Not even death could keep us apart.
Three months later.
It took a fewmonths, but I’m now fully convinced that Cason was right about Malcolm. Leaving him alive was the right choice.
Malcolm’s broken whimpers follow me down the corridor as I leave the makeshift prison cell in the lowest level of the Institute, the heavy steel door sealing shut behind me with a sharp, metallic clang. The sound echoes, then silence settles again.
I roll my shoulders once as I head toward the elevator, shadows drifting lazily around my feet, satiated for now. Visiting Malcolm has become something ugly and therapeutic all at once. Some people meditate or go to therapy or the gym. I torment the man who ruined my life for an hour every couple weeks.
Honestly, I think I’m coping remarkably well.
Not that I usually tell Cason when I go down there. He knows sometimes. Probably most times. He notices too much not to. But he’s stopped asking questions about where Idisappear to during those lost hours, and I’ve stopped offering answers.
And while I fully believe Malcolm deserves it, I’ve never pretended to be the good guy.
The elevator hums quietly as it carries me upward through the Institute. It’s been three months, and it barely feels like the same place that I remember during the time it owned me. It’s been cleaned up from the battle, of course, and it’s still pristine and polished. Still filled with terrifyingly intelligent people who say things I only half understand during meetings. But the tension that used to live in these walls is gone now, replaced with something lighter. Hope, maybe.
Or at least the closest thing people like us get to it.
One of the first things Cason did was have the kinetic installation in the lobby rebuilt. I know it’s because of how much it meant to his father. The new version spins slower than the original, less impersonal somehow. More art than statement. I still catch him staring at it sometimes when he thinks no one notices.
He’s changed the rest of the Institute too. Not drastically and not all at once. Just enough at a time that people stopped being afraid before they realized they were no longer being controlled.
Ascended aren’t prisoners here anymore. They’re just people. Funny how revolutionary that concept turned out to be.
Of course, there were still those Ascended who did follow Malcolm willingly, those who didn’t believe Cason was strong enough to lead, even with me by his side. Cason dismissed them.
Not that they got very far…
That’s just another thing Cason may or may not know. He hasn’t asked, and I don’t plan on telling him. But if hedoesknow, he can rest easy knowing there aren’t any of his uncle’s loyal followers out there waiting for a time to strike. And if thereare any accidentally left, I’ll get those too.
The partnership with CopeHart Labs has also helped. Lane and Harrison spend a lot of time here, helping lead research into Ascension and abilities without turning any of it into torture disguised as progress.
Admittedly, when I first met Harrison, I had to resist the very real urge to kill him where he stood.
I still remember the sound of that man’s name on Cason’s lips while he had his cock in his hand, and it was replaying behind a blood red veil during our first meeting. Since I couldn’t kill Harrison like I wanted to because my menace has me wrapped around his fucking finger, I settled for punishing him that night instead. Let’s just say he sure as fuck made it up to me.
And he’s lucky he did because Harrison still looks at most of us like we’re one stressful afternoon away from becoming supervillains.
I don’t think he realizes some of us are already there.
The elevator doors slide open onto the administrative floor. It’s quiet, most of the staff gone for the weekend. Which means today’s celebration is small like Cason requested. There are going to be just a few people here, including Sebastian, Mia, Rory, Lane, and Harrison.
And Cason’s mother.
That one still makes me vaguely nervous.
It’s the first time I’m meeting her, and some tiny, deep vulnerable part of me hopes she likes me. Fortunately, she won’t know who I really am because no photographs of me were ever released after my legal death. Malcolm made sure of that. Reese Morgan officially died before the world ever got a good look at him.
Which means to Cason’s mother, I’m just Reese. Not the man who kidnapped her son seven years ago. Or again a few months ago because she apparently doesn’t know about that oneat all. I’m not the reason he disappeared. I’m not one of the monsters of Cason’s past.
The guilt of it still lives somewhere inside me.
But then Cason kisses me or laughs at something stupid or falls asleep wrapped around me like I’m the safest place in the world, and I feel forgiven.
I reach Cason’s office—Malcolm’s old one because it has the perfect view of the kinetic installation—and push open the door.
The first thing I notice is the sulking. The second thing I notice is the shirt. It’s bright orange, the Reese’s candy logo printed across the front in bold yellow lettering.
