Page 12 of Echoes From the Void (Shadow Locke Shifters #3)

Chapter 11

Frankie

The thing about trauma is that it can show up at any moment, unexpected and out of line. Sometimes I wonder if it’s nature’s way of reminding us that we need to remember the darkest nights to appreciate the happier moments.

I drift off in the chair beside Finn’s hospital bed, his steady breathing a comfort after everything we’ve been through. But sleep isn’t kind tonight.

Marcus Sterling stands at the entrance to the ballroom, all perfect angles and expensive tailoring. The kind of handsome that belongs in board rooms and charity galas. His smile is practiced, pleasant, as he offers his arm.

“Shall we?” His voice carries that cultured tone of old money and ivy league education.

My legs shake as I take his arm, the silk dress whispering against the polished floor. The ballroom gleams with candlelight, a single table set for two in the center. It’s meant to be romantic. It feels like a cage.

He’s younger than the others Valerie usually parades through here. Maybe thirty-five. The kind of man who could have any woman he wants. The kind who prefers ones who can’t say no.

“You really are exquisite,” he says as he pulls out my chair. His fingers brush my shoulder, lingering too long on exposed bone. “Though we’ll have to work on getting some meat on these lovely bones.”

The smell of real food makes my stomach clench painfully. Steak, potatoes, wine—a feast designed to remind me how hungry I am. How dependent.

His hand settles on my knee under the table. “Shall we discuss terms?”

The steak bleeds onto fine China as he cuts it into precise bites. My own plate remains untouched—we all know this dinner isn’t really about food.

“Valerie tells me you’re special,” he says, thumb stroking circles on my knee. “That you just need the right... motivation to reach your potential.”

I stare at the candlelight, trying to ignore how his hand creeps higher. The silverware gleams, so sharp, so close. But my arms feel like lead, muscles weak from months of careful starvation.

“Tell me,” he leans closer, breath hot against my ear. “What do you think about children?”

The question makes bile rise in my throat. This isn’t just about his usual preferences then. This is about Valerie’s breeding program. About finding new ways to make me useful.

“I’m not...” my voice cracks from disuse. “I don’t...”

“Shh,” his grip tightens painfully on my thigh. “You don’t have to think about anything. That’s the beautiful part. I’ll take care of everything.”

The wine in his glass looks like blood in the candlelight. His other hand moves to my neck, fingers pressing against my pulse.

“So fragile,” he murmurs. “So... breakable.”

“Would you like to dance?” His fingers flex against my throat, not really a question. The string quartet in the corner starts playing on some silent signal.

My legs nearly give out as he pulls me to my feet. The room spins—from hunger, from fear, from the way his hands possess more than support.

“Valerie said you were a dancer,” he says, drawing me against him. His cologne is expensive, suffocating. “Show me.”

But I’m not. I never was. That was just another lie Valerie told, another way to market her “special” girls to men with specific tastes.

His hand splays across my lower back, pressing me closer. “You’re shaking,” he observes, pleased. “Like a baby bird.”

The strings swell as he spins us, my vision blurring. His grip tightens until I know there will be bruises. More marks to add to Valerie’s collection.

“I think,” his lips brush my ear, “we should continue this somewhere more private. I have... arrangements with Valerie. About special cases like you.”

Something inside me snaps.

Not my shadows—they’re still sleeping, starved quiet like the rest of me. But something older. Something that remembers how to survive.

The letter opener gleams on the table beside us—Valerie’s idea of elegant dinner decor. Sterling’s grip loosens just slightly as he moves to guide me toward the private rooms.

One moment of carelessness. One fraction of opportunity.

My fingers close around cool metal as I stumble. He catches me, laughing at my weakness. Doesn’t notice what I’ve grabbed until I’m driving it up under his ribs.

His eyes go wide with shock. Not pain, not yet. Just surprise that his fragile bird had claws.

“You—” he starts, but blood bubbles up instead of words.

I twist the blade like I’m cutting through one of his perfect steaks. My arms shake with the effort, muscles screaming from months of atrophy. But survival is stronger than weakness.

He tries to shove me away. I fall, taking him with me. We hit the polished floor together, my dress soaking up his blood like hungry silk.

“Please,” he gasps, no longer handsome, no longer powerful. Just another monster learning too late that prey can bite back.

I drive the letter opener in again. And again. Until his grip finally loosens. Until his eyes go glass-dark. Until I’m sure.

The quartet never stops playing.

“Well,” Valerie’s voice cuts through the quartet’s final notes. “This is unexpected.”

I’m still straddling Sterling’s corpse, hands slick with cooling blood, letter opener dripping onto silk. My entire body trembles with exhaustion, with adrenaline, with the effort it took to kill him.

“Look at you,” she moves closer, heels clicking against marble. There’s something new in her voice. Something hungry. “I thought you were only good for breeding stock. But this...” She gestures at Sterling’s body, at the savage efficiency of his wounds. “This shows promise.”

I try to stand but my legs won’t hold me. The letter opener clatters to the floor as I collapse beside his body.

“Don’t worry about the mess,” Valerie says, already pulling out her phone. “We’ll handle cleanup. Though I must say...” She reaches down, tilting my face up to examine me. “I didn’t expect this kind of potential from you. Perhaps we’ve been approaching your training all wrong.”

Her smile is terrible in its pride. Like a mother whose child has finally learned to walk. Like a scientist whose experiment finally yielded results.

“Get her cleaned up,” she calls to someone in the doorway. “And double her food rations. We can’t have our little assassin too weak to play, can we?”

And I realize, as hands lift me from Sterling’s cooling body, that I haven’t won anything at all.

I’ve just shown Valerie a new way to make me useful.

The quartet plays on.

The blood dries on silk.

And somewhere deep inside, where shadows sleep waiting to wake...

Something darker stirs.

I jerk awake in the hospital chair, Finn’s steady breathing beside me. My hands are clean, but I swear I can still feel Sterling’s blood on them.

The thing about trauma is that it shows up unexpectedly.

But the thing about survival?

Sometimes it wears a monster’s face.

Sometimes it comes with strings.

Sometimes it means becoming what they made you.

Even if you don’t understand what that is.

Yet.