1
FREYA
No one ever tells you how much a broken promise hurts. It doesn’t feel like any other break where the pain is isolated to a certain part of the body, where if you just rest long enough the bones slowly knit themselves back together. No, this pain is all consuming. I hurteverywhere.
I lie in bed, like I do a lot these days, and take stock of the damage. The pit of guilt in my stomach. The hollowness in my chest where I think my soul might be slowly dying. The heaviness dragging at my bones until the collagen and marrow crumble and disintegrate.
This isn’t the sort of break I can put back together, and I don’t know whether it’smybroken promise that hurts so much or River’s.
I promised I was done running but he promised he would chase me. It’s been over a month now since Zach, my half-brother and a certified psychopath, forced me to turn my back on the men I love in order to protect them. Over a month and there’s no sign of River, Eli, Oz, or Jude.
Admittedly, I’ve hidden myself away in what’s possibly the most secure location in the whole of the United States, but part of me still dies every night I go to bed—and there’s still no River.
It hurts too much to think about, so I sink into the numbness, searching for an escape. Except whenever I go too quiet, the memories come back. I try to force the flashback away but it’s too late, the images playing in my mind like an old home video.
“One, two, three…” the knife stops spinning and clatters against the concrete floor. I scowl at it.
Allie leans forward from where she’s sitting cross-legged across from me and picks up the knife. She rests the point of the blade against the concrete and flicks her wrist. The knife spins like a twirler top.
“How are you so good at that?”
Allie shrugs. “It’s just practice. I’ll teach you.”
I perk up at that. Dad’s out for the day, which means Allie and I are locked in the basement together. We’ll probably be here all weekend, but I don’t mind. I love the days I get to spend with Allie. I don’t get so scared when she’s here. She’s only two minutes older than me, but she’s declared herself my big sister and I know she’ll always protect me.
I pick up the knife and try to spin it, but it just clatters to the ground again. “I can’t do it,” I huff.
“Sure you can, you’ve just got to flick your fingers a bit harder.” Allie scoots over so she’s kneeling next to me and gets me to hold the handle. She shows me the action in slow motion and this time, when I spin it, the knife twirls a little longer.
“I did it!”
Allie grins back at me, my mirror image. Right down to the still raw cut poking out of the collar of her pink stripey t-shirt.
My breath catches. The thin bloody cut blurs and seeps across my vision as the memory twists. The haze of blood blinds me but I know I’m not in the basement anymore. No. The bed beneath me is too soft. My small hands grip the comforter. I don’t have to see to know I’m not alone.
The bed dips between my legs. My body tenses, sweat pricking my brow.
His breath hot against my face. I screw my eyes up tighter.
“Hey there, Little Star,” he whispers. “Are you ready to play our game?”
The scream stuck in my throat wrenches free, and I shoot upright in bed. My t-shirt clings to my damp skin and I drag a hand through my hair.Fuck.
I can’t seem to go a single day without getting sucked into the past. It’s been that way since I left the guys and I have to remind myself that this is for the best. That me leaving was the only way to get Layla, Oz’s little sister, home. That staying away from the guys is keeping them safe. I can take the pain if it means they’re alive.
A knock to the door has me groaning. I collapse back onto the bed and pull the covers over my head, blocking out the slate gray stone walls of my room.
“Carmen says you have to get up,” Rebekah calls from the other side of the secure door. I’ve quickly come to adore Rebekah but it’s a bittersweet relationship because I can’t see her without thinking of Oz and the night we saved her from the Dying Angels.
Normally, Carmen sends her rescues to safe houses around Montana, but for some reason Rebekah’s different. She and her little brother live here, in Carmen’s HQ, so at least I’m not the only stray.
Rebekah’s fist pounds the metal door again.
I stay quiet and pretend I’m asleep. For a moment, I think it’s worked but then a series of beeps warn me the door’s lock is being overridden. So much for security doors keeping people out. Carmen decided I didn’t get that privilege after I spent one too many days locked in my room.
I pull the comforter off my head and roll over to see Rebekah poking her head inside. Her blonde hair is pulled back into two French braids, a style she started wearing after seeing it on Carmen. Yeah, Rebekah’s hero worship is in top gear.
My gaze zeroes in on the brand on her forearm. It’s similar to the one my mother has except the angel wings burned into Rebekah’s skin are broken and gnarled. It’s the mark of the Tainted. Those girls Jeremiah deems unpure. Anger burns away some of the exhaustion from my involuntary walk down memory lane.
