picture, but to also uncover another secret . Do I dare do that to myself?

Moments pass before I finally cave, the cool night pressing in on me until I’m almost numb to it.

With a shaky hand, I lift the clasp, drawing in a deep breath before flipping the lid open.

My heart gallops when the ballerina begins twirling to the rhythm of the almost haunting melody. Panic grips me and I slap the box shut. My breaths are uneven as my gaze darts around, scanning the woods to make sure I haven’t drawn any unwanted attention.

Still, nothing. But the uneasy feeling lingers as I open the box again.

When it’s fully raised, the ballerina twirls again. Lying beneath her is something wrapped in brown butcher paper. But before I inspect it, I close my eyes.

I let the music wash over me, pulling me back to a time when life was simple. It hurts because I can see the moment so clearly.

I’m sitting on the floor of my bedroom, Barbie dolls dancing in my hands. Mom is behind me, gently humming the tune as she braids my hair.

I felt safe. I was safe.

Her warm voice and the way she was so gentle with me. The smile on her face and how mine mirrored hers so perfectly. It was almost like we were twins. She never wore a lot of makeup and her hair was always braided. I wanted to be just like her, so I always did the same.

Her soft eyes and perfect smile were all I ever needed to get through a rough day, and it’s something I wish I could have back more than anything.

But that was then, and this is now.

I snap out of the memory and open my eyes, face to face with the reality of what’s happening.

Reaching down, I pick up the wrapped object inside. It’s got weight to it, like a rock, but it isn’t hard. Curious, I give it a gentle squeeze. A sickening realization creeps in as my fingers sink into the soft, mushy texture beneath the paper.

I have to know what I’m burying.

With trembling fingers, I slowly peel away the layers of tape, my pulse hammering. The paper crinkles beneath my touch, each movement feeling heavier than the last.

I take a deep breath, then pull it back.

Oh my God.

A strangled gasp rips from my throat as I hurl the object away, my body lurching to the side in shock. I catch myself before collapsing to the ground, only to feel my hands sink into damp, cold moss.

Chest heaving, I lean forward, forcing myself to look at the object now lying on the crumpled paper.

A tongue. Not just any tongue—a human tongue. It lies there, raw and pale, streaked with drying blood. The edges are uneven, but the end is clean, like it was cut straight out of someone’s mouth.

My stomach twists violently, knots tightening so hard it feels like I might snap in two.

Bile burns as it rises up my throat. Then, I turn to the side and vomit until there’s nothing left inside me.

Wiping the back of my arm across my mouth, I force myself to breathe…to think. I need to put these missing pieces together before I completely lose it.

That’s not Evan’s tongue. At least, I don’t think it is.

A person can live without their tongue, sure. But if someone had actually cut his out, rumors would’ve spread. There’s no way this would still be a quiet investigation. Everyone would immediately know someone was responsible.

It belongs to someone else. Which means the Lords didn’t just target one person. A cold realization hits me, the fact wrapping around my heart. Callan was right, no one fucks with them and gets away with it. I am holding proof of it. Proof that could bury them even deeper. Proof that could bury me right along with them.

Oh, God . I’m half tempted to dig a bigger hole and just climb in it so they don’t have the satisfaction of doing it themselves.

Why the hell would they put me in this position? Leverage? Blackmail? That has to be it.

This isn’t just about trust anymore. It’s about control. They hold the power, and now, I’m locked even tighter in their iron grip. And the worst part is, I have no idea what they’ll want from me next.

Forcing down the nausea that threatens to resurface, I brace myself and fold the paper back over the tongue, hiding it, as if that could erase what I just saw.

I stretch both hands out, gathering a bundle of twigs and dried leaves, piling them beside the hole I just dug, the rustling sound unnervingly loud in the silent night.

Reaching into my pocket, my fingers fumble until they close around the box of matches I brought. I slide it open, plucking a single match between my fingers.

With a quick flick, I strike it against the box. A tiny flame dances to life, the scent of sulfur cutting through the cold air. I drop it onto the pile, watching as the kindling catches fire. Leaves curl at the edges, and twigs crackle under the flames.

I strike another match, feeding the small fire to keep it alive. Then, I swallow down the bile rising in my throat and shove the wrapped tongue into the heart of the flame, watching as the evidence of the Lords’ heinous act disintegrates. The scent of burnt flesh clings to the air—to my clothes, to me.

Nausea churns in my stomach again, but I shove it down hard, willing myself not to lose the plot, because I’m not finished yet.

There’s one thing left to do.

I look down at my music box, feeling a pang in my chest. I can’t do it. I can’t burn the box. The thought alone feels like I’m setting fire to the last piece I have of her—the old her.

Instead, I break one miniscule rule and I push it into the hole. The sound of it landing sends a chill through me.

I wait, and I watch. Seconds stretch into what feels like hours as the flames consume every last trace of evidence. When I’m certain the contents of the wrapper are nothing but ash, I push myself off the ground and stand.

Lifting my foot, I stomp out the lingering embers, grinding them into the dirt. Then, I pick up the small shovel and scrape the remnants into the hole on top of the box.

Working quickly, I pile the dirt back on with my hands. My entire body is trembling, but I don’t stop until every trace of evidence is underground.

Once it’s completely covered, I lift my foot and stomp down hard, packing the dirt in place before tossing some brush onto the area so you can’t tell something was freshly dug up.

My eyes dart to the rock—the last piece of this twisted task. I grab it, shove it into my pocket, and spin on my heel.

Without looking back, I get the hell out of here.