Page 9

I flick my lighter on, and the little flame jumps to life. I pull a strip of fabric from my pocket—a sliced piece of the towel I have stashed in the compartment on my bike—and hold it over the flame.

When it catches, I take two steps back and toss it onto the end of the gasoline trail.

Immediately, it alights with an impressive whoosh . In a matter of seconds, the fire has climbed up into the SUV. Farther still, it rushes up the steps and into the house.

I tuck the lighter in my pocket and smile.

Methodically, I return to my bike and put on my helmet. I flick the visor down and kick-start it, then wait. My heart rate hasn’t settled since I ran into Saint. That’s just the adrenaline, though.

So is the spasms in my lower abdomen and the resulting nausea. Another second of watching, making sure the fire catches, and then I’ll go to my favorite bakery down the street from Bow & Arrow.

Mmm. Croissants with butter. No, a warm cinnamon roll. Or a breakfast sandwich with bacon on the side?—

Nope . I press my hand to my stomach. The pain there spikes, not just the wounds but something deeper, too. My mouth fills with saliva, usually a precursor to vomiting, and I swallow it back down.

White smoke pours out of the open front door. The orange-and-yellow flickering flames beyond it give me an ounce of satisfaction.

Nyx would be glad to see it go, too.

So would Saint, even if Kade and him are suddenly besties.

I put up the kickstand and shift into gear. The bike’s vibrations seem more like an earthquake today, and I tighten my grip. The last thing I need is to fall off.

The first thing I need is…

Not a cinnamon roll.

My stomach cramps, and sweat breaks out across my body.

I hit the throttle until I’m flying, my hair streaming behind me from under my helmet.

I get to Bow & Arrow and unlock the back door, hurrying up the stairs to my apartment.

It auto-locks behind me, luckily, so I don’t need to wait.

I just listen for the resulting slam , echoing up to me.

I get into my apartment and twist that lock.

My hands are shaking. I shed my leather jacket, toss the folder from my waistband onto the counter by the sink, and drop into a chair at the kitchen table.

Onto it goes the syringe, the alcohol swab, the elastic.

I barely get the elastic on, tightening the knot with my teeth.

The swab comes next. I rip it open and rub it across the crook of my elbow. It’s a patchwork of bruises and two prominent needle marks, marked by deeper, purple bruises.

I should find a better place to inject.

No, I shouldn’t. I should just stop.

And yet…

Here I go again.

The prick of pain when the needle slides in almost has me groaning. The anticipation climbs, until I need to pause and wipe my sweaty palm on my thigh.

I pull it back a little, waiting for the drops of blood. They swirl and mix with the liquid heroin, and I just stare at how my blood tumbles through it. I want it so bad, but I force myself to count to five.

Then I depress the plunger.

I remove the needle and recap it. I sag back in the chair, my eyes already closing. I don’t care that I might be bleeding—the drug rushes through me like high tide, flooding my system, and eradicates my cares. The aches, the nausea, fade as I float.

“Shit,” I groan, minutes or hours later.

I don’t know.

There’s a trail of blood down my arm, a few drops on the table where I rested it. They’re dried, which gives away the time loss.

I pick myself up and clean the area. I dispose of the needle—okay, yeah, I just toss it in the trash, sue me—and the rest of the shit. The elastic I stick around my wrist, looped twice. It’s innocuous there.

Pull on a cardigan from my closet.

Lock the door.

Go upstairs.

Enter office.

I sit in my chair, running my hands along the smooth, clean surface of my desk.

“What are you doing here?”

Antonio?

It’s not.

Mel, the waitress I should’ve fired when she started handing out my information to the Hell Hounds, stands in the doorway.

“I should ask you the same,” I say.

My mouth feels weird. I lick my lips, then lean back in the chair.

“I… it’s my turn to do inventory. With Ginger and Barry.” She squints at me. “I saw the light on. But, Tem, we all heard about what happened?—”

With Antonio still in the hospital, how has this place been functioning?

“Vittoria.”

I flinch.

Mel comes in and sits. “She was in Antonio’s office yesterday. She did payroll for us… I thought you knew?”

“Of course,” I lie. “I just…”

My desk is clear of paperwork. My laptop is… I don’t know. Home? In the apartment downstairs?

Stolen?

“You look like you could use a drink,” Mel says.

I narrow my eyes.

“Coffee,” she clarifies. “Come on.”

A giggle bursts out of me at the misunderstanding. I cover my mouth, but the sound still slips out. It tugs at my muscles—the injured ones—and my stitched skin. I wave off her questioning glance and follow her through to the kitchen.

I sit at one of the outdoor barstools. She fixes me a cup and one for herself, setting cream and sugar down in front of me with a little spoon.

I stir in the sugar slowly, then a dash of cream.

“Want to talk about it?”

I laugh. “So you can tell whoever you’re fucking at the Hell Hounds’ compound? No, thanks.”

She starts. Coffee spills over the edge of her cup.

The faintest hint of smoke is on the air.

“I deserve that,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

I wave her off. “I don’t forgive you for sharing my business. But I’ve decided not to fire you this time.”

Mel blows out a breath.

We drink the coffee in silence, and when both of our cups are empty, I collect them to wash.

What I should do is go to the hospital and see how Antonio is doing.

The heroin numbs the pain of being stabbed, and it even eases some of my worry over the closest man to a father I’ve had.

I snort to myself. If I see them, they’ll see me . As in, they’ll see right through me.

“I’m taking off,” I tell Mel. “Have fun with your inventory.”

She murmurs a goodbye, and I manage to avoid Barry and Ginger on my way out. I’m not too close with either, which would just make their pity worse.

I don’t need pity. Or anything.

I have to return to my apartment to get my bike keys and helmet, then trot downstairs and find my bike exactly where I left it.

Which is good, because I don’t take well to thievery.

One thing is out of place, though.

A white envelope taped to the center of the handlebars, blocking the gauges.

There’s no one else in the alley. I swing my leg over, straddling the seat, and remove the envelope. It’s barely glued shut and cracks open easily under my nail.

Midnight at Madness.

Unless you want me to burn *your* house down, little goddess?

A full-body shiver comes over me. Only one person has called me little goddess… and only one would use that threat.

But he’s picking Madness?

He knows .

I grit my teeth against that thought. Would Gabriel give me up so fast? Not that he promised this to be our secret, just…

I crumple the envelope and note. At the top of the alley, I toss it in a waste bin. Then continue on toward Olympus. My brother and his friends might still be gone, but that building has long been a safe harbor.

Well, minus the few months it was taken over by the Hell Hounds.

The ride is quick, and I park in the shadow of the behemoth.

Instead of going to the cliffs, I head in through a side door.

I trigger one of the secret passageways in an alcove and climb the stone steps slowly, my hands on the walls.

The tight staircase curves, and I eventually reach the second floor.

Out into the open hallway, down to another alcove. Up again.

The third floor is quiet. I could’ve gone up the outside, through the window—like old times, when I needed to get a message to Apollo.

Dark times.

The rush inside me has faded to a gentle caress. I step into the room that was once my brother’s and sit hard on the bed.

Can’t go home because of Reese.

Can’t go to Bow & Arrow because of Antonio—or rather, the lack thereof. And also Kade…

Can’t go to Starlight because fuck Saint.

The echoing loneliness is removed from me, but it stings all the same.

I care, and at the same time, I don’t give a shit.

I’m alone.

Alone-alone.

And it’s totally, completely, one hundred percent fine .