Page 21 of Freed By Wrath

The apartment is quiet now. The fridge hums. The kitchen clock ticks. A row of carved pumpkins lines the windowsill—Slash’s work, obviously, because Slash treats Halloween like a second religion and has spent the better part of October turning every flat surface in this apartment into a crime scene of candles, dried leaves, and ceramic skulls. The overhead light is off. He replaced the bulbs in the living room with amber ones two weeks ago, and none of us have changed them back because, honestly, the light is better. Warmer. It makes the apartment look like something that belongs to people who have their lives together, which is currently a generous reading of the situation.

Fabien is pacing a slow groove into the hardwood, grey jeans, white t-shirt half-untucked, dark hair falling out of his man-bun due to the rush after Slash’s message came through, and I’m not much better—dark grey shirt, jeans, boots I didn’t bother unlacing when I came in, and sleeves shoved up my forearms with my ink winding from wrist to elbow.

The only one looking like a normal person is Slash, with his black t-shirt, black jeans, blonde mohawk somehow still intact after everything. The mask sits now on the coffee table beside him, horns up, like a trophy, while he leans against the office wall, looking entirely too comfortable with himself.

I rub a hand over my face.

“We need to decide how we’re playing this.”

“She stays here.” Slash doesn’t hesitate.

“No.”

“It makes sense.”

“It absolutely doesn’t.”

“She has nowhere to go.”

“You don’t know that.”

He raises an eyebrow. “The panic attack she had the second you mentioned taking her home seemed pretty self-explanatory.”

I don’t have a good answer for that. So I move on.

“If she figures out who we are and decides to press charges, we lose everything. Jobs. Careers.” I let that land. “We could go to jail, Slash. We arrest people for this.”

“She’s not going to press charges.”

“You don’t know that either.”

“I know her.”

“We spent one Halloween night with her three years ago, and you are her cousin’s ex-boyfriend.” I cross my arms. “That does not make us best friends.”

“Not yet.”

Fabien snorts from the corner but doesn’t weigh in. Smart.

He finally stopped pacing and now leans against the bookshelf, arms crossed, and says nothing. Behind him, a cluster of battery-operated candles flicker on the shelf between the true crime paperbacks and the vinyl records—also Slash’s doing, obviously.

A ceramic black cat sits on top of the speaker beside a string of tiny skull lights that runs along the shelf.

I exhale slowly and look between them.

“Here’s what’s going to happen.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel. “She’s asleep. We have until sunrise to figure out where she actually wants to go and get her there safely.” I turn to Fabien. “Clear the apartment. Every photo, every name tag, every piece of anything that could identify us.” I look at Slash. “You go back out there. Be there when she wakes up. Keep the mask on. And for the love of god, no antics.”

“Yes, Daddy,” Slash says.

I stare at the ceiling.

“The fact that you just said that during a kidnapping crisis is genuinely impressive.”

“I’m impressive.”

“You’re exhausting,” Fabien corrects.

Slash only grins, completely unbothered, and disappears into the living room. A second later, the old armchair groans beneath his weight, protesting the abuse it’s been enduring for the better part of ten years.