Samara and I never visited her place during leave. I’d invited her over to my apartment so many times, I think she’s slept in my bed more than I have. I’d assumed we were going back to the States, to a small home on the coast, like she said. Her house isn’t small and it’s not in the States either.

In the heart of Venice, at the top of a hill, the car drove into a large villa surrounded by gorgeous greenery and gardens that overlook the bay. Beautiful white cobblestones line pathways from the driveway to the gardens and behind it is miles of woods that close it off from the city below.

It’s warm, and a breeze blows on my face as I sit out on one of the stone benches outside. Samara offered me to come inside but the inside feels like I’m swapping one cell for another, and even feeling the wind on my face is enough to remind me that I’m not there anymore.

Castor’s face is visible through the bay window, his eyes glazed over while Samara binds his shoulder with gauze and antiseptic. A pan sizzles through the open door, Baron working calmly in the kitchen as he sears vegetables in a cast-iron skillet. The smell wafts out into the garden with a soft gust of wind, the rich scent of seasonings and butter making my stomach growl.

Baron turns, feeding out asparagus with tongs. He freezes, his eyes softening when he catches my eyes, but I turn away. It makes my stomach churn, the way they look at me now. Part of me wishes they still hated me. This aching feeling in my chest wanting them to hold me again like before but also wanting them to fight me so my mind could stop thinking.

Another scent catches through the wind, the scent of rich butter and greens mixed with pine and gun oil.

“Here.” Baron sets a plate down on the bench next to me. “I didn’t know what you liked.”

My eyes shift, only glancing briefly at the white porcelain dish on the bench. Wind blows my knotted hair over my shoulder, tossing up the salty air with the warm scent of spices and meat.

Baron sighs and leaves the plate. “Eat something. It’ll help you heal.”

I open my mouth to speak but he’s already gone. It’s a braised lamb, glazed with sliced red peppers and tomatoes and a variety of greens next to it that makes my mouth water. My stomach growls again, and I take a small bite, the flavors of butter and rosemary melting instantly on my tongue. I take another bite, relishing it with a moan. I’ve never seen either of them cook, I realized. Burning venison in the middle of the mountains is vastly different to this. This is fucking perfection.

I take in one bite after another until the plate is bare, and still my stomach is growling for more. Baron is still at the window with Castor, only it’s different now. His hand is on Castor’s shoulder, his lips pressed together in an indiscernible expression, while Castor’s hands are folded, his lips moving in prayer.

Weight shifts on the bench and a shadow blocks the sun from my view.

“Are you okay?” Samara asks.

“Is he praying?” I ask.

She turns back to the window, nodding.

“He’s been doing that a lot lately,” she says.

“Does he actually think that’ll help?”

She sighs, her face turning solemn, like she knows something I don’t. “Wouldn’t you pray if you were in his shoes?”

I’ve never been religious, but I can’t deny that if there were ever a time to ask any god for help, it would be in something like this.

We sit in silence, watching the people move about below. We’re too high up to hear them, but I can see their laughter, the tourists milling about, taking pictures on every corner, shops dinging with every customer flying in the door. It’s still alive, somewhere—that side of me that remembers how to smile. I want to reach out and touch it, but it feels cold on my fingers even through the warm air.

“I didn’t tell you because of John,” Samara forces out. “He knew you’d get involved and he didn’t want you to get hurt.”

I shake my head, eyes closing like it would force the memory of him away. “I don’t need to hear this.”

“Yes you do,” she blurts. “I want you to know.”

My eyes snap to hers when I hear her choke on her words. Sara never cries. Not to me. She’s only let me see the best of her, holding me while I cry and panic and scream about things happening that I couldn’t understand, not knowing just how many people orchestrated it to be that way. She kept a brave face, even when I knew she wanted to let go.

Samara covers her face, sniffling and wiping tears in an attempt to compose herself.

“Baron and Castor found me in Libya. The bombing, it killed my family, my fiance. Over one million people died, and I only survived because I ran away from home…because Baron and Castor found me.”

Her hands tremble, thumb running over the gold bangle on her wrist. She pulls a picture from her pocket. It’s old and crinkled, worn from years of handling.

I hold up a hand to stop her. “They already told me this, it’s fine.”

“Will you just look at it? Please?”

I reluctantly take the picture.

I don’t see it at first. It’s a picture of Baron and Castor, drawn up in their faux military gear with a rare smile on both of their faces as Baron tries to shove Castor. People are crowded in the background, blurring their bodies together from the unfocused lens, but after a moment I finally see two figures stand out—a young black girl, hair slicked over her shoulder as she regards the man next to her with a coy smile. The man watches the woman intently, eyes trained on her so deeply, he doesn’t see the camera in Baron’s hands. Or maybe he doesn’t care.

The woman has her hand brushed over his shoulder, but the glint of the same silver tags around my neck is unmistakable.

Dad. Samara.

“I just wanted revenge.” Samara laughs but it’s hollow. “I didn’t expect for John and I to…” She trails off, tucking the picture back into her jacket. “He helped them escape. He was the reason I got into Acacia, and when I found out Bane was going to kill you too, I panicked.”

She stands abruptly, moving between the bushes of herbs and vines lining her garden. The sun glows off her skin, radiating off her prosthetics like a glow surrounding her.

Anger simmers in my chest, but something else is fighting with it.

I cross the garden, turning her to face me, though she doesn’t wipe her tears away this time.

“You did what you needed to,” I tell her. “My dad was stubborn as he always fucking was. It wasn’t your fault.”

Her smile quivers and she laughs before throwing me into a tight hug. Her metal arm digs into my back and my eyes bug from the force before she pulls me away.

“Sorry,” she says with a sheepish smile. “I forgot.”

I roll my eyes, trying to conceal my smile.

“Yeah, well, consider us even then. You got shot, and I’m sure you just bruised my spine.”

A clatter draws our attention back to the window. Baron scrambles to the floor, picking up pieces of food next to Castor’s feet while Castor shakes his head, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“I never thought I’d see them open up to anyone,” Samara adds.

“I’d hardly call that opening up,” I retort. “They seem more likely to cut into me or fuck me than do anything nice.”

“That’s not what I heard.”

I don’t look back this time but I can feel their eyes on me. It’s something I’m used to now, that feeling of being hunted. It’s Baron and Castor, lurking just far enough that I can never see them, but I can always feel them, even when they’re out of sight.

A memory flashes in my mind. A cry in darkness, pleading my name, sobbing for it. It doesn’t have a face, the cries are muddled and unclear, but it’s distressed. Horrified. The same way I cried for my father when he died, when I begged him to come back.

Samara touches my shoulder and it’s gone, vanishing into an echo in my mind.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “If I was there, I would’ve stopped them. ”

She nods towards the house. “Come on. You’re covered in blood and dirt. I’ll get you some clothes.”

She disappears inside the house before I have a chance to answer, and I’m forced to tail behind her. The villa is warm, not just the temperature, but every inch of it is adorned with soft yellow lights and intricate furniture. The wood of the couches and tables in the living room are carved carefully into beautiful swirls that match the other, matching the dark hardwood floors that are barely visible underneath the large carpets covering the space. The kitchen is strikingly different, the walls covered in an ornate reflective tile and bright granite countertops and islands that almost glisten off the dark hardwood that grows upwards to the banister lining the staircase.

I follow her slowly, my bare feet cold on the chill wood as I climb the stairs.

The bathroom matches the downstairs, white tiles reflecting my bruised body as I turn on the shower. The mirror quickly fills with steam and blocks my reflection, but the scars are easy to see. My clothes fall to the floor in a heap, but my skin is sickly pale, dotted with dirt and dried blood. My hair is dirty and matted and the blur of my scar is visible in the mirror—-a mass of white on my chest.

I don’t bother looking. It won’t change anything. I step into the shower, the glass door clicking shut behind me. In an instant, the clear water runs brown down my skin, weeks of dirt and blood running off my body in streams and down the drain.

My hands sting from the burns and my leg isn’t much better. I’d almost forgotten about it until now. They’d shot me because I tried to escape, because I wanted out. I was there because I wanted to prove something to myself, that I could still fight, that I could earn my place in Bane’s mind. That’s gone now. Everything—-my life, my home, my purpose—doesn’t exist anymore,

I’d kept myself strong because I had to, because that’s what’s expected of me in order to keep moving. But I’m not moving anymore. Bane is gone, and even if I’m not free of the Codex, I’m finally free of wandering eyes. There aren’t any shackles on my wrists and I can finally, finally , take a shower.

So I cry.

I let it hit me as I bury my face into my hands, sobbing over everything I’d thought I’d had, that was ripped from me, crying because I have no one to blame. Baron, Castor, Samara, my dad. I can’t even blame myself. The safest I’ve ever felt is here, in this house, filled with people who lied to me, tortured me and showed me that my life really wasn’t my life at all. I cry. My best friend and the Codex are right outside the door, and it fucking shatters me. I’ve never been allowed to break down, to grieve myself.

Then, a hand wraps around my shoulder and a soft baritone speaks above the running water.

“Helena,” Castor whispers.

“I’m not in the mood to suck your dick right now,” I sniffle, wiping the tears from my face. “I just want to be alone.”

“That’s not why I’m here.”

I don’t look back at him. I hate crying in front of other people. It takes all I can to force the tears to stop, but I close my eyes, focusing on the water raining on my skin.

“Let me,” he says, taking my hair into his hands. He massages my scalp, gently working his fingers through the knots in my hair. Clumps of mud and broken hair fall alongside the water, collecting around my feet until they swirl down the drain.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He asks, working his fingers through another knot.

I know better than to lie, at least to him. Castor would know in an instant if I did, so I can’t tell him I’m fine. So I just shake my head.

“Okay, we won’t talk about it,” he says simply. He wrings out the moisture in my hair before tucking it down my shoulder. He wraps his arms around me, his hands pressed gently on my stomach. “I meant what I said before. You didn’t deserve any of this. If we could, we would’ve gotten you out a long time ago.”

He pulls me towards him, turning me gently to face him. The corner of his lip twitches and he reaches out, stroking my wet hair.

“Look at you,” he says. “You’re stronger. You’re smarter. We saved you but you saved us too. Don’t forget that.”

“Castor,” I start, but he stops me.

“Say my name.” His hand moves down my shoulder blades, a small smile on his lips when I gasp. “My real name.”

I suck my lip between my teeth, heat rising to my cheeks.

“Silas…”

He chuckles softly, offering a smile that I don’t often see. “Beautiful.”

His voice is warm on my skin, washing over me like a wave of something strikingly different from the pleasure he offered. For so long, that’s all I felt, but there’s no pleasure in this. There’s no hunger in his eyes. The dark voids soften to a warm brown with his smile, and in it is a flutter deep in my chest that I remember in those memories of my father in front of the hearth in my home.

Warm. Contentment. Safety.

Castor leans in, his lips hovering above mine hesitantly before he kisses me softly. His hands come up to cradle my face, and I can’t help but kiss him back, letting that warm feeling consume me as the water rains down on us both.

I follow his lips when he pulls away, almost wanting to pull him back into another kiss, but I let him stop, and I let that desire linger.

“You’re really pretty, you know,” he says. “He’d be proud of you.”

And again, the thought crashes me back to the present, the warmth ripped from me in a violating cold that settles deep into my chest. It’s cold like his ghost, haunting my mind with a sickly feeling each time I’m reminded he’s there.

I step out of the shower, quickly throwing on fresh clothes, despite Castor’s bewildered stare.

“What’s wrong?”

“I need some air.” The clothes stick to my skin, drenched in water, but I don’t bother drying myself off. I can’t. The feeling is crawling up my skin and to my lungs until I’m gasping for breath. I need to get out. I need to get out now.

Castor shuffles out behind me, trying to grab onto me but I slip past him and the others stare in confusion as I bolt out of the house.