Tous les chapitres de : Chapitre 241 - Chapitre 249

The letter is not addressed to me. It’s the first thing I notice— the Dear Irene in unexpectedly round, neat handwriting. Mine is slanted and messy, hard to make out. Looks like an ECG line, Seraphine always says. You make people work for every damn letter. No one should have to expend much effort to know that you want them to buy zucchini. As if she ever once went grocery shopping.But this, this is bubbly. Girly.My mother’s.Dear Irene,I don’t know if or when you’ll receive this letter. I don’t know if you’re alive. It’s been approximately three weeks since we went our separate ways. Like we agreed, I’ll be vague about names and locations, in case the Northwest intercepts our communications. Without going into detail, I dearly hope our time apart has been less eventful for you than for us.Originally, it was just C., P., E., and me. A few days later, we encountered three other Favored on the run and joined forces. A larger group of adults allows for more night shifts to ensure

IHOLD MY BREATH. STAY PERFECTLY STILL. MY MUSCLES COIL, AS if to keep my body from breaking open, stop my organs and blood from pouring onto the floor.Then Zane says, “I’ve been suspecting it for a few days,” and I fall apart.“What?” I sound reedy.Maybe that’s why Zane ignores my question. Doesn’t look at me. Continues his conversation with Irene, composed, detached, like the topic is only mildly diverting. Broken boilers. The weather. Him, killing my mother.“And yet you didn’t tell her. How self-serving of you.”“I wanted to be certain, before informing her that one or more of her parents were high-profile figures in a cult with a sky-high body count.”Irene sneers. “Now you know for sure.” She points at me with a flourish. “Tell her what happened that night. The Favored would like to know, too, wouldn’t we, friends? All we had to go by were the rotting corpses.”“Very well.” Zane takes a deep breath. Turns to me. Lifts his bound hands onto the table, leaning over his elbows, and

WHEN I OPEN MY EYES AGAIN, IT’S DARK. THE MIDLEVEL HEADACHE that has been my loyal golden retriever companion is finally gone. In its stead, a dragon-worthy migraine pummels at my temples, clear proof that I’m dead and my corpse was sold to med students for skull-trepanning practice.And yet.If I were waking up in any other angle of the observable universe, I’d be rolling off the bed and lurching toward the toilet, ready to vomit my stomach lining. But whoever brought me here had the good foresight to deposit me in the only place where I’m not constantly surrounded by hostile, belly-churning stimuli.Zane’s room.The scent of him has a morphine-like effect on me. I bury my face in the pillow, take several deep, lung-filling breaths, and use the bathroom. On my way to the living room, I make a pit stop on the bed, inhale a few more times, and walk down the hallway feeling like new.I expect— no, I want to find Zane alone. Instead, I count six more people, maxing out every sittable s

SHOWERING FEELS LIKE A THOUSAND FOUNTAIN PENS SCRAPING my body head to toe, but smelling like blood, grime, and my deranged aunt’s homemade tea is worse than the pain, so I grit my teeth and do it anyway.Heat, I’m starting to realize, might not be a misnomer. I put on a sleeveless top and shorts, sweating despite the cool November air. When I walk into the living room, Zane is facing away from me, talking on the phone about winning friends and influencing people. Regular Alpha stuff.I lean against the doorway, eager to observe him, unobserved, for a moment. The strain in his broad shoulders constricts my chest. But he must pick up my scent, because he spins around to face me, and it feels a little like his senses are sloping the room, giving him no choice but to roll toward me, and—The phone slips out of his hand and thuds against the wooden floor. Several pieces break off and skitter in every direction, but he doesn’t even glance at them.“I think you dropped your phone?” I say, p