by KV Rose
If I don’t let her out soon…that’s all she’ll ever be.
And it’s been a month now.
I know she can’t live in my basement for the rest of her life. I know it, and yet I can’t let myself let her go. If I do, her life will turn out to be very, very short.
I get it.
I actually agree, just like my brothers, that our work should be guarded. Most people in Alexandria know of us, but there’s a difference between knowing of us, and knowing how we operate. People know of the Masons. They know of Beggar’s Bennison. They know of the Royals, but do they know what they do?
Of course not.
And people who find out? Well, they end up getting killed before they can speak, and then their deaths are ruled ‘suicide’.
Epstein didn’t kill himself.
Anyone with half a brain knows that. And if a man like him can’t get away with holding secrets he shouldn’t have had, then a girl like Ria has no chance at all.
“When are you going to give this up, Mav?” Ria asks me quietly. She shifts on the bed, crosses her arms.
It’s been a long time since we slept together. It’s why I needed to fuck Ella. But I want to touch Ria now.
I need to put my hands on someone.
But I don’t move toward Ria. I don’t dare touch her. In the end, it’ll just make this so much harder for her.
“You know I can’t,” I whisper in answer, trying to get her to understand. But she already does. She found out about what Lazar Malikov was doing before we did. Found out what had happened to Jeremiah and Sid before we did.
She knows the worst secrets of the 6. And that’s precisely why I can’t just let her go. Elijah might try to be a good man, but at our core…none of us are good. Not even a little bit. This is the best mercy I can give her.
“You had Council Sunday.”
“Two nights ago,” I agree.
“Any questions?” she prods. “About me?”
I close my eyes, blow out a breath. As soon as I get upstairs, I’m getting high as fuck. “Not really. Dealing with my father right now,” I lie.
“And how do you feel about that?”
God, she’s always so…aware. She’s being held as a prisoner in my basement and she wants to know how I feel. She’s too good for me. She’s always been too good for me. I should’ve never fucked around with her. Sometimes I think if I just kill her and get it over with, I’ll be able to breathe a little easier.
“They probably know you’re here. With me.” Saying the words out loud make me feel sick. I keep my eyes closed. I don’t want to see her take it in.
She’s quiet for a long moment. “What are you going to do?”
I might as well give her the truth. “I don’t know.” I squeeze my eyes shut tighter. I’ve got a dull headache that’s throbbing at my temples.
“Why don’t you just tell me the truth, Mav?” She doesn’t even sound angry. I wish she would scream at me again, like she’s been doing.
“I don’t know.” It’s the only answer I have. Because I don’t know what the truth is? Because how do I tell her I’m going to let her die? Because I’m stupid?
“How’s your mother?”
I open my eyes and swallow. It’s loud, and I know she probably heard it. She doesn’t know everything about me, just like I don’t know everything about her, but she knows enough. She knows I wish my mother wasn’t involved in this.
She knows my mother probably has no idea just what my father has done. But she knows, too, that if I kill my father, my mother might be unsheltered. I’m her son, so she should be protected by the rites of the 6 even with my father gone.
But there are no guarantees.
Women are disposable to the 6.
If Malachi was still here…
If Malachi was still here, my father might be different.
Let it go. I saw a therapist as a kid. We blew bubbles to illustrate those words.
Let it go. But the bubbles always popped. Disappeared. So unlike the images in my brain I couldn’t stop playing on repeat. It was a terrible metaphor; I remember dumping all the bubbles on the floor and telling my therapist just that.
My dad beat me for that, too. Every time his hand came across my face, I’d imagine my head as a bubble, popping with the hit. I’d imagine floating into…nothing.
“She’s…okay,” I force myself to say. I don’t know if that’s true. I don’t talk to her much these days. Not since Brooklin. Not since she didn’t stand up to my father.
I paid Atlas back for that in his blood, but there was nothing else to be done. And Atlas was as shook up about it as I was.
But it’s what we were taught: For every fuck up, there’s a consequence, and never an easy one. The 6 don’t take sins lightly.
Ria sighs. “I’m sorry, Maverick.”
I want to slam my fist through the wall. “Don’t apologize to me.”
She doesn’t say anything for a moment, and I wonder if I should just leave her to do whatever it is she does down here. Whatever it is she can do, which isn’t much.
“Do you think he’ll let me go?” she finally breaks the silence. “Elijah? You said he’s different, from Lucifer’s father.”
He is different. Doesn’t mean he’s good. Will he let her go? Of course not. Not unless I marry her. Coagula.
I don’t know what to tell her, so I don’t say anything, which is as good an answer as any.
I turn to go, popping open the mini fridge on my way to the stairs, making sure she still has enough food. Water. Alcohol.
It’s fuller than it should be, which means she hasn’t been eating much.
I slam the fridge door closed and clench my fists. “Ria,” I say, my back to her, “we could do this, you know.” I flex my jaw, hating what I’m going to say next. “We could pretend. I would do that. For you.”
Not for anyone else. Ever. I will never get myself in this position ever again. I won’t put myself in a position to be miserable the rest of my life to save the life of someone else.
I am not selfless.
But Ria…I owe her this much.
I hold my breath while I wait for her answer, and I don’t know what I want it to be. On the one hand, she’d make a fine wife. But I’d be a terrible husband, and neither of us would be faithful to the other.
At least she wouldn’t be fucking dead.
“No,” she finally says, and I exhale, although I’m not sure it’s with relief. “No, Maverick. I don’t want to marry you. You have too many demons.” She laughs quietly. “I don’t want to see them all.”
The Ark is not what I thought it would be. After I called Atlas, got Natalie’s number, confirmed Ella would be there, and got the address, I’d been imagining a yellow building with peeling paint, orange-flecked carpets, counselors and kids with snotty noses. I don’t know why. I haven’t been to a therapist since I turned thirteen, and the bubbles incident never clicked.
Therapy is forbidden by the 6’s unwritten code, Mos Maiorum, after a boy becomes a teenager.
But this place is not what I imagined.
It’s down a winding drive, trees on either side with a steep incline. At one point, there’s a bridge that’s icy in Alexandria’s unusually cold temperatures. I’m glad I took the Audi.
But I didn’t do it because I knew this place was some sort of backwoods farm. I did it so Ella won’t notice me.
Not at first.
The shaded driveway empties into a dirt parking lot, dozens of cars backed in to easily get out of the angled lot. There’re a few sheds, a ranch-style house with an expansive front porch, and beyond that are more barns, and a field stretching as far as I can see.
After I back in, I see a woman pushing a kid in a wheelchair down to a small playground. There’re a few donkeys in the enclosure at my back, and as I step out of the car, I take a deep whiff of horse shit.
Fantastic.
I’m wearing a hoodie with the hood up, skeleton bandana on because 1. I al
ways wear it and 2. It covers some of my tattoos.
But that scary one on my face is kinda hard to hide.
Maybe no one will come over to me. Maybe I’ll just look like I fit right in.
My boots grow dusty on the dirt drive, and I shove my hands in my pockets because, oh right, they’re tattooed, too.
But just as I’m wondering what the best way to find Ella without arousing too much suspicion is, I hear her voice.
I’m walking by a shed with God knows what inside, the top part of the door half open. It’s painted a terrible green color, and definitely not big enough for horses. It’s barely big enough for one person.
If two people are in there…
I clench my hands into fists, listening right outside. I dart my gaze around the fucking farm. The only human beings I see are the kid in the wheelchair and his chaperone.
“I didn’t think you’d come,” Ella is saying.
Who the fuck?
Whoever it is doesn’t speak. Maybe it’s a nice old woman. I’d be okay with that.
I hear a squeak, a few of them actually, and I jump back, confused as fuck. What is in there?
The smell of horse shit is making me feel grimy. I’m not an animal person. It’s hard to keep something else alive when you’re barely holding onto your own fucking sanity.
Or maybe no one likes the smell of horse shit. I don’t know.
“Thanks again,” Ella says, and my mouth falls open. She’s actually thanking someone for something? Who is this god in there?
Whoever it is doesn’t answer her thanks. It occurs to me that maybe she’s…alone. Maybe she talks to herself. Natalie said she had BPD, which I was vaguely aware of, because artists love their mental health problems.
As much as I try to keep it under wraps, the journal I’ve got in my safe back home is full of something one might call poetry.
It’ll never see the light of day…but still.
Even so, as far as I’m aware, BPD doesn’t include hallucinations.
“Mom hasn’t come home in two days.”
Her voice is low, and it sounds like she’s speaking through a lump in her throat. I unclench my fists, step closer to the shed.
She blows out a breath, but it sounds more like a distraction than anything else. Like she’s exhaling air to keep from letting go of something else entirely.
“There’s no food in the house.”
Fuck her mom.
My stomach flips. I think about the way she stuffed each forkful of mac-n-cheese down her throat. How I’d almost said something stupid about it. Almost.
“Alright, Connor,” she says with sigh, “I think we’re done here.”
Connor?!
I open up the bottom half of the shed door, wrenching it free from whatever rusty ass lock it was held together by.
The squeaks grow louder, and the smell grows worse.
And Ella is getting to her feet with half a carrot in her hand, her beautiful hair pulled into a high ponytail, and a dude with dark hair and an angry scowl on his face is looking back at me.
He has celery fisted in both hands, and I see a muscle in his neck jump. His eyes are green, a shade lighter than Ella’s, but they darken the longer he stares at me.
At their feet are a shit ton of Guinea pigs, going wild in circles around their hay, some scurrying into little plastic huts.
“Shut the door or they’re going to get out,” Ella snaps at me. She steps through the door, turns to Connor and offers her free hand.
He stuffs his celery into one hand and takes her hand with his eyes still on me. He’s careful with his feet, ensuring no Guinea pigs get harmed in his exit.
Ella closes the door carefully, latching it from the outside, and then she whirls around to face me.
I see she’s still holding Connor’s hand.
I’m going to fucking break it.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Ella snarls at me. She has a smudge of dirt on her pale skin, and it covers some of her freckles.
“Who the fuck is this?” I nod toward Connor.
Connor clenches his jaw.
“Oh, fuck off. How did you even know I’d be here? Are you following me?” She steps forward, and Connor with her, still holding onto her hand.
He looks about my age, and he’s wearing a tight grey sweater that shows the muscles of his arms. I’m taller than him, but he’s bigger than me.
I can guarantee I know which of us is angrier, and it damn sure isn’t him. I’m always angry, asshole.
“I was just checking on you, but so fucking what if I was following you?” I step closer to her and Connor steps closer to me, but I don’t give a shit. “There’s not a fucking thing you can do about it, kid.”
Her brows furrow, freckles on her face vivid against her pale skin. She’s fucking pissed.
The feeling is mutual. And I don’t even know why I want to shove her against this shed and fuck her right here. Maybe do something obscene with those goddamn carrots in her hand.
Connor brushes his shoulder against mine and I think I’m going to fucking flip out.
But Ella turns to him. “It’s okay,” she assures him. She drops his hand, offers him the carrots and puts her hand on his shoulder.
I want to rip it off.
“I’ll be in soon, okay?”
Connor’s expression softens as he looks at her, his brows flicking up.
She nods. “I’m sure.”
Connor glares at me one last time and then he stalks off toward the house.
Ella sighs, blowing a few stray hairs out of her eyes and turns to me. She folds her arms across her oversized orange hoodie, like for hunting or some shit. It doesn’t look like her dark ‘I’m-In-the-Dead-Poet’s-Society’ clothes I first saw her in, but it’s smudged with dirt and probably shit, so I guess that’s why she’s wearing it.
“What do you want, Maverick? You check up on all your one-night stands like this?”
I step closer to her.
She backs into the shed doors, and the Guinea pigs go wild.
I don’t touch her, but I’m nearly close enough to feel her tits against me. Nearly.
“You let all your one-night stands hit you, Ella?” I ask her, my words soft, meant for her alone. But I don’t give a fuck who sees me out here. I don’t care if Connor comes charging at me. I’ll break his neck and feed him to the fucking Guinea pigs in that shed.
Ella bites her lip, her pale face turning pink. I don’t think I’ve seen her blush yet quite like this and it feels…good. I wonder what else would make her blush.
“Come to my house.”
She shakes her head, eyes darting down. “No, I can’t—”
“Your mom isn’t gonna care, Ella.”
Her eyes come to mine, her lips parted as she sucks in a breath. “How do you—”
I nod toward the shed at her back, but don’t explain myself.
She doesn’t say anything, just stares at me, her expression unreadable.
I lean in close, my mouth against her ear. She smells like Guinea pigs, too, but I don’t fucking care. “I’ll cook for you. I’ll fuck you. You’ll sleep in my bed. I’ll take you home tomorrow.”
She breathes in. Out. I can nearly hear her pulse, this close to her neck.
“I have to finish here—”
“No, you don’t, Ella. You have to do what I say.”
She takes a deep breath. I wonder if she’s going to slap me again.
“Tomorrow,” she says, and it comes out as a throaty whisper. “Tomorrow you’ll take me home.”
“Of course,” I lie.
Chapter Eight
‘Tomorrow’ comes and goes.
Friday night, and I’m still at Maverick’s. He’s spent a lot of time in his office, writing in a journal that he never lets me get close enough to read, and I’ve spent a lot of time eating his food and letting him fuck me. It’s a little strange, wandering the rooms of his enormous house. A little odd that I’ve known him less
than a week and yet I flit about his house in his clothes, eating his food, like I own this place.
This is like a movie. I’m just not sure what kind it is yet: Romance? Horror? Thriller?
For all the time I’ve spent here, we haven’t spoken much. He’s taken some calls in his office. Disappeared in rooms I probably haven’t even seen yet.
Now, after eating Chinese, he sits on the edge of his bed and I’m up against the pillows as he flicks through movies on the TV that slid out of the ceiling of his bedroom like a projector. His back it to me, his shirt on.
He glances over his shoulder.
His eyes make my heart flutter as he looks at me. He’s got a sinister edge that makes for a good villain; the one the damsel in distress is tempted by throughout any good story.
The one you almost wish she’d fall for.
“What do you want to watch?”
I shrug, twist my fingers in his borrowed shirt. “Whatever.”
“Don’t be like that. I mean, if I put on porn, would you want to watch that?”
I squirm.
“Opera? Rom com? Horror?”
“Why are you being so nice to me?” I blurt out before I can stop myself. It’s something I’ve wanted to know all week. What the fuck is this? What the fuck are we doing? I cross my arms, wrapping them around my body, trying to make myself small. I’m suddenly very aware of the fact that I don’t have a bra on. That it’s cold, as always, in this house.
For the first time this evening, anger flashes in his eyes. “Do you want me to be mean to you?”
I feel a thrill of something I don’t want to feel rush up and down my spine. Do I want him to be mean? Yes, my lips beg me to form the words. Hurt me, so I know my place. Hurt me, so I know what I’m doing here. What I am to you.
Make me remember it. I don’t want this to turn into something…else. I want it to be clear cut. Sex. I can have sex. I can do that, without the heart stuff. The heavy stuff.
Can’t I?
“I just mean…what are we doing?”
He frowns. “Having sex.” His lips pull up into a smirk. “A lot of it.” He shrugs. “You don’t have a job. I work when I want. I need someone to…fuck. You seem to like it. What’s the problem?”
