Chapter 91

NINETY-ONE

XERO

I wake up feeling like I’m living the same hellish day on repeat. Agony pounds through my temples, and my throat is raw from screaming. I’m staring at the electric chair through the bars of a cage, already plotting my escape.

My gaze wanders past the dried blood pooled across the floor to Camila’s motionless body. A cold knife of grief slices into my heart, breaking through the haze. The last thing I remember was cradling her as she died, before everything went sideways.

Father’s drug pulled me into a violent nightmare where I fucked Amethyst, killed Dolly, and hacked through a crowd of bodies. I felt untouchable, powerful in my vengeful rampage until everything turned black.

Raising stained hands to my face, I wonder if there’s more to the dream than just my tortured imagination. There’s too much blood to be Camila’s. It’s on my cheeks, encrusted in my hair, on the tips of my lashes. If I tore through Father’s associates, then which twin did I fuck and kill?

I scramble to my feet, my heart lurching with a jarring rhythm. The mere thought of betraying my delicate ghost is inconceivable. The prospect of harming her—even unintentionally—is unfathomable.

The door swings open, and a short man pokes his head into the room. His eyes widen as they land on mine, and he takes a step inside.

“Xero Greaves,” he says, his voice breathy with reverence. He wears a plain gray suit with a matching tie, the outfit as unremarkable as his fawning. “Delta said I’d find you here, but he also said you’d be unconscious!”

My jaw clenches.

“I’m a huge fan of your work,” he continues, his gaze lingering on my chest. “The stepmother murder videos were… impressive.”

Rage surges through my veins, a hot, burning inferno. I grind my teeth at the implication that Father is treating my captivity like a fucking zoo.

Forcing myself to remain calm, I snort. “How much did you pay for the privilege to grope me in my sleep?”

Cheeks pinking, he scurries closer to the cage. He doesn’t reply, but the way his gaze sweeps down my form confirms my suspicions. My heart pounds, and blood roars in my ears, threatening to drown out all rational thought. Sucking in a deep breath, I shove down my outrage and focus on using him to my advantage.

The man stops out of grabbing range and gazes up at me through his lashes. “Did you get those piercings in prison?”

“Only one of them,” I reply, forcing myself not to cringe at the sensation of being infested by crawling ants.

He steps close enough that I can see the thread-like veins across his cheeks and how the spaces in his sparse hairline fill with sweat.

“Which one?”

My hand slides down my abs, making his breath catch. I lift my cock and point at the patch of skin where its base meets my balls.

He gasps. “You have a scrotal ladder?”

“Can’t you see the flesh tunnel?” I ask.

Brow furrowing, he leans closer and squints. “What am I supposed to be looking at?”

“Step closer and you’ll see,” I say, my voice lowering an octave.

The fanboy’s breath quickens. He glances up to meet my eyes and I raise my brow in challenge. Licking his lips, he steps closer to the cage. Then he raises a trembling hand and whispers, “May I?”

I snatch his wrist, yank him closer, and slam his head into the metal bars, creating a satisfying thud. Blood gushes from his nose like a broken faucet, and he screams. I deliver two more blows, each one more satisfying than the last.

The air thickens with the scent of iron as he crumples to the floor. I guide him down beside the cage and rifle through his pockets until I find a phone. With trembling fingers, I dial Tyler’s number, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

He answers on the first ring. “What?”

“It’s me.”

“Where the hell are you?” he asks, his voice filled with worry. “Xero, we’ve been looking for you two everywhere.”

“Hold on.” I put Tyler on speaker, reach for my Prince Albert ring, and unscrew its bead. The deputy police chief isn’t the only person capable of making faraday cages—I prefer to keep mine in my piercings.

A tiny metal tracker falls to the floor.

“Got a lock,” Tyler says. “Hades Holdings owns a condo in Woodland Suites. It was the next location on our list. ETA ten minutes.”

“Send a medic—Camila’s been shot,” I say, my voice breaking. I remove the top barbell of my Jacob’s ladder piercing, shivering as the metal slides through my skin. “What about Jynxson?”

“A concussion and a few broken ribs. How’s Amethyst?”

Tyler’s question lands with the force of a gut punch, leaving me winded. “I… I don’t know.”

The thought I might have raped and murdered her is unthinkable, no matter how powerful the drugs, and yet the possibility hurts worse than a knife twisting in my gut. I can barely stand to consider that this nightmare might be real. Instead, I focus on picking the lock so I can find Amethyst.

Tyler falls silent, giving me the mental bandwidth to focus on unscrewing the barbell, removing a pin, and manipulating the lock’s mechanism. The steady click of its tumblers falling into place provides a little reassurance. My sister might be dead on the other side of the room, and the woman I love might have died painfully at my hands. When the cage door springs open, I shake off the lingering traces of self-pity.

I step out and rush to Camila’s side to check her pulse. It’s weak and thready, and her skin is clammy. Her lashes flutter, and my lungs release a breath of relief. My eyes sting with tears as she moves her lips, unable to make a sound.

Stroking her cheek, I murmur, “Hold on. Help is on the way.”

“Isabel and the others will arrive in seven minutes,” Tyler’s voice chimes through the phone speaker.

“My tracker and this phone are in the same room as Camila,” I say. “She’s barely conscious. Keep her updated.”

“Got it.”

Returning to the fanboy, I snap his neck and tear off his jacket. I lay it over Camila, walk to the table of tools, where I pick up an ax, and leave my sister in the care of Tyler’s disembodied voice.

I run down a short corridor, my insides roiling with dread. Father might have already left by now, having murdered Amethyst or taken her hostage. He could have left her corpse discarded on a bed.

Adrenaline rages as I burst through a door at the end of the hallway and enter a room as spacious as the penthouse hotel in Helsing Island. My eyes immediately fix on the bodies piled up on the empty bed to my left.

I catch sight of five men gathered around a wet bar, their features etched with shock. Anger burns through my veins as I channel every ounce of aggression and charge at them with the ax.

“Where’s Delta?” I snarl. They scatter in all directions like vermin. Some of them have the nerve to scream. I sprint toward a man whose face I recognize from the New Alderney Police Department. “Where the fuck is my father?”

“Here.”

I whirl around in the direction of that hateful voice.

Father steps in through a door behind me, holding Amethyst at gunpoint. My heart stops beating for the seconds it takes me to absorb the blood splattered across her face, soaking the front of her robe and covering her feet.

At least, I think that’s my little ghost. The woman standing beside him, looking shaken, could easily be her identical twin. The last time I saw Amethyst, the left side of her hair was green, while Dolly was a full brunette.

Father looks too comfortable to be bluffing, but he’s always had the upper hand. He cocks the gun against the woman’s temple, making her whimper.

My blood boils. The desperation in her eyes fuels my mounting fury. Her expressions belong to the woman I love, but this could also be an elaborate trick.

“What do you want?” I ask.

“There’s a convoy of armed vehicles approaching the condo. Call them off.”

“Or you’ll kill your wife?” I ask, my brows rising.

“She’s dead,” Father says, his voice flat. “Murdered by her evil twin.”

My throat tightens. “You and Dolly told me you’d already killed Amethyst.”

His features pinch the way they did whenever I earned his displeasure. “We lied. It was a ruse to get you to kill Amethyst under the influence of epinephrine and PCP.”

I glance at the woman Father holds hostage, looking for a sign, a plea, a flicker of recognition, but she holds her features in a stubborn mask. It’s almost as if she wants my operatives to storm this penthouse.

She has to be Amethyst.

“Fine,” I say, my mind racing for a plan. “Get me a pair of pants.”

Smirking, Father drags her to the wet bar, toward a stack of towels.

I move closer, my fingers tightening around the ax. Sweat prickles across my skin, which cools against a blast of air conditioning. I need to time this right. Attacking too soon will only get Amethyst hurt.

As Father reaches for a towel, Amethyst ducks beneath his arm and stabs an ice pick into his side. Howling, he fires his gun into the ceiling.

Heart racing with hope, I sprint toward the bar. It’s her. My little ghost.

“Bastard.” Amethyst grabs his arm while he’s still off balance and flips him over her shoulder. He flies over the bar, landing on a shelf of glasses.

Righting himself, Father lunges at the fallen gun. I swing the ax, sinking the blade into his shoulder. He screams, just as the air rings with gunshots.

I pick up the gun, turning my ax’s blade around and slam its butt against his skull, making him crumble to the marble floor. We’ll deal with him later.

Amethyst runs into my arms, her body trembling against mine.

“Is it really you?” I croak.

She gazes up at me, her green eyes shining with unshed tears. “It’s not McMurphy.”

At the reminder of our safe word, I laugh.

“Xero,” snaps a female voice. “Put on some fucking clothes.”

Relief floods my system. I turn around, finding Isabel storming in with a crowd of operatives.

Pointing at the doorway leading to where I left Camila, I smile. “She’s over there.”

Isabel leads a small team to the back room, while the rest of the operatives apprehend Father’s guests. I bury my head in Amethyst’s hair and inhale her heavenly scent.

“I’m so proud of you, little ghost,” I murmur.

She rests her head on my chest. “Take me home, Xero.”