Purple irises do happen naturally, whether from disease or damage or just as part of normal genes, but Charade’s—Zane’s—are nothing like that. They are brilliant, only a shade or two lighter than the suit I wore as Checkmate. The whirls and swirlsthat texture them add a darker, edging on indigo-like, depth to them. A sliver of a brown rings the edge.
“The things I saw just now—the girl and her brother—that was you?”
I nod. “And that was you at the lab along the riverbank. You’re Zane Maxwell.”
“What’s left of him.” His lips quirk into a half smile that quickly dims again. “Who was the man, at the end?”
No.
Hot pain spears through the pounding in my brain.
“What is it?” His fingers reach for mine.
“Don’t touch me.” The throbbing in my head pushes my emotions into sharper focus, magnifying every feeling until they simmer in a bubbling boil about to spill over my edges. “This was a mistake.”
He shakes his head. “This is an opportunity. We have achieved something that I only dreamed about up until now. We’ll practice, gain control. Next time?—”
“There’s not going to be a next time.” Energy crackles in the air around us like the lick of an electrical current, and if I’m being honest with myself I can’t tell if I’m feeding it or it’s feeding me. “I’m leaving.”
“Why?”
I didn’t have to finish the memory to remember its lesson.
He shakes his head. “I know you’re scared, but I never pegged you for a coward.”
I flinch. “It’s a good thing your opinion never mattered to me then, isn’t it?”
He doesn’t stand in my way, but I feel the heat of him like a shadow nipping at my heels. Angela waits in the foyer, the older woman’s eyes wide as she takes in our little procession. I don’t meet her gaze when she tries to catch it. I don’t want her to seehow much I’ve lost control, to know that there are two monsters living under her roof, not one.
“What about Apollo?”
I jolt to a stop. Nausea suds up my throat as visions of him out on the streets with me dance through my head. At the thought of losing him again.
“I’ll come back.” The words are a hoarse whisper. “I need some time, Charade. Some space to breathe.”
He was right. I have nowhere else to run.
I reach the bottom of the stairs and gesture to where the panel is hidden. “Let me out.”
“Try it yourself,” he huffs.
I quirk my eyebrow at him, but square my shoulders and perform the same movement I saw hours earlier. The panel flips and the keypad appears. There’s something else too—a neat row of black key fobs hanging in a row. One in particular catches my eye. Keyless, silver buttons, and a red GTR logo.
The doors unlock with an audible click. No keypad, no numbers. I stare at the glowing surface, waiting for some kind of prompt or test to pass that never comes.
“This house was never meant to be your prison, Kaye. It was always your choice to stay.”
“Thank you. Zane.” I almost feel guilty for what I’m about to do, the plasticky oval wrapped in my fingers, but not enough.
It’s strange to realize that I mean it.
“Wait.” He disappears up the steps, sprinting down them a few minutes later with a white, unlabeled box.
“Burner phone,” he explains, offering the package to me. “It should have a decent charge. My number is in the contacts. Just in case.”
I nod my thanks, and only fully breathe again once the wooden closure is whole and firm at my back. In the distance, the light pollution illuminates the horizon. I keep my eyes onthat glow as I turn away from the house and follow the gray outline of driveway to a combination carriage house garage that is larger than any home I’ve ever lived in.
My quarry is in the first bay. I press my palm to the shiny, sable hood, and traces of leftover heat seep into my skin. Something bubbles inside of me as I take my place behind the wheel and run my hands over its sleek surface.
