Page 119 of Claiming Pretty

I turned to Ciaran, the first spark of hope igniting in my chest. “That’s it. That’s the place.”

Ciaran let out a frustrated breath, raking a hand through his hair. “Great. So we’ve got a location. Now what? I’m supposed to chase a raven to the tomb? What the hell does that even mean?”

The mood shifted instantly, the fragile hope I’d felt slipping through my fingers. My stomach twisted, but I clenched my jaw and forced myself to stay steady.

“Okay,” I said gently, keeping my voice calm despite the icy dread crawling up my spine. “That’s progress. We’ve deciphered one part.”

Ciaran let out a bitter laugh, sharp and jagged as broken glass. “Yeah, one part down. Fifty fucked-up million to go.”

“We just have to keep going.”

I sat back down and forced myself to focus on the text in front of me, my fingers trembling as I smoothed over the delicate journal paper.

My stomach twisted as I read about the professor’s first trials—on hiswife.

Mona.

Ty and Ciaran’s mother.

He wrote about her suffering with cold detachment, as if she were no more than a lab rat, a tool for his genius. Like she wasn’t the mother of his children. Like she wasn’t even fucking human.

My vision blurred with fury. How dare he?

I slammed the journal shut, bile rising in my throat.

The sound echoed in the loft, making Ty and Ciaran glance up.

I stared at the closed cover, willing the nausea away. But I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t let this break me.

Ciaran’s gaze softened, and for a moment, he looked like he might reach for me.

But I shook my head and reopened the journal, forcing myself to keep reading, to keep going, even as my hands shook.

Ciaran’s voice cut through my haze.

“The Gardener,” he muttered, his voice low, almost like he was speaking to himself. His brow furrowed as he tapped the journal in his lap, then his eyes widened with sudden realization. “Oh my God. Of course.”

I straightened, my heart thudding as I focused on him. “You figured it out? The Gardener?”

He nodded, his jaw tightening. “Yeah. The Gardener was the Sochai code name for…our father.”

The words hung in the air, suffocating and vile. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the journal, the paper crumpling under his fingers.

With a frustrated shove, he hurled the journal across the table, the pages splaying open as it landed.

He was already on his feet, pacing like a caged animal, his hands flexing at his sides.

I exhaled slowly, refusing to let his agitation shake me as I kept reading.

The pages blurred when I reached a section describing his introduction to the inner circle of the Sochai. He wrote with twisted reverence about their “gift,” a “blessing” that had reignited his work.

My heart stuttered when I realized what he meant. The “gift” wasn’t a thing—it was a person.

I swallowed hard, my grip tightening on the edges of the journal. “He… he called me his ‘gift.’”

Ty’s head snapped up and Ciaran stopped pacing, both of them looking at me in horror.

“The Gardener’s ‘gift,’” I said, “…isme.”

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