“Do you trust me, Puella?”
“On one condition,” I whisper, slipping Micaela into his awaiting arms. “Don’t die.”
Daemon gives me a small smile, running his lips over my head. “I won’t. I’ll never die, Tillie.” He glares at me. “Do you trust that?”
I clear my throat. “Get her back to me safe, and then I’ll answer you.”
Tillie
Emotions. Human emotions, to be exact, can be rather annoying to come to terms with. For instance, having a sister. Mine has always been deranged, crazy, and a little bit over the top. In the (very far) back part of my brain, I’ve always wondered if we were actually related.
“You’re doing that thing again…” Peyton says, flicking her fork in the air to accentuate her point. At least, that’s what I think she’s doing. “Do you not like your dinner, Tills? I mean, you should be thankful. God knows Nate would have killed you by now if you were on your own.”
I grind my teeth in an attempt to ignore the verbal jab on a subject that she realistically knows nothing about. “No, Peyton, it’s not the dinner.”
She shrugs her plump shoulders, the tips of her red hair bouncing from the movement. She has gained weight over the years, but it looks good on her. Of course it does. See what I mean—not related. “Suit yourself.” I watch as she continues to shovel spoon after spoon of food into her mouth when Carter clears his throat.
“Tillie, are you aware of what we are telling you? Do you know how important this is?”
“Important what is, Carter? The fact that you want me to go back to my life with my best friends and carry on like nothing has happened in hopes of gaining dirt for The Circle?” I choke on my words, unable to say them aloud.
He grins. I have to squeeze my fist underneath the table to stop it from flying across the table and clipping him in the jaw.
I hate Carter with enough fire to burn the world down.
I recollect myself, picking up my glass and taking a sip of water. I allow it to slide down my throat before I gather my next words. “I’m not going to do it. I’m not a snitch, Peyton, and I will not draw my friends out to get hurt.”
“Oh but you will,” Carter counters, slowly lifting his drink into the air and grinning at me. “Where is Micaela, Tillie?”
Something sharp caresses my heart at his tone, but I swallow down the fear and answer, “She’s in her crib.”
Realization sinks into my bones at the thought of what he and Peyton are capable of. They wouldn’t hurt her, Tillie. Chill. I shoot up from the table.
Carter’s eyes only darken, a devious smirk towing across his mouth. I run out of the room instantly, the adrenalin seizing my limbs. Long, dark walls of the hallway melt to a puddle under my feet as my heart thunders in my chest. One step. Two steps. You’re almost there.
She wouldn’t touch her. She wouldn’t. Micaela, in Peyton’s sick mind, is the leverage that she has over me. As long as she has my daughter, she knows that I am the puppeteer and she’s pulling the strings. If she so much as touches a hair on Micaela’s head, that snaps all the ropes and releases the monster she abetted to craft. I was beaten as a child. Continuously. I am not only on a first name basis with abuse, but he and I go way back.
Entering my bedroom, silence falls around me with nothing but the pitter-patter of my light footsteps.
I suck in a breath as I reach the crib. My eyes close. I open them— “Peyton!” I scream, spinning around and running the exact way I came from. Only this time the blood spilling from the walls is my rage. I’m going to kill her and anyone that gets in my way.
Peyton is sitting at the head of the table, a fork with potato hanging an inch away from her mouth.
I attentively step closer. “I swear to God, Peyton, you have roughly five seconds to tell me where the fuck she is before I rip your goddam throat out.”
Her eyes flick over my shoulder where guards stand, strapped with automatic weapons. “See, I think you won’t, because you can’t, Tills. Because I own you. I always have, and truthfully, I probably always will.” She pats her mouth dry. “Now. If you take a seat, I can explain exactly what is going to happen from here on out, and you will nod and agree like a good little girl, or I will” —her eyes pierce mine, pinning me— “destroy the only thing you care about. Capiche?”
She went there.
I collapse onto a chair, my throat swelling. “God, Peyton, when did you turn so dark.” I’m disappointed in myself for not taking her evil seriously. I never would have thought she would lower herself to harming me, let alone threatening her twelve-week-old niece. I see it now, though. I see whoever it is that’s working behind the scenes has taken control of her. There’s no saving her now. I know this. The realization slaps me across the face like a heavy backhand. She’s my enemy, and I am hers.