And these men deserved severe punishment.
After what they’ve done to me … to Arthur.
Vengeance wasn’t just Arthur’s cross to bear anymore—not alone at least.
I remember what they did to him.
I no longer saw blankness when I tried to recall. I saw everything that happened that fateful night, and it was up to me to save him from his own self-loathing.
Arthur Killian killed my parents.
He pulled the trigger and ended their lives.
But it’s so much more complicated than that.
However, at the same time, it was exceedingly simple. He was innocent and I would make sure the guilty paid. I would ensure their wickedness was struck out for all eternity.
Sitting taller on the bed, I embraced my cold conviction and turned my thoughts to present matters.
How many hours had passed since I’d left Arthur bleeding and unconscious?
Was he still alive?
Could he come after me?
He’ll come for me if he’s able. I didn’t doubt that for a second. But I also couldn’t wait around for him … just in case. Don’t think like that.
Climbing off the single mattress, leaving behind the daisy-decorated sheeting, so similar to my old childhood room, I circled the small space searching for any weaknesses for escape.
I’d done this already when I first arrived.
How long ago was that?
And just like before the door was still locked.
The window still barred and sealed shut. Its pane painted black from the outside, obscuring all illumination and passage of time.
The only light was a bedside lamp just bright enough to read the police statement that’d sent Arthur to jail for a crime he didn’t commit.
Well, he did commit it …
Sighing, I spun in place. The room was a tomb with no way out.
I wished I hadn’t been so stupid. My recklessness had brought me here. I’d come like a lamb to the slaughter the moment I was summoned.
Here I was—at their mercy, while Arthur was bleeding and alone … possibly dead.
Stop thinking that way.
Taking a deep breath, I prepared for whatever came next.
Any weapons?
My eyes skated over the unhelpful bedspread and empty dresser.
No weapons.
Engine noises purred outside the blacked-out window conjuring ancient memories of being lulled to sleep by the grumble of motorbikes and masculine voices.
My heart flurried, stretching within the thought.
I’m home.
Gritting my teeth, I shook my head. I wasn’t home. I might be across the compound from the charred remains of my own house, but this wasn’t home. Not anymore. Not after the massacre and betrayal.
These men weren’t my friends. They weren’t my childhood saviors who I’d trusted blindly.
They were the reason I’d lived the past eight years in a different country. Why I’d spent my teenage years in foster care, and why my brain was broken.
Scott “Rubix” Killian had taken great pleasure in welcoming me back into his lies and treachery.
A sharp tang existed in the back of my throat—the residual effect of being drugged. I didn’t know what they’d shot into my veins, but its effects lingered far longer than I wanted. I struggled against the sluggishness in my blood, trying to keep my thoughts in order.
Don’t give in.
I yanked on the door handle again. Still locked.
Making my way to the window, I pried at the sill. Still unmovable.
Dropping to my knees, I tried ripping up the carpet, desperate for a weapon or freedom, but the threadbare covering was glued firmly.
Frustration sat like a vise around my lungs.
“Dammit!” Climbing to my feet, I ran my hands through my hair. “There has to be a way out.”
But there isn’t.
I had to concede.
I was locked in there—for however long they wanted, and there was nothing I could do about it.
Chapter Two
Kill
I was a stalker.
Shit, I’d even researched the definition to see if it was true. It was. I willfully followed, watched, and coveted Cleo Price. There. I admitted it. I was in love with a child. I had dirty thoughts about a girl who didn’t even have boobs yet. But that didn’t stop me. It made me worse. Because not only was I a stalker, but I was an addict, too. An addict for any glimpse of her, any sound of her voice, any hope that I could ever possibly deserve her. —Arthur, age fourteen
“What the fuck?”
I tried to sit upright, glaring at Grasshopper and Mo. “Let me up, you assholes!”
The room refused to stay still. The edges of my vision were fuzzy and the god-awful pounding in my skull wouldn’t give me a fucking break.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” My breathing was broken and short; my eyes burning with light from the diabolical fluorescents above.
Where the hell am I?
Where’s Cleo?
Rage battered away my pain, granting me temporary power. I shoved aside arms holding me down and swung at the faces of my captors.
My knuckles met flesh.
A bellow sounded in the square, white room. “Christ, man!”
The incessant beeping sliced through my eardrums turning my headache into a brass fucking band of horror.
I’d never been one to panic but I couldn’t control the overwhelming sensation that something awful had happened.
Something I needed to fix straightaway.
The door suddenly swung open.
I paused just long enough to take in the balding man with a stethoscope around his neck and baby-blue scrubs, before struggling with renewed determination. “Damn bastards. Let me up!”