Page 35 of Ruthless Chaos

I was foolish to trust her.

“Look on the bright side. You passed your first Trial,” Tara says. She’s perched by the foot of my bed. “That’s something worth celebrating, I think.”

I pull the sheets up. “You could’ve at least warned me.”.

Tara smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “What should I have said?” She folds her arms. “Be careful, they’re going to kidnap you in the middle of the night, strip you naked and make you feel like shit about things you can’t control?”

My lip quivers, but I tamp down the emotions.

“You already looked so scared when you first got here. I thought bringing you to the party would at least help you unwind and prepare for it,” she says. “Warnings don’t help. I’m not even allowed to tell you.”

It crosses my mind that Tara could be a victim of this place too.

But then I get a good look at the tattoo peeking out from underneath the hem of her nightgown. It’s of a skull with daggers through its eyes. The Spanish wordsantes muerta que mancilladaare wrapped around the base of the skull.

Death before dishonor.

That’s the last piece of the puzzle.

With a phrase like that inked on her, she more than likely belongs to some sort of crime syndicate, like a cartel or the mafia.

Tara is right at home among these people, she’s one of them.

Nothing she says will change that.

“I didn’t expect this.”

She leans back on her palms, looking intently at my face as if she’s trying to figure me out. Her attention makes me bristle.

“Your mother didn’t prepare you?”

Her question brings me back to what Cassidy said in her speech. Of how they are bound to Hemlock House by blood or bond.

Everyone here has something—like a relative or whatever else—tying them to the House. Everyone except me.

“My mother died when I was young.” That isn’t a lie.

Tara looks sympathetic. Without warning, she closes the space between us and pulls me into a hug. Her grip is tight, and she smells like a field of dark, thorny flowers.

“I’m so sorry,chiquita.” Her voice is muffled against my shoulder. She pulls away from me after a few heartbeats. “Now I understand your worry.”

My chest constricts a little.

Her words feel genuine. As much as I want to hate her, she’s the only person who has treated me like a human so far. I can’t stay mad at her, even though I know I should.

Curse my stupid, empathetic heart.

She bounds off my bed, toward the blender. There are two large cups on the table.

“I made us milkshakes for breakfast,” she says, pouring some of the contents into one of the cups. “Since classes don’t officially start till tomorrow, I was thinking we could take a trip into town. Do some shopping, and whatever else.”

My stomach growls in response. It’s been more than a day since I’ve had a proper meal. I walk over to the table on shaky legs.

How did I not notice I was famished?

I take the shake she hands me and start downing it almost immediately. The flavor is strawberry and something else I can’t place. It’s delicious.

“Wait,” Tara says.