“You okay?” Dad asked. His finger pointed down at my lap, to the cloth still wrapped within my fingers. The charred, smoking fibers now melted within my grasp.
That night I told him who I really was. All of it: Checkmate, my night time strolls around New Malcolm, my gifts. I told him about Charade, and the relatively unknown rising faction I wanted to keep an eye on—the CCP.
He stared at me for several moments before swearing that he would take my secret to the grave. It felt so good to have someone to share it with, especially him.
During my father’s stay in the hospital, the CCP had only gotten stronger, gathering more numbers to its folds, and claiming a tighter grip over the city. With every news report Iheard or article read, I knew it was time for action. The general consensus seemed to be that they were doing something good in New Malcolm, cleaning up crime along with the supers in our streets. Sure, some of the good guys were being hurt in the mix, but that was a small price to pay, wasn’t it, when our city was becoming safer for the average citizen? I didn’t regret taking time off to care for my father, but it was time for Checkmate’s return.
The next day, I tore through the apartment looking for my backpack, mask and costume bundled up in my hands. Dad was there to see me off, though he seemed distracted. He kept messing with the curtains and pacing.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked. “What if you get hurt?”
I smiled, relishing in the novelty of having someone to worry about me. “I’ve been doing this for a while, Dad. Trust me, it’ll be fine.”
Giving up on the bag and stuffing the garments into my jacket, I pulled the door open. Five men in green and gray uniforms stood in the hallway, smirking at me.
Where have I seen uniforms like that before?
The answer came to me just in time for one of the men to land a full force punch to my gut and I flew backward, sprawling across the floor with bruising force. The costume flew out of my hands, the mask floating languidly through the air, like ink in water.
“Dad, run!” I sputtered, struggling for breath.
But he didn’t move. He stood there as the men filed into my home with sickening precision, like this whole scene was commonplace. Nothing unusual. One of the men pulled a sinister-looking taser out of his pocket. I sagged as it bit into my shoulder, sizzling the skin where the two prongs hooked into me.I couldn’t move, couldn’t think. Nothing mattered but that one singular pain.
“You said you wouldn’t hurt her,” he said.
My eyes filled with tears as I looked at him from the floor, willing my spasming muscles to work. For the power coursing through my veins to repel the current.
“She’s no longer your concern,” the man who punched me said. His dark eyes were cold as he sneered at me. He gave his perfectly styled blond hair a brush with his fingers before digging at the inner pocket of his jacket. He produced a small black box and presented it to my father. “Peter Grace, thank you for the service you have rendered to the Confederation for Citizen Protection.”
My heart broke as my father accepted the package, his fingers gliding across it in a caress. He looked at it as though it were a long-lost child, salivating as he withdrew a syringe filled with deep pink liquid.
It had always been about Rose.
Bile climbed my throat. I swallowed my hurt and pushed back the tears. I knew, as the men circled around me and leered down with pitiless, soulless eyes, that I didn’t stand a chance. A boot connected with the tender flesh of my ribs with a nauseating crack. A meaty fist collided with my cheekbone and stars danced at the edges of my vision.
I kept my eyes on my father the entire time the CCP’s soldiers beat me. Every care in the world dropped away from his face as he examined his prize, forgotten in the brilliant pink glow of the liquid dripping from the tip of the needle. He brought the syringe up to his eye, careful to hold back his lids with the tips of his fingers, and plunged the needle into its depths.
NOW
Checkmate, the Hero of New Malcolm, was betrayed by her own father. Sold out for a measure of Rose that would have cost… maybe a grand on the street. That’s what Peter Grace’s daughter had been worth to him.
Cooper had been right, and we never had the chance to make up. That was the last time I saw my brother.
Even as a fresh wave of guilt rises up my sternum at the memory, I can’t deny the tension releasing from my chest. The relief of having one other person know this thing that I’ve been carrying around with me—just one—feels like the burden of a lifetime has been lifted from my shoulders. For maybe the first time since I was that person crying on her apartment floor, I take a full, free breath.
Zane wraps his hand around mine—warm, steady, and comforting. My heart swells as it grows tighter. Tighter?Too tight.
“Fuck!” I look at him, really look at him, for the first time since we came out of the memory. His face is tipped down, shadowed as his shoulders heave around him. “What’s wrong, Zane?”
“You knew.” His words are so quiet that I have to fight to hear them over the beating of my heart. “You knew all along.”
“Knew what?” I gasp. His grip clenches into my skin so compact I can feel the fine bones there pushing together. I try to pull away, to shake off the unyielding grip, but he only clutches tighter. “Zane, you’re hurting me.”
“I’m hurting you?” he growls. “All these months, you’ve listened and learned, and worked your way into my heart, my home,my bed. And youknew.”
I shut out the pain, the pounding of adrenaline coursing through my veins with every beat of my heart. A sick feeling permeates the pit of my stomach. “Zane, I have no idea what you’re talking about. Look at me. Please, just look at me.”
I instantly regret the request. He is still handsome, even with rage carving his features. The lips that are usually curved in sly amusement, a witty remark or flirty comment waiting just on the tip of his tongue, are now curled in a brutal sneer. Even when we were enemies fighting in the streets, never have I seen his stance so threatening, his body towering over me like a cobra poised to strike.
