Chapter 60

SIXTY

AMETHYST

I enter the bathroom, feeling like I’m walking on clouds. It’s a bright space with white countertops, matching tiles, and a large glass enclosure for the shower.

Another of my abusers is dead. Somehow, I don’t think my mind will resurrect him as a hallucination. He’s too insignificant, and I needed to spill his blood. Good fucking riddance.

All four crew members who helped in the force feeding are dead, as is Grunt. Xero would have mentioned if he’d captured Delta or Dolly. I make a mental note to ask him about Barrett, Seth, and Locke.

A figure moves in my periphery, making me flinch, even though it’s my own reflection. I turn to look at myself, and my stomach lurches.

This spectrophobia doesn’t make sense. It’s Dolly I fear, not myself, yet my brain hasn’t caught up to the fact that I have an identical twin.

With a sigh, I peel off my blood-soaked clothes and place them in the laundry basket before stepping into the shower. The bandages on my limbs are now replaced by waterproof bandaids over the deeper cuts which split open during my struggles.

The hot spray hits my skin with a satisfying sting, washing away Proctor’s stench. I turn all the knobs, increasing the pressure until the water hits my flesh like a hundred tiny fists.

What I wouldn’t give for Xero to appear behind me and wrap his strong arms around my waist. I want to feel his warm breath on my neck, and his hard body press into my back. His large hands would wash away the stains of my past, and he would reassure me in his deep, soothing voice, that everything will be alright.

That’s not going to happen. I have more lines scored into my body than a map of the New Alderney subway, and more trauma than a demolition site. Killing my enemies might give me a measure of satisfaction, but I’m damaged beyond repair.

I reach for the shampoo and work it into my hair with vigorous strokes, trying to scrub away the smell of blood and fear. The lather drips down my face, stinging my eyes, but I barely feel it over the sting in my heart. I rinse and repeat, watching the frothy white bubbles swirl down the drain with the faintest tinge of pink.

A knock sounds on the door. I freeze, my heart stuttering. Ice water sluices through my veins, negating the heat of the hot shower.

He can’t see me like this.

“Amethyst?” Xero’s voice filters through the door.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I suck in deep, frantic breaths, trying to slow down my racing heart. I’ll lose him if he discovers the mess they’ve made of my body. He’ll turn away from me, disgusted. Xero already knows about me and his father. Now that I’ve confirmed that, he might be thinking about sending me away. Seeing me disfigured might be the last straw. My chest tightens with every exhale, fueling my mounting panic.

“Are you alright, little ghost?” he asks, the words laced with concern.

“I’m fine,” I call back, my voice rising several octaves. With trembling fingers, I twist the knobs, cut off the hot spray, and grab a robe.

Rushing to the door on legs as brittle as twigs, I pull the robe around my body and fasten it tight. My fingers pause over the handle. I force in another breath and gather my composure before pulling it open.

He stands on the other side, a towering figure commanding every molecule of my attention. His piercing pale eyes lock onto mine, as if trying to unravel the emotions I struggle to conceal.

Forcing a smile, I ask, “What’s up?”

“Let’s dry your hair.” Eyes softening, he steps forward, and I skitter to the side.

Ignoring my jumpiness, he strides past, reaches beneath the bathroom counter, and pulls out a stool. “Sit.”

The soft authority in his voice has me lowering myself on the seat. I dip my head as he drapes a soft towel over my shoulders and works another through my unruly wet curls. His touch is feather-light, barely grazing my scalp, and an oddly comforting balm over my frazzled nerves.

My cheeks heat as I think about the last time he dried my hair, when he fucked my mouth and came down my throat. Shivers run down my spine, and I shift uncomfortably on my seat.

“You’re trembling,” he murmurs.

“I’m just cold.” The lie tumbles out before I can rein it back.

Xero wraps my hair in the towel and pulls away his hands. The absence of his touch eases my discomfort and, at the same time, breeds a sense of longing.

Casting my eyes to my lap, I study the silk trim on my robe to avoid meeting the accusation in his gaze. He’ll want details. How many times with his father? What did I do with the other men? What did I mean about letting them come in my mouth?

“I’ve made some tea.”

He strides out of the bathroom, leaving me alone with my confusion. Was he expecting something more? I adjust the robe in the mirror, keeping my gaze fixed on my neckline to make sure I’m not exposing an inch of scars.

A moment later, Xero returns with a tray laden with two glass cups of chamomile tea, a matching pot filled with dried chamomile flowers steeping in hot water, and a small jar of honey with a wooden dipper. Next to it is a plate of shortbread. He sets it down on the counter next to me with movements so careful and precise that I can tell he’s walking on eggshells.

Then he drops to a crouch, his eyes locking onto mine with a mournful intensity that makes my heart ache. I fight back tears, wondering if this is the moment he tells me it’s over.

I’m corrupted by the men from the asylum. Why would he want me now that I’ve been tainted by the father he despises?

“Take a sip,” he murmurs.

“What’s wrong, Xero?” I ask.

His eyes squeeze shut, and he exhales a long breath. “Just drink the tea, please.”

The vulnerability in his voice pulls at my heartstrings. I pick up a teacup, letting the warmth seep into my fingertips. The herbal scent of chamomile fills my nostrils, calming and grounding my spirit.

I take a small sip, the warmth radiating from my throat and spreading through my body. It tastes like comfort, like evenings spent at home curled up with an herbal brew and a book.

“Thank you,” I manage to whisper, my breath shallowing in anticipation of the bad news. The words hang heavily in the air, filling the silence that stretches on into what feels like an eternity.

Xero remains crouched at my side, watching me consume the entire cup before asking, “Shortbread?”

I shake my head, searching his features for something—anything beneath the guarded expression.

“What’s this about?”

A muscle in his jaw flexes. “Our enemies already made their next move.”

My brow pinches. “They bombed the safe house?”

“Those bastards should be rotting around the decoy building. But this is different. Your sister went on social media and made a confession.”

I wait for him to elaborate, but he reaches into the pocket of his jeans and pulls out a phone.

Its screen is open to a social media profile identical to the second one I set up before the book fair. The only difference is its username, which has a period between the name Amethyst and Ravenly.

According to Mom’s diary, my name isn’t Amethyst or even Crowley. Pushing away that thought, I look at the latest post, which has 11.5 million views. It’s supposed to be me, in a corset like the ones I wear on my podcast, but I would never display so much cleavage.

It’s Dolly, sitting against a green screen background of Xero’s mugshot.

“Good evening, Xeromaniacs,” she says in an exaggerated goody-two-shoes voice. “I have a confession for you all. Xero isn’t dead.”

My gaze flicks to Xero, who watches me, his expression grim.

Dolly continues. “I’ve been a bad girl. You see, I helped him escape the electric chair. Together, we’ve murdered a slew of enemies. Let’s see… There was Roger Stern, who you’ll know as Big Dick Johnson, StephenGlick, the Well Hung Man, Jake and Dale Ryland, Paul Brantley…”

After finishing the list of men Xero turned into a human centipede, she follows with Grunt, whose real name is Fenrick Greer, and the crew members we killed together, including Clyde Proctor. My stomach churns as she lists a bunch of important-sounding men, starting with Reverend Tom and ending with Deputy Chief Carl Hunter. Their pictures flicker in the background, making me grind my teeth at the sickening display.

“And of course, I murdered my mommy and my Uncle Clive,” she says with a practiced pout. “But you already know about that.”

My gaze flicks to the stats on the right-hand side of the screen. 2 million likes, 10.5 thousand comments, 132.1 thousand saves, and 173.3 thousand reposts.

“That’s more engagement than I’ve ever achieved on any of my content,” I whisper.

“But don’t worry, Xeromaniacs!” Dolly chirps. “I’m doing just fine. Xero and I are living the dream, taking out anyone who stands in our way. Isn’t that right, Xero darling?”

Offscreen, a man’s voice adds, “That’s right, Amethyst, baby.”

She leans into the camera with a conspiratorial wink and cups her hand on the side of her mouth. “Oh, and in case you think I’m B.S.ing, check the link in my bio for proof.”

The video loops around to the beginning. I can’t watch that evil bitch expose me for kills I committed in self-defense.

“What’s on the link?” I ask through clenched teeth.

“A video she made of your mother and uncle’s murder,” Xero says, his words flat. “Conveniently, with no sound.”

“Because Mom and Uncle Clive say her name before they die.”

“Are you alright?” he asks.

I rise off the stool and yank the towel off my head. Any sympathy I might have had for the wronged little girl in the diary evaporates like the steam rising from the teapot’s spout.

“Set me up with your best female fighter. I need a lesson in combat against an equal-sized opponent. It’s time for Dolly to die.”