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“Where have you been?”

I almost jump.

Almost. The instinct is there, but my muscles don’t react. I turn slowly and eye Reese, sitting on the couch with a book in his hand. He wasn’t there when I slipped out earlier. When I met Gabriel and took the syringe from his waiting hand.

I didn’t immediately succumb. He seemed to wait for me to fall to my knees and plunge it into my vein without any control, and his gaze was calculating when I just pocketed it.

Now, it’s burning a hole in my pocket.

The last three times I went to find him, he did everything for me except the final step. I’ve got it memorized now… not that I want to know. I just do.

It’s been four days since Saint brought me home from the hospital. Four days of sneaking around both of them—although one is easier to fool than the other.

Mainly because Saint is never here.

Reese, on the other hand, hasn’t yet ventured outside.

He sets the book down and frowns. “You shouldn’t be leaving without?—”

“I don’t need a chaperone,” I interrupt. “God, you’re not my dad. You were abducted, too, don’t you recall?”

“And that’s why I’m staying here,” he replies slowly. “Until?—”

“Until what? Until we find Kade or Gabriel or—?” I throw my hands up. “I didn’t think you’d be suddenly afraid to live, Reese.”

He scoffs. “I’m not. I’m being realistic. What’re my chances against literally anyone in my condition?”

Slim.

I break the eye contact, slanting my gaze toward the kitchen. It’s never really dirty , but the occasional pile of dishes stack up in the sink if I get busy.

Except right now, it’s gleaming. The scent of citrus cleaner reaches my nose, and the guilt hits me. While I’ve been creeping through the shadows, Reese has been here alone. Cleaning .

Saint is out, obviously. He’s been taking on more clients at the shop, and I think that’s more due to him not wanting to be around Reese and me than anything else. He comes home to sleep, armed with groceries or whatever else we need, and that’s it.

“Sit with me,” Reese says. “We can watch a movie, or…”

“Yeah.” I shift my weight.

“You don’t have to stand in the entryway like a stranger.” The accusation comes gently.

But I still don’t like it.

“I’m not.” I force my legs to carry me farther in. My hands flutter at my sides, and the urge to cover my pocket climbs. “A movie?”

“Just one,” he promises.

A movie in exchange for breathing room.

With a slight nod, I sit on the opposite side of the couch. He has the remote, and I don’t even care what he picks. I slump lower and cover myself with one of the blankets on the back of the couch. I stare at the screen, although my brain shuts off at some point.

“That was good.”

I blink hard and sit up. The end credits are rolling, and I didn’t watch a single minute. I nod my quiet agreement. He only glances at me, then away.

“Goodnight, Reese.” I get up and hurry into my bedroom.

Lock myself in before Saint can arrive home.

I take the syringe out and set it on my nightstand. I strip out of my clothes, replacing my shirt and sweatshirt with my sleep shirt, leaving my legs bare. I change the bandages covering the stitched-up stab wounds, smearing an antiseptic across the heated skin.

I can last a while longer yet. It’s like a game at this point.

Climbing into bed, I try to close my eyes.

But as soon as I do, they open again.

It’s the weirdest thing.

I roll onto my side and watch the clock. It goes from 8:01 to 8:03 before I blink. Then it’s 8:10. 9:32. 10:45. 1:13. 4:29.

When it clicks over to six a.m., I throw back the covers and get out of bed.

I stumble. Somehow, overnight, my body must’ve gone through a meat grinder. Or been run over by a freight train. I catch myself on my nightstand, and my pinkie brushes the syringe.

Ready.

Waiting.

I don’t have to take it.

In fact, I shouldn’t. I rub the crook of my elbow absently, shuffling across the room to gather things for a shower. It’ll distract me…

But first, I hide the syringe under my pillow. Just in case.

The shower, if you’re wondering, was uneventful. I hold myself mostly out of the water to keep the stitches dry, my body trembling with how I contorted. But my hair is clean, and that feels like a win.

I towel off and dress in the bathroom, mindful that Reese, sleeping on the couch, might be awake and might catch a glimpse of my ass.

I keep my hair wrapped up in the towel and exit.

And nearly slam into Saint.

He catches my arms, and his familiar scowl appears. “Careful,” he chides.

I yank my arms out of his grasp and cross them over my chest. My fingers cover the marks in the crook of my elbow, although they can’t fully block the yellowish bruising.

“I am careful,” I snap. “Why are you lurking outside the bathroom?”

“To see how you’re healing.” His gaze drops. First to my breasts, thankfully concealed in a sports bra, and then lower. His attention trips over my arm. “Is that from the IV?”

“I guess.” Goosebumps rise along my arms. My heart nearly trips over itself, the lie making me sweat . I don’t normally lie, but I’m not about to admit the truth, am I? That Gabriel pumped heroin into my body, and now?—

“Should you be showering with…?”

“It’s fine. I got the all clear.” I inch past him. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

“I—”

“We know you’re just going to run back to Starlight. Why bother with me?”

His mouth opens and closes. And then, softly, “I saw Kade.”

“You saw Kade,” I repeat. I pull at the collar of my shirt. “Where? Why?”

“He…” Saint’s furrowed brow seems to get more furrowed. “He came to the shop.”

His tattoo shop. I glare at him, because there’s clearly more.

“He wanted a tattoo.”

I laugh. It bursts out of me, and I slap my hand over my mouth. Just down the hall, in the open common space, Reese sleeps.

“Elaborate,” I finally say.

“He asked for a tattoo.”

“And you… refused him?” I finish. “Because he put me in this position? Because he gave me to Gabriel, and you have some ounce of loyalty in you?”

His blue eyes hold an apology I cannot comprehend.

No—no, I can comprehend it, but I definitely don’t accept it. His silent admission isn’t going to fly.

“Tell me.”

He reaches for me and falls short. “I gave him a tattoo.”

There it is.

“A real one,” I clarify.

His expression shutters, but he nods.

That hurts worse, actually. That he wouldn’t tattoo me , but he would give one to Kade? The man who betrayed me…

When will someone pick me ?

Tears burn the backs of my eyes. I stomp into my room and grab the syringe from under the pillow.

It’s back in my pocket, along with the elastic tourniquet and a stupid fucking alcohol swab.

I shrug on my leather jacket and lace my boots, tug the towel from my head and finger comb my hair into something acceptable.

When I burst back into the hall, Saint still stands there.

“Where are you going?” He follows me to the door.

I retrieve my gun from the safe, then glance back at him. Where am I going? I honestly want to be anywhere but here. He picked Kade . Over me? Over everything that happened?

I blink furiously, willing those tears to get sucked back into my body instead of falling down my cheeks. And I mostly succeed, except an errant one that I dash away with my fingers.

My anger lies with Saint. Poor, sad, heartbroken Saint. But it’s Kade’s fault, too. He went to Starlight. He asked for a tattoo.

Kade is the problem. We were fine until he came into my life, which means the only solution is to get him out. If he leaves Sterling Falls, then… maybe Gabriel will, too.

Maybe everything could go back to normal, and I’ll finally get some sleep.

I scrub at my face again, putting my mental mask back into place. My eyes are sandpaper, and the ache that echoes through my body with every move feels like my bones are grinding together.

After a breath, I drop my hands. I smile at Saint, so sweetly, I might as well be proposing.

The difference in my expression has him taking a step back.

“Where am I going?” I repeat his question. “I’m going to burn his fucking house down.”

Easier said than done, but still totally fucking manageable .

I toss the empty gas can into the formal dining room. Kade is in the ocean, and I made sure to avoid the kitchen, with its glass wall that faces the water. It would give me away if he bothered to check—and I’m sure he would.

The front door is open, waiting for my hasty exit.

Glancing around, I take in his paltry living. Off the kitchen, his cot is up against a wall and surrounded by his clothes. I was kind enough to avoid splashing the gasoline in that room entirely, for which I feel thanks should be in order.

However, the rest of the house? Fair game.

On the kitchen counter, I spot the folder he tried to get me to take… what was that, weeks ago? The one with Reese’s information. The one he used to try and ‘hire’ me to find his missing friend. I believe some of it… but not his motivation. Not all of it.

I walk in a crouch in and grab it, scurrying back out. The fumes are getting to me. The whole house reeks of the fuel.

I tuck the folder into the waistband of my jeans and hurry to the front door. My nose and mouth are covered by the collar of my shirt.

One last gas can sits waiting for me on the step.

I pour some on the threshold, connecting the puddles in the house to the front steps, then down. All the way to his car, which gets a good douse. He left his windows cracked, and I tip the contents of the gas can in. The liquid pours down the window and soaks the driver’s seat.

Down around the tires, over the spot where Nyx died…

I run out of gas, which is fine by me.

It’s perfect timing.

I avoid the soaked path and toss it into the house, then return to safety on the road. Every time I get on my bike, now fixed from the crash in West Falls, I’m thankful for helmets and good mechanics.