Page 19 of Irrevocably

No. It was horrible. I had to plead to redo an assignment, then I cut myself in the bathroom. Then a terrifying stranger blackmailed me into having a drink with him, before putting his hands around my throat in a dark alleyway, and telling me that Wolf is involved in a weapons thing at the port, and that you let it happen.

But I don’t say any of that.

“Good,” I say, my eyes prickling with ridiculous tears that come out of nowhere and are likely a shock reaction. “It was good.”

Dad grunts, which means it’s the end of the conversation, so I blink hard and continue upstairs.

My bedroom is my safe haven. I have a white wrought-iron bed, covered by a patchwork quilt that used to be my mom’s, with lots of bright pillows everywhere. The walls are covered in photos and prints and posters and postcards, and the bookcases are full of my favourite books. It’s cluttered, my room, but I don’t care. It’s the one place I allow a little controlled chaos to run wild, even if it is only in the shape of cat-themed knick-knacks. We can’t have a cat, sadly, because Dad’s allergic, so I buy fake ones instead.

I shut the door, then dump my backpack and take out my laptop. I carry it over to my desk pushed beneath the main window and put it down. I roll back my chair, and sit, staring at the closed laptop for a long moment, the pressure in my chest so intense that I know I’m not going to be able to concentrate. So, I get up again, get my knife from my backpack, then sit on my bed, and look at the photo on my nightstand.

It’s an old photo, overexposed and faintly out of focus. A young woman is sitting in a tree, bare legs dangling, white-blonde hair in a cloud around her head. She’s laughing at whoever is taking the picture and she’s so intense and alive and beautiful.

She’s my mom, Carrie. I’ve been told I look like her, though I’m just a faded copy. Like the printer used all the ink for her, leaving me only a duller facsimile.

No wonder Dad doesn’t like looking at me. He lost his beautiful wife and got me in return.

I turn the photo to face the wall, because she shouldn’t have to see what I do, then take my sweatshirt off – I’ll have to put some stain remover on the cuff to take out the blood – and I lay my arm on my thigh. The other arm this time. This one has silver lines on it, too, but a few more won’t hurt.

I draw the knife across my skin, which parts like tissue paper, the blood welling up along with all my fears and nightmares. The pain takes them, washes them away, washes me clean so I can start again.

It’s better than crying and it’s quieter. It takes less time.

Afterwards, I clean myself feeling calmer, freer, then sit at my desk and open my laptop. Lucien Frost will have to wait. I have an assignment to redo and an A plus to get.

Chapter Ten

LUCIEN

Home is twenty minutes out of Blackwater, heading north up toward the mountains. It’s isolated, down a long gravel drive and in the middle of some pine woods. The house itself is modern, all stone and glass, and surrounded by discreet high security fences. There are a few outbuildings and garages, so it’s more of a compound than anything else. Lazarus has a few soldiers who keep watch on the gate and guard the perimeter, but they’re discreet, too.

No one in Blackwater knows that there’s a fortress surrounded by armed guards just outside the city limits.

I’m sitting on the black leather modular couch in the living room, a low coffee table in front of me. It faces the floor-to-ceiling windows and the view out into the forest beyond the house, but I’m not interested in the view. I’m checking the camera feeds from Astrid’s house on my laptop.

I’ve watched her pass through the hallway and pause to greet her father. And I saw the flicker of anguish on her face when he looked away from her. Then she climbed the stairs to her bedroom, took out her little knife and cut her arms again.

I saw the bright blood that flowed across her skin and the look on her face. Blissed out as if the heroin had just kicked in. But heroin isn’t her drug of choice. It’s pain.

Now she’s sitting at her desk, concentrating on what looks like a biochemistry assignment. That’s what she’s chosen to do after an encounter with me, where I threatened her with telling her father about the cutting.

She’s doing her assignment. That’s fucking determination, right there.

I tilt my head, trying to understand why she’s not talking to her father right now. She stopped outside the doorway, but she didn’t go in. Why not? It seems ludicrous that she’d be scared of asking him about the club, since she’s not scared of me, so what made her hesitate? And why the cutting? What does she get out of it? Pleasure? Relief? What?

There’s no reason for my interest, yet I don’t stop looking at her as she concentrates fiercely on her assignment. She’s not what I expected, perhaps that explains it. I don’t know anyone else who would have bitten my thumb, for example. That amused me, which is strange since amusement isn’t an emotion I often feel. She was like a kitten taking a bite out of an elephant, as if she wasn’t at all afraid that I could have stomped on her and crushed her flat.

What forces go into making a woman like her? A dedicated student, a loyal daughter – on the outside, a woman easily moulded. But she’s not as easily moulded as I anticipated. She’s stubborn, determined, and she has claws.

A movement in the air behind me suggests someone is approaching, and I push the laptop closed. For some reason, I don’t want anyone else looking at her and seeing her secrets. They’re mine and mine alone.

“Is that the chief’s place?” It’s Lazarus’s deep voice coming from behind me.

“Yes,” I reply. “Just checking the feeds.”

He comes around the side of the couch and sits down in one of the black leather armchairs. “Found anything yet?”

“No, not yet. Nothing at the station or his house, so I assume there’s nothing on paper.” I pause. “You sure we can’t go direct to the source?”