Chapter 15

I blink in and out of the memories for what feels like days. But I know it's not. Somewhere deep inside of myself, I know it's only been minutes, maybe an hour at most. But in my mind, in the darkness, it feels like forever.

The man I used to call my dad pulls me from my now too-small cage and tosses me to the floor. I lock eyes with him, noticing the green is nearly invisible, and I already know what it means. My body instinctively locks up, but I force my muscles to relax.

It hurts worse if I'm tense.

But not as badly as seeing my mother step out from behind him, her face just as emotionless, her eyes just as black. Even after all these years of enduring this exact sequence of events, it still hurts.

I may be ten, an old ten, but I'm still a child. Still their child. It doesn't matter, though. Not now, not when they're like this.

Not ever.

They're high.

They're always high these days.

Probably drunk, too.

My days consist of reading. Not books like I wish they did, but emotions, moods, mannerisms. Good day, bad day, or the kind of day that makes me wish they'd just kill me already.

Which day?

Which version of them will I get?

Sometimes, they throw parties for their friends, making sure they stay in the only furnished parts of our huge, skeletal home, pretending to be something they no longer are. My parents exist in a world of crime and opulence, yet they've become nothing more than the dredges of society they used to prey upon.

Sometimes, they disappear for days, even weeks. Those are my favorite times. I've learned how to pick any lock, my empty bedroom, my cage, the basement door. I can escape when they leave, and when I do, I pretend to be whole.

Even when I'm broken.

I keep my eyes locked on my father's as he strikes out, kicking my gut.

I don't blink or look away when she starts in with him, slapping my cheek.

I don't cry like I used to. I don't beg or plead for a mercy that will never come.

I stay silent, and I let them see how much I hate them.

Hit after hit lands until I'm a ball on the floor, bleeding and watching them stumble toward their room, leaving a pile of clothes in their wake because they're just sick enough to get off on this shit. On beating their child.

I pretend to be passed out until the sounds start. I remain unmoving, clinging to the pain, letting it keep me present. My ribs throb, and I embrace the burn. If I'm burning, I'm still breathing.

I wait and wait and wait. Until the sound of him fucking her stops. Until she stops screaming. Until they start fighting about being out of drugs. Even when the bedroom door opens, then the garage door, I still don't move.

And when they finally speed away, I say a silent prayer that this is the time they OD and don't come home, then I move.

Hours later, I'm sitting in my favorite place, the only place I feel safe: my treehouse. In the darkness, I let myself cry. I let the night sky see how sad I am, promising that when the sun starts to rise, I'll pretend I'm okay again.

My crying is loud. My heart is loud. My hurt is loud.

Everything is so loud, and I want to scream into the world, to tell it to shut up. My mouth falls open to do just that, but then I hear it, and for the first time, everything goes quiet.

Everything except her.

"Are you okay?"

"Mi Cielo?" My voice cracks, barely a whisper, swallowed by the sterile air. Silence stretches out, mocking me.

I strain my eyes, desperate for a sign, a glimmer of familiarity. But all I see is ugly white. No blue. No green. No dark chocolate hair. No warm, sweet smile in the middle of an adorably freckled face. Just…nothing.

Memories crash through the fog in fragments. Laughter, the comforting warmth of her presence, nights in the treehouse, and days in a cage. Then... darkness. Fear snakes its way through my veins, tightening its grip, but I push that away too.

No. Not darkness.

Asphalt. Night. The stars, barely visible against bright parking lot lights and the glow from The Den. Car lights. Flashes of bullets and screams, so many screams.

Blood.

"Fuck!" I gasp. My eyes flit from one corner of the room to the other as things slowly start to trickle in, and my reality begins to make sense. "Oh, fuck!"

My hands slide down my knees and tremble against the fabric of my tux. I do a quick inventory, finding myself dirty and scraped up to hell, but I'm not bleeding. My tux is intact for the most part, my shoes are on, and other than feeling sick, I'm not injured. Was I drugged?

It doesn't make any sense.

I quickly pat down my body, finding my weapons and phone gone. I grit my teeth.

"Think, think, think," I whisper.

I'm alone in a padded room. The guys and Ella aren't here, but hopefully, they aren't far. I have no weapons, no phone, no way to call for help. The harder I try to focus, the more my head pounds, but I shake it away, knowing every second counts.

Pushing up my sleeve, I say a silent thank you when I find my old watch still strapped to my wrist. The leather is worn, and the glass is cracked, just like always. It's from the sixties, has no bling or shine to it, making it unassuming. When I first got it years ago, I considered adding tech to the inner mechanics but decided against it for this very reason. If I was scanned for bugs, it would never be picked up, and hopefully, it wouldn't be taken from me.

I knew if I was ever trapped again, I'd need this—a lifeline to the outside world. Time in the darkness to help keep me sane in the midst of insanity. I know what it's like to lose my mind to solitude. I'll never let it happen again.

My thumb traces the glass, wiping a blood smear from it, and I idly wonder whose it is. My eyes flutter closed for just a brief second as the memory of killing someone flashes through me. I swallow it down and look back at my watch. It's six in the morning on November 1st. It's only been a few hours since Ella's party.

I lick my dry lips and run through everything that happened. My fingers spear through my hair as the visions circle through my mind on repeat, each one more clear than the last.

The file that came through just hours before the party—the proof that what I'd been suspecting for weeks was true. I have a brother.

Hunter is my brother.

I'd told the guys, but I couldn't bring myself to tell him, not yet, maybe never. And Ella…fuck. How will she react to something like this? When she realizes how interwoven our lives truly are.

I click my tongue, another memory pulsing through me.

"Come out, come out, little doll. I knew I'd find you here."

Eric Keaton.

Their abuser, their rapist, his uncle. He came for them, for her. Came for his last moment of revenge, and then, he told me something else I'd considered but hadn't dared speak out loud.

"I didn't put him in your life, but you'd be surprised at the lengths people have gone to for information about the infamous Princess of the Bay."

The Princess of the Bay.

"It doesn't make any sense. It's impossible," I rasp, my voice thick. Even as I say the words, I know they aren't true. Everything in our worlds is possible. We live amongst thieves, murderers, villains.

We are the villains.

"Kept you alive but broken until you turned twenty-three."

Twenty-three.

I knew her real age. I've known it from the moment she fell back into my life. When she dropped to the ground in that elevator, and had a panic attack that shattered my fucking heart. I didn't even realize who she was, but it didn't matter. She was so small, so broken, so sad , and she needed my help.

Then, she looked up at me, and I knew, I fucking knew.

Ella.

Mi Cielo.

My sky.

She was there, and I—I couldn't tell her a goddamned thing. Maybe if I had, maybe if I'd opened my mouth and let the truth spill out, we could have talked, could have figured shit out before it all went to hell. Maybe if I'd have told her that even though she'd lost her memories, I remembered them for the both of us. That even after all this time, I held them, kept them safe and protected, just for her.

"Maybe if I'd said something, we wouldn't be here now," I breathe, shaking my head.

My fingers dig deep grooves in my palms, and my shoulders drop with the sharp bite of pain.

There's no point arguing my choices with the bright void I'm existing inside of right now. It won't do a damn bit of good. All I can do is prepare, keep my mind right, and myself as healthy as I can.

The rest of the memory comes into focus, and I choke on the barely-there air in my lungs as I cling to the words.

"He's always wanted your blood, little doll. From the moment I met him, it was always about your blood. Your mother first, and then you. He thinks you're the key. He needs your name, your blood."

Who the fuck was Eric talking about, and what do they want with our girl?

Where is she?

Is she okay?

What about the guys? Hunter?

So many questions fill my mind faster than I can process them. But above all, one stands out…

Are they alive?

Acid pools in my throat again. Fuck. I don't know him well. Don't know what our future holds, but I do know I want a chance to find out. If he—if they—if she died, I…I…

"No!" I growl, my voice low.

I refuse to believe it. Refuse to give way to that possibility.

My fists ball, and the motion tugs on my suit. My eyes snap down, and I trace my fingers over the golden cuff links I designed. Seeing her initials makes something inside my chest shift, reminding me what I have waiting outside of this cell.

Everything .

I slide my jacket off and quickly detach both before letting it fall to the floor. I roll them around in my palm, taking in the delicate design.

They took months for me to create, but the ode to Ella was a last-minute edition for her birthday. Though I'd hoped we wouldn't need them, I'm glad I spent the time and money to get them done on time. I flip one over and thoroughly inspect it, making sure it's fully intact before checking over the other.

Glancing up, I double-check check there are no visible cameras in the room again. They may be hidden, but something in my gut says I'm not being recorded—not yet, anyway.

Once I'm as confident as I can be that I'm truly alone, I drop one onto my jacket and slide my nose stud out. It only takes me a moment to use the tiny metal end to pop the golden faceplate off, revealing mostly microscopic wires. I gently use the stud to push them aside. It feels like my heart is in my throat as I search for the tiny red light that'll let me know they're still emitting a signal.

It feels like I search for minutes, but I know it's only seconds, and then finally…

"It's perfect," I sigh, my body deflating. A small smile tugs at my lips, and pride washes over me.

I quickly press the top back on, hearing it click into place before repeating the process with the second cuff link. I know something's wrong the second I get the faceplate off. One of the tiny black wires is broken free from the main tracking component, and I don't have the tools to fix it.

My jaw pulses as frustration replaces some of the pride I'd been feeling just moments ago, but I breathe through it. I have one tracking device. One chance to be found. And hopefully, if the guys are somewhere near me, their matching cuff links will multiply our hope.

I slide my stud back in and click the top back on the broken link before returning it to my jacket. I slide it on, checking that I look as normal as I possibly can in this situation. The link with the working tracker stays gripped in my fist like the lifeline it is.

I check my watch and see it's nearly seven. The sun's up, and life on the outside is starting to come to life. Whoever took me, whoever stuck me in this cell, will likely be here soon. Luckily, with my watch and that beautiful little red dot, I have some answers that I didn't have before.

The tracker has a fifty-mile radius on it, which means we can't be too far from the city.

"We're still in the Bay," I breathe, hope clinging to me like a second skin. Thank fuck.

The signal pings to an app installed on my computer at The Den , the security system at our house, and our phones. Only the six of us know about it. Only the six of us can access it. As long as one of the guys or Ella can get to their phones, they'll be able to track all of us.

But if we're all here, locked up, or…

No.

I squeeze my eyes closed again, the cuff link digging into my skin as I inhale deeply, forcing myself to focus on those last moments.

I remember seeing Eric's gun. Remember hearing it go off. But then, something, no, someone , collided with me, taking me down before I could see what had happened. I tried to catch sight of Ella, of the guys, as I fought my attacker off, but then all hell broke loose. I caught glimpses of Maddox and Gage killing Eric, his blood coating their hands, but there was something…

Something….

"Who are you?" I snarl, my fist colliding with some random fucker's face as they pin me to the ground with their heavy weight.

Whoever they are, they've got a black plastic mask on and are wearing a black hoodie. They refuse to answer, pulling a gun from the back of their jeans which only serves to piss me off even more.

"Who.The. Fuck. Are.You?"

Still nothing.

The second the barrel presses to my temple, I stop fighting with my fist and press my own gun to their gut. I don't blink, I don't pause, I don't falter. I just shoot .

"Shit!" He grunts, his voice deep and slightly accented. My brows furrow as I shove him off me. His gun clatters to the ground, and he grips the wound in his stomach, but he's bleeding too much, too fast, and drops backward without another sound.

Gritting my teeth, I push up to my elbow and snatch his abandoned weapon up. A quick check tells me it's a Tec 9, a street gun.

"What the fuck?" I mutter, my eyes scanning the parking lot. My breath catches. Chaos. Complete and utter chaos.

People are fighting everywhere. Guns are going off, some with silencers, some not. The sound of grunting and cries of pain fill the cold, all air. I shove to my feet as I frantically search and search.

Maddox is still beating Eric's dead body into the ground, completely unaware of the insanity around him. His body is straddling the broken, bloody corpse of our girl's rapist as if he can force the years of pain she endured to disappear with his fists alone.

I leave him to it, knowing he needs this. We all do.

My eyes flit to Gage, watching as he fights off three masked men. I swallow thickly, and my brows crash together when I notice one of them doesn't seem to be fighting Gage as much as…trying to help him?

I quickly spot the differences between that attacker and the others, noticing that some are wearing all black but simple street clothes and the same black, faceless, plastic mask the fucker I killed was wearing. The rest are in full tactical gear with ski masks. Their fighting styles are different. Their weapons are different.

Quickly spinning, I drop down and rip the mask off the man, still bleeding out from my gun wound and choke out a raspy, "fuck."

Because the man I killed is a man I recognize—a man I hate. Ruben Paloma. It makes no sense. None. But it doesn't matter, not right this second. As I shove to my feet and wrap my fingers around my gun, aiming it at his head, all I feel is regret that I didn't make him suffer more, and joy that he's finally dead at my hands.

"I promised I'd kill you, motherfucker," I grunt. "See you in Hell."

I unload five bullets into his face in rapid succession, and then, I feel nothing. I lock it all down and turn back to the chaos, back to my family.

"Ella!' I shout, my body moves on autopilot as I search for her, search for Nyx and Hunter.

People come at me, then drop like flies as I home in on my years of training. When each person falls, I do a brief scan, checking their attire, noticing every single attacker is dressed the same. The people in the tac-gear aren't coming for me, for my family. They're fighting the others.

It makes no sense. No fucking sense.

"Isabella!" I yell, dodging a random bullet.

God, there have to be at least fifty people out here. Where are the cops? Where are the people inside The Den? Surely, they've heard all this by now.

"Mi Cielo!" Where the fuck is she?

As if in answer, I hear a scream. But it's not just a scream for help or from fear. It's full of so much pain, so much devastation, my knees buckle. I whirl around, following the sound of her, of her crying, begging, pleading.

"No! Hunter, no!"

There's at least thirty feet between us, and I wonder when we got so separated. How?

"Holy shit," I breathe, stumbling forward. Stumbling toward Ella as she bows her small body over a crumbled figure, keeping them both protected, shielded.

They're hidden behind a car, but I can just make out her and my brother beneath the glow of a street lamp. Can just see the blood, so much blood. It's covering her hands and face, but not nearly as badly as it's covering his body, the ground under him.

"No," I choke out, my head shaking. I force my feet to move as all the emotions, the fear and pain I'd pushed down, surges forward, making the world spin. "Hunter! Ella!"

Twenty-five feet.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Twenty.

He's dead.

Fifteen.

My brother is dead.

Ten.

Is she hurt? There's so much blood.

Then, a van pulls up, its tires screeching. I freeze, and it feels like everyone goes still, goes silent. I spin, my gun raised. The door slides open, and more men, more people, pour out. I barely have time to inventory their clothing before something sharp pierces the back of my thigh, once, twice, three times.

I drop to the ground, the world spinning, the chaos waning, my vision blurring. My head cracks against the ground just as I see Nyx fall. Then Gage. Then Maddox.

I grit my teeth, feeling the effects of whatever I just got injected with trying to pull me under and turn to find Ella. She's screaming so loud, so hard, I'm surprised she hasn't passed out.

"No," I breathe, my words shaky and barely audible. "Let her go, you sick fuck."

No one hears me. No one sees me. I watch helplessly as some big fucker picks my girl up and tosses her body over his shoulder like a rag doll. She beats against him as she continues to scream for help. For Hunter. For Maddox and Gage. For Nyx.

For me.

The last thing I see before the world goes black is one of the plastic-faced men stepping over my body. I blink rapidly, trying to stay awake as he reaches up, shoves the mask off, and smiles down at me.

"Boss wants a meeting," he chuckles. "And he's pissed."

"Fuck!" I shout. Gus. We're with Gus. He's brutal at the best of times, but to go through all that just to get to us…

The door to my cell clanks loudly, like metal scraping against metal, and my heart thunders at the sound. My eyes fly to the door, the sound permeating the padded material separating us. My fingers clench around the cuff link, and I force my breathing to slow down before I lose my shit.

My gaze snaps to my hand, and I flip it over, opening my palm. I can't see the little red dot, but I know it's there. I know it's transmitting, at least for now.

It's our last hope, our only hope.

Just as the door slowly begins to open, I make a choice I hope I won't live to regret, knowing we don't stand a chance without it. My mouth opens, and I roughly swallow the cuff link, praying to a God I've never believed in that someone, anyone , will search for us before it's too late.

My throat works around the odd shape, and I nearly choke, but I clamp my lips shut and shove to my feet, refusing to be looked down upon by an unknown force.

"Well, well, well," he drawls, grinning maniacally. "What do we have here?"