“—what authorities are calling a tragic case of gang violence. Five men found dead in an abandoned warehouse on the east side, all with fatal gunshot wounds. Police believe the deaths are connected to ongoing territorial disputes—”
I turn to look at the screen. Crime scene tape. Flashing lights. The warehouse exterior bathed in red and blue.
Then they cut to an interview, and my breath catches.
Axel.
Shit.
He’s standing outside the warehouse, wrapped in one of those foil emergency blankets they give to survivors. His face is pale, eyes red-rimmed, and when he speaks his voice trembles.
“I’m lucky to be alive,” he tells the reporter, his words coming out broken and sincere. “I watched these men fight until their deaths. It was... it was horrific. I just want to go home.”
The reporter’s voice is sympathetic. “Can you tell us what you were doing at the warehouse?”
“I was looking for my sister.” Axel’s voice cracks perfectly. “She’d been missing for days. I thought... I thought maybe she was there. Thank God she wasn’t.”
I stare at the screen, watching my brother lie with the kind of skill that only comes from years of practice. He’s always been good at this—at playing the victim, at rewriting history to paint himself in the best light.
“Fucking hell,” Atticus mutters from his chair. “He’s good.”
“He’s had practice,” I say, my voice flat.
The news moves on to weather, and I finally let the curtain fall. Turn away from the window. The room feels too small suddenly, too crowded with four bodies and a thousand unspoken things.
Koa emerges from the bathroom, his face washed but still destroyed. The swelling has gone down slightly, but the bruises are already turning spectacular shades of purple and yellow. He’s moving carefully, each step measured like his ribs might be broken.
Our eyes meet across the room.
The silence stretches, heavy and loaded. Everyone else seems to fade into background noise—Revan on his phone coordinating with whoever cleans up our messes, Atticus lighting a cigarette by the cracked window.
“We need to talk,” Koa says quietly.
I cross my arms, suddenly exhausted in a way that goes beyond physical.
He takes a step closer. Then another. “About what happened. About what I did.”
“You mean when you delivered me to Vincent?” My voice is sharp, cutting. “Or when you tied me to a chair? Or when you stood there while he drugged me?”
Koa’s jaw clenches, the muscle jumping under damaged skin. “I was trying to keep you alive.”
“By handing me over to that psychopath?”
“By being the one to do it instead of someone who wouldn’t have given a shit if you made it out breathing.” His voice rises, frustration bleeding through. “You think Vincent would’ve just let you walk? You think there was a scenario where you didn’t end up in that warehouse?”
“So you made the choice for me.”
“I made the only choice that kept you alive!”
The words echo off the walls. Revan and Atticus have both stopped what they’re doing, watching this unfold.
I take a step toward Koa, closing the distance until I can see the flecks of dried blood still caught in his hairline. “I know firsthand how it feels to be betrayed by someone you trust. I get it. I do.” My voice drops lower, more dangerous. “But burn me twice, and I’ll bury you.”
Something flashes in his eyes—pride mixed with something darker. Arousal, maybe. Or satisfaction.
“You’ve changed,” he says, and it’s not quite a question.
“Had to.” I hold his gaze. “The girl you knew died the moment that needle went into my arm. This is who’s left.”
