Chapter 3

Nine yearsago - Age 16

I sneak through the mansion from my and Da's rooms to Cato's. Cato's super cool. Kinda stuck in a goth phase, but he's smart as hell. I pause at the sound of voices. I'm not allowed to wander through the mansion. If I'm found, Da will be forced to whip me.

It's only ever happened the one time, but that was enough for me.

Hiding is my special talent. It is what I do best. I've always been good at it. Mum taught me to play to my strengths.

"Tavish, love, you are small, but you are fast and smart. Stand your ground only when you have no other options," she whispered to me.

It was one of the last things she said to me before she slipped into the coma she never awakened from. It was a reminder. One I've replayed in my mind many times since she last said it to me.

I remind myself that playing to your strengths is strategic. Not weak. That's logic I can get behind.

The voices that stop me in my tracks grow louder. I hold my breath, moving toward the spot I found years ago that will allow me to see into the room where they hold their secret meetings. Da and Owen are in the room and Owen's berating Da. He's not screaming. Although he's done that plenty of times in the past. No, this time, he's doing that really creepy, scary, low, growly voice where he talks super slow.

These face-offs between them are getting more and more frequent. As are the appraising glances I get from some of the Order. Owen's lack of respect for Da, and Da's for Owen, is becoming clearer by the day. Da wants more responsibility, yet he's fucked up so many tasks he's been given; Owen doesn't trust him anymore.

This time Da's fucked up yet another task. He'd been gone for a few days and only just returned. Owen had met him in the entry hall and had I not known what the man was capable of, it might have been funny watching him get called on the carpet.

"One more fuck up, and I won't care if you leave the boy an orphan," Owen said. "Now, get out of my sight."

Da opens his mouth but at the lift of Owen's brow, he closes it and spins on his heel, stomping from the room.

Listening to them now reminds me of the first time I heard the two of them go at it. I was hiding then too. Most people might think hiding is cowardly, but hiding is a very handy tool. You learn a lot when no one knows you're around. Especially when you're only six years old, and people don't know you're not where you're supposed to be.

I make myself as small and invisible as possible. I cower, tears racing down my face as I tuck myself into a tiny ball. On the other side of the painting I hide behind, my mum lies in her big bed, barely alive.

I've always loved lying in that bed cuddled up to her. It's been forever since I was allowed to do so. Nanny said it was hurting her, so I quit. I need her to stay with me. She is all I have.

My da is talking to several men. I don't understand what they're talking about, but I know it's about Mum.

"Graeme, did she sign the papers?" one of the men asks.

Da shakes his head. "No. The cunt held her ground. I threatened the kid, but she still refused."

"You owe the Order, Graeme. And the Order always gets paid."

Da stammers.

"Graeme, you will take care of the Helvig family. That is your payment."

"Helvig? But I just returned from Sweden."

A loud crack splits the air, and Da yells. Da is mean to me, so this man must be very, very mean.

"You idiot. You have fucked up enough. You will do as you are told from here on out and without comment or questions. The Helvig I speak of is the younger one. That mess you made in Sweden with the older Helvig has to be cleaned up. The old man wrote a letter to his son about what he found. We cannot let that information get out."

"What do you want me to do?"

"If I have to explain things to you, then you're useless to me, Graeme."

The room fell silent, and then footsteps could be heard. The thuddy sounds of the shoes clip-clopping against the stone floors fade away to nothingness.

"You worthless, hateful cunt. You couldn't do as I asked just once?"

Da threatened to hurt me when he talked to Mum last night. He didn't know I could hear him from my spot behind the portrait in Mum's room.

It is just a tiny alcove hidden by the painting. I sleep there some nights, and I love reading in there. It is cozy and quiet, and the nanny can never find me.

It gives me the perfect place to hear Da talking to people since the other side of the alcove is his office, and there is a small grate set in the stone. I can't see through it, so I can't see who is in the room, but I can hear what's being said.

The man who just left has been here a lot.

"Well, I'll make sure you never make a fool of me again," Da says.

I peer around the frame of the painting, looking at Mum. I can't see her. Da's in the way. He's messing with her machines. They beep a couple of times, and he turns back to Mum.

Why's he got her pillow?

"Rest in hell, you bitch!" Da says as he puts the pillow on her face.

The flowery smell that fills the air mixes with the smell of wet grass and earth. The pungent combination fills my head, making me sadder, if that is possible.

I stare straight ahead at the coffin my mum is locked inside. I know it's locked because I tried to open it. But maybe I'm just too small.

The shiny black box is covered in flowers. White ones with green leafy plants sticking out everywhere. Mum hates those flowers. I don't remember what they are called, but anytime the estate gardener and Mum meet, he wants to add them to the garden, and she always tells him no.

"In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Peace be with you," Father Mark says.

I mumble in reply.

"We are gathered together today to commit Sorcha Buchanan's soul to rest."

Father Mark keeps talking, but I don't hear him. All I hear is him talking and everyone else crying and sniffing snot. The sounds mix and mesh together, and it sounds like humming.

I step forward, and the priest drones on. My father grabs at me, and I pull away. He killed her, and I hate him.

"Tavish!" he snarls in a whisper.

I walk toward the casket they locked my mother in; I reach forward. The rain hides my tears as I grab the yucky, stinky flowers with both hands, pulling them out and tossing them to the ground.

"These aren't right. She hates them!" I yell out. My screams drown out the priest, who still drones on.

Gasps and cries fill the air; my name is whispered and yelled, but I pay no mind. My hands sting, and blood beads up on them as I pull them off my mother.

I scream, "She hates them!" over and over. The words tear through my throat. It feels raw and sore, but I can't stop.

A hand grabs onto my arm, but I pull away, wrenching my arm from their grasp.

"No!" I scream. "She hates them!"

Arms wrap around me, and a rough voice says, "Enough, Tavish! You're disgracing yer mum, lad."

"She hates them," I whimper. Sobs rip through me, tears robbing me of my sight.

"Get him out of here!" Da yells.

"Pay him no mind, lad," Makenzie McDougal whispers in my ear. "Mack is here, and you and I will pick yer mum's flowers from her own gardens."

Hours later after all the mourners had left Mum's funeral, my father came to Mack's cottage and took me away. That was the last time I saw Mack. It was also the last day I spent in Scotland. Da moved us to the States and into the headquarters for the Order of Death.

Owen Black, who I'd learned later was the head of the Order and the man who was in my mum's bedroom the night my father killed her, ordered Da to come to America. I was dragged along. I didn't understand it for the longest time, but recently I've come to realize I was leverage to make sure my father did as he was told. It's been more than ten years since I was pulled out of Mack's cottage, and who I am today is so far removed from that naive, innocent little boy. Hell, I'm so far removed from who I was just a few weeks ago.

The sleek black limo slices through the streets like a predator stalking it's prey. The scenary passes by in a slow blur leading me to a place I dread going but know is inevitable. I have few choices in this world and I know the time has come I'll have to make one I wouldn't wish on anyone.

The car slows to a stop and I step out onto the wet pavement. A misty rain dampens everything around me. I freaking hate the rain, especially this type of rain. It makes me miss Scotland and my mother. I hate the feel of it, the chill in the air, but mostly I hate the memories it brings—the beginning of the worst part of my life.

I climb the steps surrounded by the Order—men my father wanted me to be like. Men he wanted to revere and respect him. But they didn't and they don't want me to be like them. They want to use and abuse me like they do the others they buy and sell and trade amongst themselves.

I settle into my spot. My eyes unfocused, taking in nothing. The rustling of the others as they come in fills the room, but I stay focused.

"Grace and peace to you, in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ. We gather today to give thanks to God and to celebrate the life of Graeme Buchanan."

My father died, or was murdered is probably the more likely case. Either way, I don't care. He is a fucking asshole, or was. No matter what lies the good reverend standing in the pulpit tells.

I let the reverend's word drift away. I have decisions to make, and I need to get a plan in place. I refuse to be a victim. And now that I know what the Order does, I'm going to save as many people as I can, and then I'm going to bring them down.

But, first, I have to save myself.

Da dying leaves me in a very precarious situation. If only I were a bit older then I could take off, but Owen Black informed me that Da left him custody. Owen can sell me off and there isn't anything I can do about it.

Which means I need a plan and that means I have decisions to make.

My choices are…be sold into slavery or choose someone to give myself to.

As soon as my father is lowered into the grave, I feel their eyes—the men surrounding me at the gravesite. They all stare as if I'm a big, juicy steak. It makes my skin crawl. The whispers are worse. They aren't quite soft enough to keep me from hearing the lewd and lascivious comments they make about the things they want to do with and to me.

Owen grasps my arm and ushers me back to the limo, pushing me inside. He pauses, speaking softly to someone outside. I pull my phone out, firing off a quick snap to Cato while watching and praying I don't get caught.

BabyBird:

Get Out

BigBird:

Bye

I watch the read receipt flip to read, and I breathe a sigh of relief as I close the app, deleting it hastily before slipping the phone back into my pocket as Owen slides into the car.

He gazes at me for several moments, then says, "You have very few options, boy."

I nod. If I hadn't realized it before, I definitely did now. I chew my lip, trying to keep from smarting off to him. He holds all the cards here. Worse, he knows it.

"I can help, you know?"

Owen laughs. The cruel, evil sound sends chills up and down my spine. My arms go numb, but I steel myself, forcing myself to meet his gaze.

When our eyes meet, a switch flips, and his laughter dies. He pours himself a dram of whiskey from the minibar nestled in the sidewall. I never let my gaze waver. He takes a long drink from the crystal tumbler he holds in his hand.

"What could you possibly do for me that would be worth more than that teenage virgin ass of yours?"

I swallow before replying, "Information and money."

He chuckles and takes another drink. His dark, beady eyes stare at me.

"I have both," he says when I don't respond to his dark humor.

I dip my chin, keeping eye contact as I do. I can't cower before this man if I want him to take me seriously.

"You do, but your guy is clumsy. I can trace every step he makes online. He's leaving footprints you don't want traced back to the Order. I'm better than he is," I explain.

I should feel guilty for throwing the guy under the bus, but I don't. It's him or me, and I'm not going down without a fight.

"What footprints?" Owen asks. There's no mirth in his tone when he speaks this time.

I wet my lips. Saying what I have against the guy is bad enough, but Owen wants details. If I want to live, I'll have to give them to him. Even though this is the plan he and I worked out together, I feel like a rat.

Forgive me, Mum.

"The raid on the warehouse last month. The FBI traced his activity online. They don't know who he is or who he works for, but they know what he's been doing."

Owen Black's face turns murderous. It's not the first time I've seen him look like that, but I know this wound I'm poking still festers. I've heard the ranting he's done. I've also heard the screams that echo through the manor during the violent and bloody interrogations that have taken place over the last month.

The crystal glass shatters against the window next to my head. Shards pierce my skin, cutting me. I'd be surprised the window didn't shatter if I didn't already know the car was bulletproof. Owen has remained in power for a very long time because he's cautious, bordering on paranoia.

"Find Cato!"

My head snaps back to him. Owen's phone is pressed to his ear. I'm not sure who he's talking to, but I'm damn glad I was able to get that message off to Cato.

He pockets his phone and glares at me. "How do you know?"

"The student has surpassed the teacher," I say.

The flat, emotional stare narrows, and his jaw pops. "He's been teaching you? Giving you access to Order dealings?"

This is the part of all this that makes me nervous. He could kill me on the spot and never blink an eye over it. Just as I am certain he killed my father and Andrew. Or rather had them killed. Owen rarely does wet work.

"Yes."

"And you think you can do better?"

"Yes."

"We'll see about that."

I sigh, and he laughs. His mouth twisted into a sinister smirk.

"Don't be too pleased with yourself. That virgin ass of yours is still up for grabs."