Page 186 of Bad for Me

After pulling me out of the Aries River, Aidan took me home with him. Once I’d recovered from the beating and near drowning, he put me to work. At the time, I would have gnawed my own arm off for the man. Not only did he rescue me, but he gave me a home, food, affection, and a purpose. It was the first time since my parents’ deaths that someone other than Wren was kind to me, and I held on to it with every fiber of my being.

I would—and did—anything he asked of me.

As the years passed, he treated me like his own son. I received the finest education, learned martial arts, and how to use a variety of weapons. The regular exercise and three meals a day transformed the skinny teenager into a highly disciplined and honed man.

When I was sixteen, I executed my first kill. I no longer remember his name, but he had been one of Aidan’s men. He thought he could steal from the Irishman and no one would notice. Aidan wanted me to make an example of him, and so I did.

That day, The Carver was born.

On my eighteenth birthday, Aidan declared me his heir. Dissenters were quickly dispatched, and the blood-soaked floors of the compound served as a warning to anyone else who had an issue with it.

Guilt would plague most individuals when it comes to taking a life, but consciences are funny things. My time with Richard changed me on a fundamental level. Sinclair is well and truly gone and has been since he went into the river. When I take a life, I feel nothing even closely resembling remorse. Every man I kill deserves to die.

That was the one stipulation I made the first time Aidan ordered me to kill. Only the guilty, and under no circumstances would I hurt a child. He’s never asked me to do otherwise, and I’ve never broken that vow.

I throw the basement door open and jog down the stairs, my boots echoing on the metal treads. The members of the geek squad don’t bother looking up from their computers as I storm past. They’re like moles, rarely peeking their heads out of the underground, as evidenced by their red-rimmed eyes and pale skin.

If they ever remade Bram Stoker’sDracula, they would nail the part through their looks alone.

Turning right, I duck into the service room, following the maze-like paths through walls of computers. Neon purple-and-blue lights flash and blink, looking like something out of a science fiction movie.

The door of the little office hiding at the back of the room might be closed, but I don’t bother knocking, and stride in like I own the place. Carlos, the head IT guy, flicks his gaze up at me before going back to work.

“You should learn to knock,” he mutters as his fingers fly over the keyboard.

“You should learn respect,” I counter.

Carlos lets loose a long-suffering sigh. He stretches his arms into the air, leans back in his chair, and gives me a once-over. “Could you look any more like a thug?” he asks, gesturing at me.

I glance down, my brow furrowing. Steel-capped boots, black jeans, black T-shirt, black sweater. All that’s missing is my overcoat, but Aidan prefers to keep the compound’s temperature at a sauna-like level, so I don’t wear it inside.

“What’s wrong with it?” I ask.

“Nothing. Forget I said anything.”

I scoff and throw myself into the highly uncomfortable chair facing his desk. “I doubt you texted me to chat about my wardrobe. What’s so urgent?”

“You know the saying, ‘don’t kill the messenger’?”

“Yes.”

“So don’t, okay? I’m not ready to end up in the bay yet. Still have shit to do.” My fists clench, making Carlos gulp. There are very few people I tolerate. Carlos is one of them, but I’m really not in the mood for bullshit today. “Okay, okay. Keep your shirt on, Sin.”

“Don’t call me that,” I say, anger threading my words. It’s what Wren used to call me—I won’t allow anyone else to.

Carlos glides his chair back, putting distance between us. “Sorry, Sinister. My apologies. I see it’s one of those days.”

A low growl rumbles in my chest, and his face pales.Fuck.“I apologize. It’s a bad day, Carlos. Just get on with it, okay?”

He eyes me warily but gives a nod. “You asked me to inform you if I noticed anyone searching for you online.”

“And?” It’s a regular occurrence. Some of Arcadia’s citizens want me dead. Others, like the girls on Eros Lane, see me as some kind of dark superhero. And the rest are just downright terrified. I would expect searches. But Carlos wouldn’t call me here for everyday, run-of-the-mill searches.

“Yesterday, there was a new flurry of searches on you coming from outside of Arcadia. That wouldn’t generally be concerning. After all, people talk, and the city isn’t a prison. Might’ve been someone curious after hearing stories. But this? This is something different.”

I sit straighter. “Different how?”

“They’re coming in on two fronts. Social media, news outlets, police files…they’re hitting everything, leaving no stone unturned. I don’t know who they are, but their encryption is next-level. And before you ask, no, I can’t track them.”

---