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The Dictator’s Publicist

Isobel’s dreams were full of blood.

The first time it happened, the glittering ruby colour appeared at the ends of sharp black talons as her ears flooded with the sound of scraping bone and tearing flesh, but over time, the dreams began to change.

The blood became her own.

She knew it was hers because it swayed through a river of glittering gold.

It was prettier than the visions of black talons and viscera, but it was infinitely more painful.

On those nights, she could feel a phantom pain so deep inside her soul that it caused her to jolt awake gasping, her heartbeat fluttering fast and fragile.

Those nights were the worst, as the terror of her dreams summoned her more tangible nightmares into existence. They seemed to feed on her fear .

“If I’d known I would be invited into your bedroom so often, I would have died earlier, Carter.”

Her eyes were still closed, her skin drenched in sweat, her heartbeat pounding away at her ribcage.

She winced at the sound of Cesar Cooper’s voice and cracked one of her lids open to see the apparition of him standing at the end of her bed.

He wasn’t alone, but she didn’t yet have the energy to take stock of the other remnants who had materialised along with him, so she simply closed her eye again and waited for her breathing to even out in forced calm.

It had been four months since she returned to Ironside for her fourth year, but it seemed that with every passing month, the restless panic inside her had only grown sharper and deeper.

It was festering inside, an infection she didn’t know how to cure.

She didn’t even know how to slow the spread.

The only people she could speak to about it were the very people who were caught up by those same gripping claws of trauma, and she didn’t want to add to their burden.

She would have talked to Annalise Teak about it last year, but the bond specialist had disappeared.

The last time Isobel had seen the other Sigma had been the last day of their settlement tour over summer break.

The officials had questioned them extensively on Teak’s actions and habits over the summer break, digging into their brains for any hint as to the bond specialist’s location—and that was the only way Isobel knew that Teak had truly disappeared, and that it wasn’t some sort of elaborate ruse to cover up something more sinister.

If the officials had done something to Teak, they wouldn’t have bothered launching an investigation.

The only people who cared about Teak’s disappearance were Gifted, and the officials didn’t need to explain themselves to Gifted.

Still, it didn’t stop Isobel from straining her ears for Teak’s voice whenever she woke up on the razor’s edge of a panic attack, and apparitions filled her room.

Sometimes, she saw Charlie, but never Teak.

She didn’t know if it was a true assurance that Teak was still alive, but she chose to think it anyway.

To believe that the other woman had somehow managed to escape Ironside and was out there somewhere, far away from the people who had damaged her, surviving on surrogate pills and slowly healing her broken heart.

She wanted to believe that Teak, at least, was free, because the rest of them were still trapped—in more ways than one.

They were held hostage by the memories of everything they had been through, and they were tethered by the contracts the officials had cornered them into signing.

They were forced together permanently by the bond and forced into silence for fear of how the public would react.

Every day, they were pretending. Every day, they were fighting.

Even if they made it to the finish line and graduated together as a group, they would still be controlled.

It was better than being separated into different settlements, which would be deadly for Isobel and severely damaging for the Alphas, but it was still a life that she looked forward to with dread.

They were running for their lives in a race they couldn’t win, and sometimes, it was hard to stay positive.

On those nights, in the dark, with sweat-soaked sheets and tear-stained cheeks, it was impossible, and she wondered how much longer she could survive like this.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. I’m here.” The words were murmured in her mother’s soft voice. She always appeared when the others did, never wanting Isobel to be left alone with them.

It didn’t change the fact that she was dead.

Or that a new dead person seemed to appear every time Isobel had one of those awful nightmares. The terror was so vast and consuming that it almost didn’t seem normal. It felt like a punishment .

Isobel had quickly learned that if she paid any of the remnants attention—including her mother—they all stuck around longer. Acknowledging them seemed to breathe life into them. She flicked off the damp sheets and set her trembling feet against the floor, trying to regulate her breathing.

One of the apparitions moved in front of her.

She recognised his belt, which was hanging open.

He had appeared in her room with Crowe the year before.

She hadn’t known who he was, back then, and she could only wish she still didn’t know, but she did.

Seeing this man abuse Gabriel once had been triggering enough.

Having him standing in her bedroom most nights was too much to bear.

Swallowing back the urge to be sick, she lifted her head.

Beside the man, Eve Indie stood silent and terrifying.

Of all the apparitions, Eve was usually the most silent.

It was almost like she had been broken before she died, and now even this vision of her was only a remnant of a remnant. It made Isobel feel even more nauseous.

“Move,” she growled out when she realised they were all crowding closer.

This was why she wouldn’t let any of her mates sleep in her room anymore. She was pretty sure the remnants couldn’t touch the living, but she didn’t want them anywhere near the Alphas.

Especially not that man .

“Looking good, Carter.” This had come from Crowe, though she didn’t dare look up at him. She kept her eyes fixed on the ground.

Ignore him. Just pretend they don’t exist.

“Love the new pyjamas,” he continued, his voice dripping with a slick, horrible smugness.

She was wearing full-length flannel pants and one of Kilian’s oversized sweatshirts. It was sweltering, but she was paranoid about waking up to find Cooper’s beady eyes on her body.

She grabbed her phone and stood, closing her eyes as she stepped forward. She must have ploughed right through one—or more—of the remnants, but she felt nothing. She opened her eyes after a few steps and stumbled into the bathroom, a heavy sigh falling from her lips as she leaned against the sink.

None of them followed her, which meant they must have disappeared.

She knew from previous experience that they absolutely would have followed her if they were still around.

At first, it had been so hard to block out her mother, but the more she tried to hold onto the past, the more the past was able to dig its claws into her.

It was better to leave it all where it belonged, which wasn’t with her.

She splashed her face with cold water and checked the time on her phone.

Almost 4:00 a.m. Good enough. After poking her head back into the bedroom to make doubly sure the remnants were gone, she tore off her sweaty pyjamas and put herself through a quick shower.

The remnants only came after her nightmares, now.

She was so used to everything Ironside habitually tossed at them—or perhaps she was so numb—that she rarely ever felt spikes of fear strong enough to summon them at any other time.

After stepping out of the shower, she dressed in a leotard, grey sweatpants, sneakers, and a fluttery crop top.

Since most mornings filled her with panic and pressure, it helped to think of one song she might like to dance to.

She planned her morning around the song while she was getting ready, no matter what her schedule actually held.

This morning, her phone had been playing a song called “Sinner” while she showered, so that was the song she dressed for.

She packed a bag and stepped out into the cool darkness, enjoying the bite of the breeze as she kicked into a run, her bag thumping against her back.

She slipped in earbuds and played the song again, trying to envisage all the ways her body would be able to translate the song into movement.

Reducing her mornings to this singular, narrowed purpose was the only way she could drag herself out of bed and face a new day.

She didn’t think about the apparitions as she ran.

She didn’t think about her mother. She didn’t think about the blood that flowed through her too-intense nightmares or the terrifying glint of gold that always jolted her awake.

She didn’t think about their album, which the officials had finally released to the public.

She didn’t think about how the guys were sure the release had been delayed because their summer tour had been too successful, and the officials didn’t want them to overshadow the human group.

She didn’t think about Cesar fucking Cooper. The sound of his ripping flesh as claws sawed against his bones haunted her often enough in her sleep. She refused to let those morbid memories occupy any of her waking moments.

She didn’t think about her father. About how he was coming to the Icon Cafe to visit her less ever since the officials started bugging the curtained rooms at random, and what it meant that she was sad about it.

He still called, texted, and emailed her—even more often than last year, but she wanted to see him.

To fight with him, maybe. Or maybe not. She didn’t know. Now wasn’t the time to examine it.