Mag-log inI swallow, then part my lips to breathe as evenly as I can. Waiting. Anticipating his next move, but not being fully prepared.
SWAT!When his belt hits my skin, my back arches and I moan loudly. He quickly leans forward and clamps his hand over my mouth, cutting the sound off halfway through.“This door isn’t locked,” He hisses into my ear, making my eyes roll back a little at the thought. “So unless you want someone to run in and see what the commotion is, you need to keep your nMy father delivers the news the way he delivers all news he knows I won’t like, which is calmly, over breakfast, while my mother does the thing where she’s very interested in her orange juice.“This year’s birthday will be a family dinner,” he says in the tone that is not a discussion opener. “Given recent events, a large gathering is too much of a security risk.”I put my fork down. I pick it up again. I put it down. “It’s my eighteenth birthday,” I say.“Yes.”“My eighteenth.”“I heard you the first time, Lucia.”“Dad.” I say his name with every ounce of reasonable, measured maturity I have ever possessed, which is being assembled from scratch in real time. “I have been planning this since I was fifteen. The dress is bought. The venue deposit is paid. The invitations went out three weeks ago.”“We’ll cover the deposit,” he says, and turns a page of his newspaper.“It’s not about the deposit!”“Language,” he says mildly, to the newspaper.“I didn’t say anything.”“You were about to.”
Elias’s POVHis mother cried when he told her.Not sad crying. The other kind, the kind that comes from a place past hope, when something you stopped believing was possible suddenly becomes real and your body doesn’t have a clean response for it. She sat at the kitchen table and put her face in her hands and her shoulders shook as Eli stood across from her.“Elias,” she said, when she could finally speak again. “Do you understand what this means?”“It means we can cover the medication through the end of the year,” he said, because that was what it meant to him, the most immediate and concrete thing.She looked up at him with red eyes and a kind of brightness in her face that he hadn’t seen in years, not the soft, tired warmth she sometimes managed on good mornings, but something fierce and electric and almost frightening in its intensity.“It means we’ve got them,” she said. “It means we finally have someone on the inside.”She picked up her phone before he could say anything else. As
The first thing I see when I walk into the kitchen Monday morning is Eli at my family’s breakfast table, sittng where Zeke used to seat, and eating Maria’s rosemary bread. The second thing I see is my eleven-year-old brother Lucas sitting directly across from him, leaning forward with both elbows on the table and the expression he gets during particularly riveting episodes of whatever documentary series he’s currently obsessed with, which apparently this morning is Elias Arden in the flesh. “But what’s the difference between a hook and a cross?” Lucas is saying, with the intensity of someone who needs this answered before they can continue with their day. “Setup versus power,” Eli says, and he gestures with his fork in a way that somehow communicates the mechanics of it. “Hook comes from the side, shorter range, more snap. Cross goes straight with full rotation behind it, that’s where the real damage is.” “Which one did you use on those guys in the alley?” “Lucas,” I say, from th
Eli’s POV The numbers won’t change no matter how many times he looks at them. This is a thing Eli has known since he was old enough to understand what numbers meant, that staring at them longer doesn’t produce different results, that the math is the math and wishing it were otherwise is a luxury that costs more than he has. He knows this. He still opens the banking app and closes it and opens it again, because the alternative is sitting at the kitchen table at seven in the morning with nothing to do but listen to the apartment breathe. He lays it out the way he does every two weeks, Notepad, pen, phone face-up for the calculator. Rent on the left column. Utilities. Groceries, estimated. His mother’s kidney medication, which is not estimated because it doesn’t vary and cannot be reduced and is, by itself, more than their combined food costs for the month. Then a gap for the boxing money on the right column, which should be there and isn’t, because last night he didn’t make it to
I sit very still for approximately four seconds, which is the amount of time it takes my brain to process what Eli just said. I’m just here, hoping and praying this is one of his cruel pranks. “Try not to look too excited,” Elias says, wearing a smile so bright that means he’s genuinely enjoying himself and that tells me the most brutal truth of all. It isn’t a joke. “Shut up,” I snap. “Five minutes ago you were mad at me for not talking to you, now you want me quiet,” he shrugs a shoulder and picks up his pen. “You’re gonna have to start being much clearer if we’re gonna be besties.” It takes everything in me not to punch him, meanwhile he just returns to writing. My new bodyguard. Elias Arden. Who has spent the better part of two years finding increasingly creative ways to get under my skin. That person is going to be living in my house, following me to school, standing outside my bedroom doo
Three days is apparently how long my parents need to decide that the world is safe enough for me to eat breakfast in it again. I spent Saturday mostly in bed, which I allowed because my body requested it in terms I couldn’t argue with, and Sunday I spent on the window seat in my room with a sketchbook I barely touched and a cup of tea that went cold three times. My mother came in and out with things, food, extra blankets, the kind of gentle hovering she does when she’s worried but knows that smothering me will produce the opposite of the intended effect. My father I heard mostly through walls, the low register of his voice on phone calls that he took in his office with the door closed, which is how I knew they were about something he didn’t want echoing through the house. I didn’t ask what it was yet. I was picking my moments. Monday morning I come downstairs dressed and ready for school, because lying in that room for one more day with n
Maya stands frozen under the bright lights of the Red Room, her chest rising and falling too fast, eyes wide with the kind of shock that only comes when every careful plan collapses in the same heartbeat. Blood is drying on my arms, sticky and warm, but none of it is mine. The bodies of her men lie
The bedroom door is barely closed before David's hands are on me, sliding up under the thin silk of my robe as he backs me against the wall.I tilt my head back against the cool plaster, letting him kiss down the column of my throat while my fingers work the buttons of his shirt open. His skin is s
Six months pass in the kind of blur that only comes after everything has already broken and been pieced back together wrong-side-up. David finishes physical therapy the week before Thanksgiving. The last session ended with him jogging in place on the treadmill while the therapist clapped like he’s
David’s eyes are already on me before I even hang up the call and lower the phone. He doesn’t ask who it was. He doesn’t have to. The way my shoulders stiffened told him everything. “No,” he says before I can even open my mouth. I slide the phone back into my pocket and meet his gaze. “I didn’t s







