Page 12

Chapter 11

Seanna

Pulling into my driveway, the first thing I notice tonight is the emptiness on my doorstep. No sleek little box, no flower tucked neatly inside with a cryptic note. I should probably feel relieved—maybe my secret admirer finally figured out their creepy little gestures weren't having the desired effect. But weirdly, irritation spikes instead. Clearly, I'm more fucked-up than I realized—missing my nightly dose of unsettling affection.

I step inside, locking the door behind me even though I know damn well it's pointless. I don't normally bother—what's the point when locks mean fuck-all to the type of people I hunt? But tonight, I crave the illusion of control. Between the weight of Ford’s judgment at the DEA, the crushing expectations of my family, and the constant, underlying pull of the organization, my grip on normalcy feels dangerously tenuous. Sometimes it feels like I’m caught between worlds—respected agent by day even if I do step over the line occasionally, shadow operative by night, and always a Darling. Always living in someone's legendary shadow, always expected to perform. And I’m fucking tired of performing.

My mission, though, is clearer than ever: burn down every last scrap of corruption, drag every smug bastard out of the shadows, and hold their sins against the innocent up to the light. I might be twisted, but even I have lines I refuse to cross. Protecting those who can’t protect themselves, making those who think they're untouchable suffer—it's a mission I've willingly taken on, and I'll see it through no matter what the cost.

Dragging my exhausted body down the hallway, half-expecting another sinister surprise, I push open my bedroom door. The emptiness here is oddly reassuring. No black boxes, no sinister flowers. Maybe my stalker got bored. Maybe I've finally scared them off. Stripping off my clothes, I let them fall carelessly to the floor, too drained to give a shit about anything except sleep.

The mattress welcomes me, but my mind refuses to shut down. It churns relentlessly through every goddamn detail—the case, Reyes, Cruz's calculating gaze, and Hydessa off chasing her own monsters on some island that I hadn’t even bothered to get the name of. A twinge of worry hits me, familiar and bitter.

I might be fucked up, but my protective streak toward my twin is undeniable. She's smart, methodical, and cautious—traits I envy. Traits that I never quite mastered.

Our family doesn't do casual; we obsess. We love dangerously, fiercely, possessively. Anything less would bore me to tears. Anything weaker would crumble beneath my intensity.

I roll onto my back, staring at the ceiling, my thoughts a tangle of twisted knots. There's something almost comforting about admitting my own darkness, acknowledging the parts of me that most people would find horrifying. I'm not a good person, not in the traditional sense—and I've never pretended to be. I just happen to direct my particular brand of ruthlessness at people who deserve it even more than I do.

I've gotten used to my own vicious cycle—work until exhaustion, fall into bed, stare at the ceiling until my brain finally surrenders to darkness. Lather, rinse, fucking repeat. Most nights I can at least fool myself into thinking I'm making progress, but tonight feels different. Emptier. Like I'm chasing ghosts that are always one step ahead, laughing at my futile attempts to corner them.

God, I hate feeling like this. Vulnerable. Uncertain. These moments when I'm alone with nothing but my thoughts are when the carefully constructed armor I wear starts to show its cracks. The fierce, unapologetic agent facade slips, and underneath is just... me. The real Seanna Darling—messy, complicated, and perpetually unsatisfied.

"Look at you," I mutter to myself, "lying here feeling sorry for yourself when there's a fucking drug lord out there who needs to be destroyed."

But that's the thing about nighttime thoughts—they don't care about your to-do list or your vendettas. They dig deeper, unearthing all the shit you'd rather keep buried.

I roll over, punching my pillow into submission. The truth is, I'm not just frustrated about Reyes. I'm pissed at myself for being so goddamn obsessive about these creepy little gifts. Why do I even care? Why am I lying here actually disappointed that there wasn't another twisted present waiting for me?

"Because you're fucked up, Seanna," I whisper to the darkness. "Normal people run from danger. You fucking chase it."

And that's the real issue, isn't it? The adrenaline rush, the thrill of the hunt—it's become my drug of choice. The more dangerous, the more forbidden, the more I crave it. I've built my entire identity around being the fearless one, the reckless Darling who laughs in the face of death. Meanwhile, Hydessa is the careful one, the planner, the thinker.

Sometimes I wonder if we've both been typecast since birth—me as the wild child and her as the responsible one. What would happen if I tried to be cautious for once? Would the universe implode? Would my family even recognize me?

A bitter laugh escapes my lips. “Yeah, right. Like you could ever be anything but what you are."

I've never been good at lying to myself. I am who I am—relentless, fierce, and unapologetically intense. I don't do half-measures. I don't understand moderation. I throw myself headfirst into everything—work, fights, sex, life—with a reckless abandon that would terrify most people.

And yet... sometimes in moments like this, I catch myself wondering what it would be like to just... stop. To breathe. To not constantly be at war with the world and myself. To find peace in stillness instead of chaos.

"Bullshit," I scoff at myself, rolling over again and shoving the thought away. "You love the chaos. You'd be bored out of your fucking mind without it." Peace is for people who aren't me. I've tried stillness—it makes my skin crawl. I need the intensity, need the fight, need the danger. It's not just what I do; it's who I am.

I let out a soft, bitter laugh at myself. How did I end up here, obsessively hunting monsters while battling the darkness within me? Most people would probably be horrified if they could see the thoughts that flit through my mind on a daily basis—the casual violence I consider, the ruthless calculations, the complete lack of remorse when dealing with those I deem deserving of punishment.

But that's the thing about being a Darling—we were never raised to be normal. Normal was for other families, families who didn't understand the true nature of the world. Mom and my dads made sure we knew exactly how fucked up humanity could be from day one. They never sheltered us from the truth; instead, they armed us with it.

"Better to be the wolf than the lamb," Dad used to say. He wasn't wrong.

Growing up, I watched my parents move seamlessly between worlds—respected professionals by day, vigilantes by night. I learned to wear masks before I could even understand what they were for. The organization became our extended family, our purpose, our legacy.

And now here I am, continuing that legacy. DEA agent Seanna Darling, hunting Javier Reyes through official channels while simultaneously exploiting every underground connection the organization offers. It's exhausting living this double life, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't get a twisted thrill from it all.

"God, I'm fucked up," I mutter into the darkness, laughing softly at my own admission.

The worst part is, I don't actually want to change. There's something intoxicating about walking the line between light and shadow, between law and justice. Between what's legal and what's right. The rules that bind ordinary people don't apply to me—never have, never will. I've seen too much of the world's underbelly to believe in something as quaint as playing fair.

I close my eyes, willing my mind to quiet, but the endless loop of thoughts just keeps spiraling. Every time I edge toward sleep, some new theory, some hidden angle on Reyes or his operation jolts me back to consciousness. It's always been like this—my brain refusing to shut off until I've examined every angle, every dark corner where monsters might hide. It's what makes me good at my job, and it's also what makes me a fucking nightmare to live with.

Another hour of this bullshit, and I'm still wide awake, staring at shadows dancing across my ceiling. Perfect. Just what I need—sleep deprivation on top of everything else.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand, shattering my introspection. Jensen's name flashes across the screen, and I grab it with a mixture of irritation and curiosity. It's late, which means this is either important or he's about to get an earful.

"This better be fucking good," I answer flatly, not bothering with pleasantries.

"It is," Jensen's voice comes through, tense but excited. "Remember our mystery man from the Navarro surveillance? We got a hit."

I sit up immediately, sleep forgotten. "Talk to me."

"His name is Marcus Vega. Thirty-four, clean record—suspiciously clean, actually. Works as a private courier aka errand boy for several high-end clients in the city."

"A courier?" My mind races with possibilities. "Meaning he could be moving anything from intel, product samples, or cash for Reyes's operation."

"Exactly," Jensen confirms. "And here's where it gets interesting—he makes regular deliveries to an address just outside the city limits. Fancy neighborhood, very private. Property's registered to a shell company that took some serious digging to trace back."

"And?" I prompt impatiently.

"Matteo thinks it might connect back to Reyes's family. Not directly—there are about six layers of corporate bullshit between them—but it's the closest we've gotten to a potential residence."

Adrenaline surges through me. "Have we been watching this place?"

"Just started tonight. Eli's set up remote surveillance, but it's limited—too many security measures to get anything good without a proper team."

"Keep on it," I instruct sharply. "And Vega—I want everything on him. Where he lives, where he eats, who he fucks, his entire routine. If he's Reyes's messenger boy, he could be our way in."

"Already done," Jensen replies smoothly. "Also, local PD confirmed Cruz hasn’t done anything out of the ordinary. Their surveillance is still in place and will be until our meeting day after tomorrow."

"Good," I mutter, mind already racing through scenarios. "Now, get some fucking sleep, Jensen."

I end the call and fall back against my pillows, the darkness suddenly less oppressive. A courier. Someone trusted enough to move between Reyes and his inner circle. Finally, a thread to pull.

As my mind churns with possibilities, exhaustion finally tugs at me, and I drift into a fitful sleep filled with fragmented dreams of roses and shadows.

The first thing I notice when I wake is something feels... off. The air in my bedroom feels disturbed somehow, like someone's been moving through it while I slept. My instincts flare immediately, that sixth sense honed through years of hunting predators screaming that something isn't right.

My bed is covered with polaroid photographs.

They're scattered across my sheets and comforter like playing cards dealt by some psychotic dealer. Some face up, others face down, dozens of them. My heart slams against my ribs as I bolt upright, fully awake now, adrenaline flooding my system.

"What the actual fuck?" I whisper, staring at the images closest to me.

The first one I pick up shows me sleeping—face relaxed, one arm thrown above my head, completely vulnerable. Last night. The angle suggests someone standing right beside my bed, looking down at me. I flip through more photos, each one stealing another piece of my composure. Me turning in my sleep. Me curled on my side. Close-ups of my face, my hands, my bare shoulders peeking from beneath the sheets.

But it's the next one that hits me like a physical blow.

There I am on my deck, completely naked under the moonlight, head thrown back. Every intimate detail captured with perfect clarity—my fingers between my thighs, my expression fierce and challenging. Picking up more, I can see the photographer varied their position, some shots close, others from a distance, documenting my deliberate display from multiple angles.

"Jesus fucking Christ," I mutter, my fingers trembling slightly.

I should be furious. I should be calling for backup, sweeping the house, filing reports, sleeping with a knife under my pillow. That would be the rational response. The correct response. But the burning in my stomach isn't just anger or fear—there's something else there, something dark and twisted that I refuse to examine too closely.

God, I'm fucked in the head.

Because part of me—a part I'd never admit to anyone—is fascinated. Impressed, even. They were in my fucking bedroom while I slept. Could have done anything. Could have hurt me, killed me. But instead, they left pictures. Evidence. A declaration. Whoever took these has serious balls—or a death wish. Maybe both.

Normal people don't get turned on by being stalked. Normal people call the police or keep a gun close. But here I am, some twisted part of me actually enjoying the dangerous thrill of… whatever is happening here.

I gather the photos into a stack, noticing several black roses arranged artfully on my nightstand that I'd initially missed in my shock. Nestled among them is a simple white card. I reach for it, flipping it over to read the elegant script and a laugh bubbles up from my chest, sharp and slightly unhinged. The absolute audacity. The sheer fucking confidence.