Page 49

A.L.I.S.S.A

" A lissa." My eyes connect to deep, crimson ones. "What do you need?"

My hands won’t stop trembling, no matter how tightly I lace my fingers together in my lap. The room feels too small, too quiet, except for the erratic beat of my heart pounding between my ears. Riot sits across from me, his presence so overwhelming it seems to fill every inch of space.

How did I get here? How did I find the nerve to even confront him—to step into his space?

This was a mistake.

A huge, huge, huge mistake.

Even looking at him feels impossible, like I might crumble under the weight of his attention.

My gaze falls on my wrists. At the pale, uneven lines etched into my skin, I pause. After my mother, my fear of heights has always been bad, but this… This is something else. It’s primal. Absolute. My pulse pounds in my ears, faster and faster, and…

"We're not mates." The words fall out of my mouth before I can stop them, settling in the space between us uncomfortably. But worse than that, I feel his weighted gaze narrowing; it should have been enough to shut me the hell up, but in a broken whisper, I ask, "Am I your mate?"

It's been three days since the incident on the rooftop. Three days since I learnt I'm not his only mate. Three days since I almost died, reliving my worst fear. Three days since I had left my room.

Kyrian's elixir healed the worst of the damage, but I still feel the ache in my wrists—raw, bruised and burning from the ropes Haze used.

The fibres bit into my skin, cutting deeper every time I struggled.

It doesn't matter how tightly I ball my fists or how much I tell myself it's over; I'm back there in an instant, tied to that chair, staring into the abyss below me.

The drop— Gods, the drop —sixty stories straight down, maybe more. Just blackness, swallowing everything, waiting to swallow me . I was inches from the edge, and every time the chair shifted under me, my heart stopped.

It's been three days since I left my room, replaying those events—over and over again. And it was during that time I realised… I must truly hate myself.

When I screamed, it was from pain and fear, but there was something else there, too, something deeper, darker— anger. So much anger. Because I realised this isn’t new to me. The helplessness, the knowledge I was at someone else's mercy; that's been my whole life.

Unable to scream when my mother jumped off that goddamn roof.

When I looked over, I saw her mangled and twisted body on the cobblestone, blood oozing out of her as she stared up at me with dead, hollow eyes.

When Alpha Zander forbade me from turning.

When I wasn't allowed to run. When I couldn't eat at the dinner table and was only allowed scraps.

When I wasn't allowed to sleep until the house was clean, the laundry was done, and the dishes were washed.

The voice in my head is always loud; it’s terrified and alone and silenced. It’s me. I've never raised my voice, never complained, never fought for a damn thing—when I know I had every right to.

Just leave it alone, Alissa.

Stay quiet, Alissa.

You're breathing too loudly, Alissa.

Don't complain, Alissa.

"You're my mate." Riot's voice snaps me out of my thoughts, and my gaze connects to his.

I can't explain my relief at hearing those words.

Because as I was falling, as I saw him jump after me into the abyss, my only regret was never fighting for a single thing in my life.

And I want my mate. I want to fight for my mate, for myself… for us.

"What happened to the others?"

"I gave them a home in the Green Zone with their families," he replied, his voice calm and impossibly steady. It doesn’t carry anger or impatience, which gives me confidence—suddenly, too much confidence.

"Were they not enough?" I bite my lip and look back to my tightly interlaced fingers, my heart beating against my chest. I know he knows what I meant by those words. I know he understands what I'm really asking; will I be enough?

My heart lurches when I hear his chair scraping softly against the floor. My eyes dart back to him as he slowly makes his way around the desk. Each step seems deliberate, almost heavy, like there is a weight he carries that I can’t see.

Riot stops in front of me, leaning against the desk, his tattooed hands gripping the edge as if to hold himself up.

He doesn’t look at me, not as he moved, and not now.

His focus is on the backdrop, looking out into space, but even then, I don't think he’s seeing anything, because he suddenly seems far away, lost in thoughts I can’t reach.

"How do I do this without hurting you?" he murmurs, so low it’s like a thought he didn't mean to let slip. His words should hurt—they do hurt—but there is also something else, something sad and lost about them. Something that prompts me to ask another question, a deeper question.

"Who was the first?"

"A dream," he says, his words a broken whisper, "perfect, faraway… and mine."

I gulp the tears that threaten to spill, but not from his words.

It’s his face. His head tips back, eyes closed, and a softness in his expression takes my breath away.

The usual sharp edges of his face—his strong jawline, furrowed brows, the tight line of his lips—are gone, replaced by something so gentle, it feels almost out of reach; a dream I shouldn't disturb.

I turn away, because somehow, I know this moment isn't for me. It isn't mine.

I want that.

I want him to think of me like that.

The flare of jealousy burns hot in my chest. My heart twists, and for one brief, shameful moment, I hate that I’m not Her. That I wasn't first. But before the feeling can take root, I force myself to smother it.

This was never about me; it was about her.

Without the hard lines and sharp edges, it suddenly dawns on me that before everything—before he was labelled a Hero, before the Gods called him their Champion, before his name spread hope and fear throughout the districts—he was a boy. A helpless, powerless boy.

"I'm so sorry." My words crack in the silence as I glance up at him to find his eyes already on me. I steel my spine, force the tears back, and say, "But I don't think she would have wanted this for you. It isn't how she would have wanted you to live."

A smile tilts the corner of his lips, and his eyes seem far away again as he lifts his head, seemingly lost in memory, and whispers, "Right."

The door opens, and to my surprise, it's Mia. She strolls in, effortlessly graceful in her white and gold gown. As Riot returns to his desk, Mia's gaze flicks between us and she smirks. "Am I intruding?"

Riot sits back in his chair, narrowing his gaze at Mia. "You're late," he says.

"I was with my sister." Mia sighs, slipping onto an empty chair beside me, her hands folded onto her lap. "Maya's having a hard time replacing her General. I don't suppose you've seen him?"

Riot leans back, snatching a cigarette from his desk and rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. "Three days ago, District 4, Yellowstone Marketplace."

Mia eyes harden. "And how do you know that?"

I stare between the two, confused. I haven't seen Mia since Riot forced her to heal Haze, which I'm sure he probably regrets now. She disappeared right after, and I honestly thought Riot had lost his Emissary.

"It was as I predicted." Riot shrugs, striking the lighter, the flint sparking with a metallic scrape and a small wavering flame springs to life. "The Nightwalker teamed up with Damien."

As he predicted?

Mia sighs. "I owe that bastard Kyrian my favourite goddamn necklace." Mia notices Riot's raised brow as she holds onto a gold necklace around her neck. "He wants to trade it for a sword Maya had crafted, and my necklace was the price."

"W-Wait," I stutter, unsure if I'm truly understanding what the hell is going on, "you knew? You both knew?"

"Not Mia, apparently," Riot drawls, the picture of calm as smoke slips out between his lips, and he looks me dead in the eye when he says, "She lost her favourite necklace."

"I didn't think she'd be stupid enough to take that risk." Mia huffs, crossing her arms below her chest and gritting her teeth.

"I-I almost died!" I say, glaring at the two of them. "Seth almost died. A-And Reece… Reece isn't waking up. And you knew?"

"Mostly," Mia says, her words hard and frustrated, "we knew she'd attack. We knew she'd try to create discord between us. We didn't think it would happen so soon, and we didn't think she was controlling Reece, either."

"I underestimated her," Riot murmurs, staring at the glowing red bud of his cigarette, seeming to be in deep thought. "I thought if she tried to use her ability, I would sense it—and I did. But I thought she had used her ability to fight Damien. I didn't think it was an act."

"B-But what about after?" I whisper, "Surely, she would have needed to use her ability constantly to keep her under control."

"Her touch," he says, and his eyes connect with mine.

Each word he speaks makes the air in the room heavier.

Colder. "One touch. That's it. Just a brush of her hand against yours, and you're hers.

Your thoughts. Your suggestions. Your ideas and your actions—are hers.

You're simply a puppet under her control. "

The blood drains from my face, my pulse racing in my ears. His words sink in like icy needles, sharper and colder with each passing second. My mind immediately replays every moment I'd been near her; every time she brushed against me, put her hands around my shoulders, held my face.

How many times had she touched me?

Suddenly, my shoulder feels cold. The casual, fleeting touch of her arm on my shoulder as she held onto the back of the chair and threatened to drop me over the rooftop. Her words in my ear.

"Scream — because if you don't, it'll live inside you. It'll eat a hole through your soul, and it'll live there, and you'll feel it. For the rest of your life… you'll feel it."

Did I scream because I feared those words might be true, or did she plant those feelings inside me?

Was I helpless on that roof? Could I have fought?

Was she in my head the whole time? When was the first time I touched her?

Was it when I met her? No, I didn't see her.

Did I brush her on my way to the kitchen? Did she touch me?

So much was happening; I can't remember.

My stomach twists with nausea, and my hands are clammy, my breath hitching. What if she'd already done it? What if I’m not myself anymore?

My gaze flicks to Mia, hoping— praying —she has an answer, but I pause at her expression.

Mia's hands, always so steady and relaxed, are shaking. Her spine, always ramrod straight, curves slightly, like the weight of her questions are pressing down harder than she can bear. And then there’s her face; the slight quiver in her lips, the tiniest flicker in her eyes— fear.

For some reason, the sight snuffs out that little bit of hope I had. That she can fix this. That maybe she is immune. That the Gods will help. But even they can't. I don't think anyone can.

“Mind control?” Mia whispers, looking for confirmation in Riot’s eyes. But he shakes his head.

“It goes far deeper than mind control,” Riot reveals.

“What makes you say that?” I ask.

“It was something Seth once told me.” He pauses, brows furrowing in thought. “He was happy to obey her. To kill for her. She didn’t just bend his mind; she twisted his heart. Controlled his emotions… Manipulated his soul.”

I force myself to stare at Riot, my voice shaky as I finally manage to speak. "How… How can you tell if she's controlling you?" I hate how small my voice sounds. How terrified I am.

He looks between us. He doesn’t try to sugarcoat his words; there is no comfort in his eyes—just the cold, hard truth.

"You can't."