Page 82 of The Devils of Saint City

I do, and he’s right. We can’t leave her vulnerable in a time like this, so we have some shit to figure out before we really decide our next move. Either way... I think it’s time I let him lead for a little while.

Manson has never steered me wrong.

35

The carpeted floors feel wrong under my boots. Spongey, almost. It’s a nice house — maybe the nicest I’ve toured in the last month — but something just feels wrong about it. The bedrooms are too far apart, for starters. If I do have kids one day, how will they feel about having to fly up and down these stairs to get to their siblings? How will I feel about being so far away from them? If there’s one thing I’ve learned since my latest kidnapping, it’s that the world is full of dangerous people who would use you before helping you. It’s the kind of thing that keeps me awake most nights. Every little tap on the window, every creak of the floorboards... it’s all Julian coming for me.

I know thanks to Blair that Julian’s dead. The Devils saw to that. He’s resting in Hell with the rest of his friends and all the people who have ever dared to cross Asher and Manson, it just doesn’t make a difference. He didn’t even hurt me, but it’s still his face I see when I picture the evil things that lurk in the dark.

Maybe it’s because I don’t want to face my own heart, admit what my fears really are. Admit who I’m truly scared of.

Myself.

The emptiness inside of me is like a void, growing a little more each day. I might not be a murderous Black Widow like my mother, but I sure share her apathy for human life. It didn’t phase me at all to watch Ash and Manson kill people, or hear that they did it again. Criminal or not, Julian was a person. His friends by the cabin that day were people.

I just don’t care.

There aren’t many people on this planet who have ever given a fuck about me, so why should I care about them? Why should I feel bad that their own shitty decisions put them in a position to be murdered in the first place? It feels a little like victim blamingwhich would normally make me sick, I just can’t bring myself to feel much of anything these days.

Not without them.

I passed along a warning through Blair that the Provost has it out for them, but she said they didn’t want to talk to me. She told me they’d heed my warning, but that was it. And now it’s been a month.

A full month with no sign of them whatsoever. It aches in ways I didn’t expect. Those first couple of weeks, I kept expecting to wake up in Asher’s bed with Manson wrapped around me, realizing it was all just a terrible dream. That I didn’t have to go back to a life of paying taxes and working just to make enough to survive. That I wasn’t alone, that I never would be again.

But I didn’t wake up. They didn’t call. Maybe I should’ve reached out, but why should it have to be me? They’re the ones who gave up. They’re the ones who paid me off and sent me away rather than work through things. It’s not my job to make amends for the mistakes of men. It’s no woman’s job.

So here I am.

Touring a house I have every intention to buy, finding superficial reasons not to.

I could be happy here. I know it. Despite the bedrooms being far apart, this house is perfect. There’s an idyllic little backyard with a brown fence just like Asher’s. There’s a little patio out there and a firepit, too. I can see myself out there having a bonfire and watching the stars, with Blair by my side and maybe some new friends I make at work. The kitchen here is huge, much bigger than what I’m used to. It’ll be nice to have room to store things without having everything clutter up the counters. And the living room? Perfection. The previous owners are leaving their electric fireplace here, so it would come with the house. A few odds and ends could really make this place a home.

I can do this. I can be happy here. I can be happy period.

“Are you ready?” my realtor asks. She’s a pretty woman with greying hair and kind eyes, starkly different from my mother’s. “There’s already another offer on the table, but it’s below the asking price. I think as long as you match it, this place can be yours.”

Mine.

Not my mother’s, not my father’s or stepfather’s, not my stepbrother’s, not some landlord’s.

Fuckingmine.

The thought gives me a rush I’m not expecting.

Mine.

Smiling to myself, I let out a long, slow breath and nod to her. “Yeah, Mrs. Bright. I think I’m ready.”

My phone rings, startling us both, and I nearly don’t answer it when I see it’s Blair. But she knows where I’m at and wouldn’t call if it weren’t important. “Blair,” I answer. “I’m about to put an offer in, is everything okay or can this wait?”

“It can’t wait,” she rushes out. “You need to hear this.”

“Hear what?”

“It’s — ah, fuck it. You’re gonna hate me either way, so I might as well just spit it out.” My stomach drops as she takes a shuddering, audible breath. “You should go home. Not here, not the place you’re looking at. Asher’s. Manson’s. You should go home.”

Annoyance creeps up my spine. “Seriously? You called me to tell me to do the one thing you’ve been telling me not to do for the better part of two months?”

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