Page 25 of From the Ashes

“What does that mean?” None of what he’s saying makes any sense, but I need to hear him out, I need to understand.

He turns to me, his dark eyes so similar to my own staring back at me. “It wasn’t Bianca that tried to kill me.” He pauses, and before I can even process what he’s just told me, he continues. “It was Crew.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

CAMILLA

Maybe the strangest part of being back at the mansion is sleeping in my own bed. Before my time with the Legion, I never spent extended amounts of time away from home. Sure, we went on trips, but never for more than a week or two.

But now that I’m here in my childhood bedroom, the light pink walls seem foreign. The soft pink and white sheets are unfamiliar. And even the bed itself feels wrong.

And so does lying here alone, staring at the ceiling with my aching heart beating too hard in my chest.

I’m mad at myself for missing them.

They killed my father. And not only that, they weren’t honest with me about it. Chloe may be right, I may have run from them regardless of when or how I found out, but if I didn’t receive that message this morning, would they have ever told me? Or would I have spent however long we were together not knowing the men I was sharing my bed with were the ones that killed my only parent?

I roll to my side and tug the extra pillow against my chest, hoping it will make the huge bed feel a little less lonely. But it doesn’t. The cold pillow only reminds me of what I’ve had for the last two months.

God, I’m pathetic.

At every turn, I’ve allowed these men to railroad me. They’ve made so many decisions for me at this point that I don’t even know why the hell I’m surprised that they would lie to me about this. Why did I think they would be honest?

They lie for a living. That’s part of their job, and I’m just another victim of their lies.

Angry tears fill my eyes as I roll to the other side, facing the window.

I feel so stupid. Just a silly eighteen-year-old who thought I could play with the big boys. I thought I could handle their darkness because it was so similar to my own, but we were playing a different game altogether.

My eyes drift closed, and I allow my mind to wander to all the times they could have come clean. Hell, the night they figured out who I was probably would have been a good start, and I was in no shape to leave at the time. I could barely even walk myself to the fucking bathroom.

When it becomes obvious I’m not going to sleep anytime soon, I slip out from between the sheets and pad out into the hallway. Maybe a drink will help.

I move through the house from muscle memory alone. The familiar layout comes back to me without thought as I move toward the kitchen.

When I start down the stairs, the sound of footsteps on the bottom landing makes me pause, my bare feet stopping dead so I can listen more closely.

It’s an older house, and this isn’t the first time I’ve thought I’ve heard something when I’ve been alone at night, but that doesn’t stop a shiver from moving over my skin.

“You’ve lost it now,” I murmur to myself when it becomes evident that I’ve imagined the whole thing and continue down the steps.

A yawn escapes me as I hit the bottom step and wrap my arms around myself. I shiver, the sleep shorts and oversized shirt I’m wearing doing little to protect me from the cool night air.

The kitchen is bathed in moonlight from the window above the sink, and I move closer to it as a memory strikes me out of nowhere.

When I was a kid, probably not long after my mom died, I wouldn’t go near a window at night. I was too afraid that someone would be standing on the other side, and it got to the point I could barely leave my bedroom after the sun went down.

My father, being the brutal Mafia man he was, decided I needed to move on from that fear, and so he sat me in front of this window every night for weeks. I wasn’t allowed to move, or close my eyes, or cry. And if I did, he added time on.

Until one night, I wasn’t afraid anymore.

The floorboards behind me creak, and my stomach drops. Where’s the closest gun? Dad used to keep one in most rooms of the house, but Mom had rules when it came to the kitchen, and even after she died, he still abided by them.

I turn my head slightly, catching sight of the knife block on the other side of the island. If I’m quick, I might be able to make it over there, but without being able to see where the intruder is, there’s a good chance they’re going to intercept me before I can reach them.

My options flit through my mind one by one, but none of them are what I would consider a good one.

It’s been a long time since I’ve done any training in hand-to-hand combat, and depending on their size, I may struggle to take them down unless I have the element of surprise, which I most certainly do not have.

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