The Voice on the Tape

 Marlo

The red warning light on the computer monitor pulsed against the walls, casting long, frantic shadows across the dark study.

Outside, the second explosion echoed through the cliffs, shaking the heavy concrete foundations of the estate and rattling the glass in our remaining windowpanes. But I didn't flinch. I couldn't move. I couldn't even breathe.

My ears were ringing, replaying the same three seconds of audio over and over again in my head.

“We eliminate her before sunrise. Make it look like an accidental overdose at the estate.”

It wasn't a stranger. It wasn't an anonymous syndicate voice hiding behind a modulator.

It was Siobhan.

Her voice had been so calm. So soft. The exact same gentle, schoolteacher tone she used when she tucked me into bed after my parents died, or when she baked me warm cinnamon rolls on cold Sunday mornings. She had spoken about my murder the way she spoke about grocery shopping or knitting a winter shawl.

A cold, heavy numbness crept up from my fingertips, spreading over my skin until my whole body felt frozen solid.

"Marlo."

Jarrah’s low voice cut through the ringing in my ears. He didn't yell. He dropped to one knee right in front of me, his large, calloused hands gripping my shoulders so hard it should have hurt, but I couldn't feel it. His eyes searched my face in the dim red light, frantic and bleeding with a raw, protective ache.

"Look at me, little bird," he rasped, his thumbs pressing firmly against my skin. "Don't listen to it. Let it go."

"She raised me," I whispered. My voice didn't sound like mine; it sounded thin, cracked, and completely hollow. "For ten years, Jarrah every time I cried, every time I had a nightmare about the fire, she held me. She kissed my forehead."

"She was keeping tabs on her investment," Jarrah growled, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek. "She was the architect of your cage, Marlo. She didn't love you. She loved the land you owned."

The words hit my chest like a physical blow.

For weeks, I had fought against the dark reality of his world. I had accused him of being a monster, a captor, a man who wanted to control my life. But standing here in the dark, with the smell of smoke drifting down the hallway, the truth settled over my soul with terrifying clarity.

Jarrah had spent ten years standing in the shadows, taking the blame, carrying the scars, and acting like the villain just to keep me from realizing that the actual monster was wearing a floral shawl and baking pastries.

The shock inside my chest didn't turn into tears.

It turned into something much colder. Much heavier.

The grief, the confusion, and the naive, bleeding heart girl I used to be evaporated entirely, replaced by a slow, burning, incandescent rage.

I looked down at the desk. My fingers curled into tight, white knuckled fists.

"She wants to burn this house down," I whispered, lifting my gaze to meet Jarrah's eyes. My voice was no longer trembling. It was steady, sharp, and laced with absolute venom. "She wants to watch us die in the fire."

Jarrah stared at me. For a fraction of a second, a flicker of pure, dark awe crossed his rugged features. He didn't see a frightened orphan anymore. He saw a queen stepping onto a battlefield.

"She won't get the chance," Jarrah murmured, a dangerous, beautiful smile touching the corner of his mouth.

He stood up, pulling me with him. He didn't treat me like fragile glass; he pulled me flush against his hard chest, wrapping his left arm securely around my waist while his right hand kept a firm, deadly grip on his black pistol.

The intercom speaker on the wall hissed to life.

Before Cal or the security detail could speak, Siobhan’s voice cut through the static, echoing loudly and smoothly through every room of the burning estate:

“Open the doors, Jarrah. Hand over the girl and the trust deeds. If you burn with her tonight, nobody will ever find your bodies in the ash.”

Jarrah looked down at me, his amber eyes burning with an intense, unyielding fire.

"Are you ready, Marlo?" he whispered, his lips brushing against my forehead.

I reached down, slipping my hand into my jacket pocket. My fingers wrapped around the heavy, cold glass vial of poison Siobhan had given me earlier today at the campus courtyard.

I pulled it out, looking at the thick amber liquid shimmering in the red alarm light.

"She wants a fire?" I whispered, my voice cold as ice. "Let's give her a war."

Before Jarrah could answer, the heavy oak study door burst inward in a cloud of splintered wood and flying dust.