My Markings flare under my shirt, spreading over my ribs. I press my back to the wall, trying to breathe, trying not to think of her, trying not to think of the way she'd look if she saw me right now. Trying not to think about how badly I want her when I'm like this.
The tar shifts again inside me and the world sharpens, edges brighten, shadows peel back and the tunnel around me blooms into clear grayscale—the kind of clarity no human should see in the dark. The night vision peaks and my pulse spikes.
I lift my shirt with shaking fingers and the Markings come to life across my abdomen, shifting under my skin as if they're deciding, choosing. That's what the Markings are: a preview, a map, a teaser of who the tar wants—who The Pit thinks I owe, who I'm supposed to give it to tonight.
Sometimes the Markings stay vague, like smoke trapped in skin. Sometimes they form letters and faces. Tonight? The lines hook into shape, curving, pulling into a human silhouette. I see the neck, the beginning of a profile and then, a swollen belly.
I lose my balance. “No,” I breathe. I grip the fabric of my shirt tightly, trying to steady my breath. “I’m not hunting a fucking baby, you son of a bitch!”
The Markings burn and I grit my teeth. This is the part Sisk doesn’t run away from—and the part that makes me stay away from her:the monster; the hunter; the puppet.I don’t have control over it, but sometimes I manage to stop a foot away from the prey.
Sometimes I don't mind tossing a criminal or two in their place. Hell, some people deserve worse. But that's not the point. The point is that it isn't my choice. It never is. That's why I'll keep fighting it until the day it kills me. Because the moment I stop fighting, the moment I accept that the tar gets to decide who lives and who dies, I'm no better than the thing controlling me.
The only problem is, I'm not the one in control. I stopped counting how many people I killed a long time ago. It always starts the same way. The moon becomes full, and the tar changes. It feels hollow somehow, starving in a way that's impossible to explain. Then the markings appear, telling me what it wants. Sometimes it's one person. Sometimes it's a couple. Once, it demanded an entire group.
I don't know what determines it, maybe it's the number of wishes people made that month, maybe it's the size of them, or maybe the tar just decides when it's hungry. I stopped trying to understand the rules. All I know is that every full moon is different. Sometimes I wake up covered in blood. Sometimes there are bodies. Sometimes there aren't. Sometimes entire chunks of the night disappear, and I have to piece together what happened from whispers at the bar and rumors drifting through the city the next morning.
The Markings burn deeper until it feels like my insides will split. The urge to obey—to feed the thing that lives in the cracksof Tar City—will soon become unbearable. My hands tremble and panic hits raw and animalistic.
There’s only one person who’s ever been able to pull me back from this edge. One person who can drown out the hunger twisted through my veins and bones.Sisk.The problem is that relying on her comes with a price. Sometimes she can talk me down. Sometimes a touch, a kiss, the sound of her voice is enough to remind me who I am.
Other times, the full moon amplifies everything—the rage, the hunger, the need buried beneath my skin until it feels like I'm vibrating with it. Even desire becomes something monstrous. The tar wants more.I want more.And when those lines start to blur, Sisk becomes the thing the hunger reaches for. I've never wanted to use her as a leash to keep myself human. I've hurt her before, not because I wanted to, but because sometimes I lose the battle. That's why I try to carry this alone whenever I can. But some nights are worse than others, some nights the pull is too strong. And tonight there's a baby fighting for his life.Tonight, I need her.
It's either her hands on the Markings, her dragging me back from The Pit the only way she knows how—or someone dies.I’ll try to be gentle.I lie through my teeth, but the truth is brutal and simple:It's either I drown myself in her tonight, or I kill.
Ten
THEN | SISK
The second we step onto the street, I regret this. There’s a reason people stay away from this part of Tar City. And it isn’t just the proximity to The Pit; it’s the people.
I could probably walk through here without drawing much attention, but the boy walking beside me screams money—shiny new sneakers, a leather jacket that hasn’t seen real wear, a posture that says he still believes in safety. I can tell he hasn’t seen this city at its worst.
“Maybe we should go back,” I whisper as two men on the corner look us up and down like we’re dinner.
Jax shrugs, too calm for this place. “It’s up to you… but we can be quick.”
“Fine. Hide your watch.”
“What?”
“Jax.” I stop and look him dead in the eye. “People here kill for a lot less. Do it.”
He hesitates, like he doesn’t fully believe me, but then he pulls the watch off and shoves it into his front pocket.
“Okay,” I breathe. “According to Ivan, this man should be somewhere around this area.”
Jax glances around, taking it in for the first time. “Have you ever been here? To the Cut?”
“Yeah, but not often. Sometimes we come out this way if we need something and someone’s selling it dirt cheap. In and out.”
“Where do you live?”
I blink, realizing how little he knows about me. “South side.”
Jax goes quiet, recalibrating. “Your parents work there?” he asks, a little less casual now.
“My dad works at The Backlot Grill. He’s on the line—mostly grill and fryers. And my mom…” I swallow. “She’s sick.”
