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Darien had managed to contain the Surge long enough to get Loren back to Hell’s Gate safely, long enough to try the tonic she had made for him, drinking every last bit of it. But as soon as she fell asleep halfway through their movie, and there was no sign of his Surge leaving him the hell alone for the night, he left the house with Max and Travis to track down their newest collections: three men who’d raped over a dozen women each.
Now, he stood in a room in the basement of Hell’s Gate, Travis, Jack, and Maximus with him. There was so much blood on the floor, it would make any sane person sick to their stomach. But they themselves were sick—sick and twisted, each in their own way. It was what had initially brought them all under the same roof, their need for violence the glue holding them together. A thrill vibrated in the air as he and his Devils stood, covered in blood, around the dying men, the pathetic warlocks begging for their lives.
The edge of his Surge had softened, but he still had a ways to go. He’d always believed his internal struggles would end with Randal’s death, but instead, they’d only become worse. And every time a Surge arrived, it was no longer just the acid in his veins that he had to contend with, but also memories. Old memories he’d buried carefully with time, and when they re-emerged now, they came with a vengeance, dragging him down into the deep pit of his rotting past—back to the person he used to be, the boy who’d fought to have a normal life before the monster squatting in the back of his mind had fully consumed him.
Tonight’s memory was one of the worst, and he saw it playing in his head like a movie as he willingly handed himself over to his dark side.
Darien swore he could see the words flashing through the therapist’s mind as he scanned the paper.
Cold.
Empty.
Flawed.
Scared.
Broken.
Guilt-ridden.
Lost.
Alone.
Weak.
Worthless.
The ten words were scrawled on a notepad. Darien had written them down last night, pressing the pen into the paper so hard, the tip had nearly busted off. The assignment had done nothing for him. The therapist had told him to write down one word each day, the best word he could think of to describe how he was feeling at the time. It was supposed to help him, but instead it had only pushed the invisible knife in his chest in deeper, twisting, spilling the last of his blood.
Was it possible to die of a broken heart?
“Only one word per day, Darien,” the therapist chided. “Did you forget?”
Darien was fifteen. He was sitting on the sofa in the warlock’s office—a hard and cold piece of furniture that reminded him of the prick in the chair across from him, a phony who only pretended to care about his clients and the demons they battled.
A month had passed since his mother’s death. A month of daily therapy sessions, none of which had helped melt the ice of his bleeding heart. Useless—this was useless. Another word for him to add to his bullshit list.
“It’s impossible for me to pick just one,” Darien mumbled. He was sitting perfectly still. His back was pressed against the couch, head down, hands clasped between his knees.
“How come?” the therapist asked. Darien didn’t reply. “How come?” he said again. Darien didn’t like how the man looked at him, as if he were a wild animal. A heavy sigh raked along Darien’s skin. “Darien, if you don’t talk to me—”
Darien shot forward on the couch, his blazing eyes half a second away from turning black.
“Because I feel all of this every day!” he fumed, spit flying. “Every. Single. Day.” He snatched his list from the therapist’s hands and held it in front of him, jabbing his finger onto every word he voiced. “I am cold. I am empty. I am flawed. I am scared. I am broken. I am guilt-ridden. I am lost. I am alone. I am weak.” Chest heaving, his broken heart splitting into smaller pieces, he ground out the last word, paper rustling in his shaking hands, “Worthless. See that? See? That’s what I am—I am worthless!”
The man stared back at him; no expression showed on his face. “You are not any of those things—”
His hand crumpled the whole notepad into a ball. With flared nostrils, angry tears shining in his eyes, he ground out, “How can you possibly know what I am?”
That was the last session he’d ever attended. Words didn’t work for him; only fists did. Pain, whether it was inflicted or felt. He clung to his coping mechanisms like they were a life raft. They didn’t keep him alive, not really, but they kept him afloat. And that was better than nothing.
Darien blinked away the memory.
Picking up a crowbar from the assortment of weapons spread across the table, he prepared to end these fuckers until nothing was left of them but scraps. They would never hurt anyone again.
Twenty-four years old, and this was still his coping mechanism, still his means of staying afloat in a world that was bent on drowning him.
