Page 11 of Whatever Wakes
I think that’s actually what he wanted me to do; it’s made it easier for him to pick me up and sling me over his shoulder like I weigh nothing at all.
I scream again, but it’s like shouting into the void—no one can hear me, and even if they could, I am not sure it would matter at this point.
The whoosh of a van door sliding open echoes in the cold air, and in my mind, I can picture it: a white van with blacked-out windows, maybe something ridiculous like Free Candy Canes scrawled across the side. The absurdity of that thought almost makes me laugh out loud.
I really am losing it.
He grabs me roughly, his hands digging into my sides, and before I can even put up any kind of fight, he hurls me into the van like I’m nothing more than a sack of trash.
I hit the metal floor hard, and the breath is knocked from my lungs.
I can already feel bruises blooming in various spots all over my body from the impact.
The door slams shut with a finality that sends another jolt of panic through me, and I scramble to push myself up, but there’s no time. The sound of his boots smacking against the asphalt fades as he walks around the front, and I hear the faint creak of the driver’s side door opening. Then, the engine roars to life, the vibrations rattling through the van and deep into me.
As he pulls onto the road, the sudden movement sends me sliding across the slick floor, my body slamming into the wall with a dull thud.
My pulse pounds in my ears, and my thoughts race in every direction. I don’t know who he is, what he wants, or where he’s taking me, but one thing’s for damn sure: this is about to be the worst fucking Christmasvacationof my life.
3
THE WOMAN BLEEDING ON MY OFFICE CARPET
EZRA
The town isquiet outside my window, its rhythm slow and familiar. A porch light flickers down the street, and somewhere in the distance, a dog barks once before settling. Most windows are dark now—people tucked into their lives, their routines, their little obligations they’ve convinced themselves they chose. I wonder what that’s like.
Choice.
Freedom.
I wouldn't know.
My day started the same as it always does—early morning meetings with men I despise, phone calls that sound more like thinly veiled threats, the same careful balancing act of keeping my people in line while making sure the ones above me remain convinced of my loyalty.
It doesn’t matter that I never wanted this. That I never asked to be born into a bloodline that carves its legacy into the skin of its sons like a brand.
That I would burn it all down if I thought I had a chance of surviving the flames.
The Assembly isn’t just some secret society whispered about in back rooms—it’s a machine, centuries old and self-sustaining. And my job? To keep it running. To ensure debts are paid, threats are silenced, and power is maintained. The same as my father before me, and his father before him, each of whom saw an early grave as a direct result.
I’ve never been given the option to walk away.
Not without a bullet in my skull. Sometimes that feels like the better alternative.
My name carries weight, my presence alone enough to make men twice my size avert their eyes. But respect is a currency I stopped spending a long time ago. Fear is more effective.
Most days, that’s enough. Most days, I can stomach the blood on my hands.
But then there are nights like this—nights where the past catches up with me, where I’m reminded that I don’t own my life, that I’m just another cog in the Assembly’s well-oiled machine.
The knock at my office door comes just as I reach for the whiskey on my desk. It’s past midnight. Too late for business, too early for good news.
I already know which one this is. I can feel it in my gut, or maybe it’s the panicked staccato of the knock.
The door swings open, and two of my men drag a struggling body inside. Blood smears across my office carpet.
I exhale slowly, setting the glass down.
