Page 8 of Unholy

This could work to my advantage.

Greta is onto something.

Tapping my chin with my finger I get an idea.

It may not be her intent, but I can’t help the pull I feel to this thought.

The Exiled killed my mother. And now I will kill them from the inside out.

I smirk to myself.

Nathaniel Sinclair, how may I be of service?

4

RYLEE

The road is dark; the only lights besides my headlights come from the bright moon above. Music is playing through my speakers as I rev my engine harder. The loud roar is followed by a smooth purr. I fucking love this car.

It’s an Aston Martin One-77. Only seventy-seven were made, and I have one. This town is full of money and greed; people have offered me millions for it, but I will never part with her. I used some of my inheritance from my mom to get it. My mom is—was—worth more than this car and all the money in the world could ever mean to me, but having this is like having a tiny piece of her with me. It’s invaluable, so no amount of money or persuasion could ever make me part with her.

I remember when I first saw the Aston, it was on some television show I was watching with her before she passed. I was five. It wasn’t this model, but she said, ‘Now that’s a car.’It stayed with me for years as a comfort memory. One would pass in the streets or be parked in the lot at the grocery store, and I would hear her voice whispering to me,Now that’s a car.

One day I heard they were making the One-77, a rarity I had to have because Mom was a rarity to me, like a pink diamond.

It wasn’t until my inheritance kicked in that I could even imagine affording one, but to have one would allow me to keep her memory close to me. I know it’s materialistic, but grief and healing are different for all, and this is my way to deal with them.

I would periodically scroll the internet for any sign of one on sale, to the point I almost lost hope. Then, an estate sale overseas had their catalog online for browsing. There she was, my pink diamond. I bid relentlessly until I got it. I nearly cried from the stress, but the relief of winning took over. It was immediately shipped over to Bozeman, and I am never letting her go. That all happened after the last Hell Fire, five years ago.

I’m not sure why that is significant, but five years later something is shifting; I feel it in my gut. The odds of all the events leading up to now, driving to Nathaniel Sinclair’s, aren’t a fluke. And like my pink diamond, I will be on the right side of history, again.

Turning onto Sinclair’s secluded and private road, an iron gate awaits me. Standing out front are multiple security men, which isn’t unusual for a man of his stature, but with his psychotic son back, I’m surprised he needs this many still. Coming to a stop, the engine still purrs as I roll down my window. One man walks up, wearing all black paired with a black mask covering the bottom part of his face. Knowing me, my face is loudly expressing how absurd I think it is.

“Name,” he says abruptly, with zero people skills.

Batting my lashes, I play the part as many others from The Ranch have in the days and years past. “Rylee Vandenberg, Greta sent me,” I tell him, smiling.

Bringing his wrist to his mouth, the man in black radios someone above his pay grade, repeating my name. Another man takes a scanner and walks around my car, holding it close, as a third man does the same but to the underneath. If I wanted to sneak anything in with my car, that is out of the question now.

Moments pass, and I begin to get bored and frankly debate closing my eyes for a quick nap. Before I can act on it, the large gate slowly starts to open, and my new friend gives me a nod, allowing me to enter the estate. Rolling my window up, I take a deep breath and proceed forward. A couple streetlights line the area, and large trees allow for privacy, restricting my ability to properly take in the area. And all Greta told me about this evening was that Nathaniel's house is on the left.

Looking to my right, chills tingle down my spine, and goosebumps cover my bare arms as Elijah’s house comes into view. I am not scared or intimidated by him, but his unpredictability and lack of remorse does put me slightly on edge.

My eyes trail up and down his property. Black-domed cameras surround the place. If his place is that secure, fuck knows Nathaniel’s must be too. Glancing to my left, lights illuminate the driveway that I slowly turn onto. The two-story home is incredible; the exterior is a mix of wood and stone and two front entrances with a large garage off to the side and fencing to the other, and more trees and shrubbery decorate the area. Looking up at one of the posts, immediately I notice more cameras.

If they have this many cameras, they must have sensors too. Security here is like nothing I have seen before, with the exception of the King, who is the leader of The Exiled.

No one is getting into the estate unless invited. It’s a fortress.

Pulling up to the first door, I stop, parking my car.

This is it.

Swiping my small handbag from the passenger seat, I open the car door. Swinging my black stiletto-clad feet out, I stand, pulling down my black strapless bandage dress, which barely covers my ass, and close the door behind me. Looking up, I amstartled by an older gentleman who is now standing before me in a black suit and black clipboard in hand.

“Before you enter, you will need to read and sign this document. Once signed, it also grants me permission to search your handbag and complete a handheld metal detector scan of your body,” he explains, holding the clipboard out.

The driveway is lit with plenty of light. As I take the board, my eyes skim the document, and it’s then I realize it’s an NDA. We make clients sign them at The Ranch, so it’s only right he has one for his home. Standard fucking procedure in the corrupt town of Bozeman.

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