Page 5

"I don't give a fuck about Vincent."

I don't. I've given him more black eyes and broken his nose twice over the last fourteen years. He knows he could never scare me—that's why he goes for the people I love. He's a fucking coward, one with about fifty men on his payroll who'd love to take my head clean off my shoulders.

I don't know how Adrian puts up with his shit, but then, to be fair, I don't know how he's put up with mine, either. He knows me better than anyone. He knows my darkness, and somehow, he's always loved me regardless. He was there that night when I'd tried to leave, and Vincent put an end to that dream. He found me with the same fucking poison being forced into my veins, a little gift from the prick who owns me. But it could have been worse. It could have been Jarrod, just like he promised it would be if I ever tried to leave again.

Adrian nudges my arm, pulling me back to reality. "Fair enough, kid, but it's your funeral. Now come on. I'm still wired from the contract, so I'll come spar with you."

I welcome the day Vincent tries his luck to kill me. I know damn well it won't be by his hand—he's a pussy who only preys on young women who can't fight back. Besides, he knows deep down he'll never find anyone as eager to get blood on their hands. Even if every name and every goddamn memory racks them with guilt.

We head to the training room, tucked behind a thick door at the far end of the manor. I'd spent so much of my youth here that it felt like the only room I was truly comfortable in. We used to spend hours here, just me and Adrian to start with. This is where he taught me how to fight, how to defend myself. It wasn't until I was around fourteen that he taught me how to kill. He said it was to keep me safe, but the minute I turned eighteen, Archie initiated me into The Order. Making it look like it was more about grooming me to become the weapon they so desperately wanted me to be.

"Was the contract easy then?" My voice is low as I pull on the gloves, then begin to circle Adrian. He rolls his shoulders, neck popping as he tilts his head from side to side. He hasn't looked at me since we set foot in here, but I can tell by the way his body tenses that he's hiding something.

"Meh, it was doable." He keeps his gaze fixed on the far wall, jaw working like he's chewing on words he doesn't want to spit out. I stretch my arms overhead, feeling the tight pull in my back, the old bruise on my ribs throbbing faintly from last week's spar.

I jab at him, gloves thudding gently against his palms.

"Come on, don't be coy."

He stops, wraps half-tight on his wrists. "You really want to know?" His voice is rough. I nod, my jaw set. I don't let him see the way my stomach flips at his tone, though. This is gonna be bad.

Adrian's jaw clenches, the muscles jumping. "It was a woman, Jax." He says it quietly, but it lands hard.

I freeze, gloves half-raised, the sudden stillness ringing in my ears.

"We don't kill women." My voice is flat, almost empty, but my stomach knots up tight, something sour curling inside my gut. Fucking hypocrite, that's what he is. A goddamn fucking hypocrite who loves to preach whilst doing the exact bastard opposite.

He sighs, his gaze dropping to the floor, thumb worrying at a loose thread in the wrap.

"I know, but⁠—"

I cut him off; I don't give a fuck about his excuses. He had given me enough scars as proof of what happens when we go against our own rules. I swipe away the sweat above my eyebrow, shifting in stance as the words fall freely.

"That was the rule you enforced. We. Don't. Kill. Women," I spit at him.

For years—fucking years—he spat out this rule that we don't kill women. That no matter how much they try and force us, we fight back. It's the only thing we own, and he's destroyed it in a single night by giving in so easily.

He gives a small, tired nod, his shoulders sagging. "I know, but Vincent isn't Archie. His father was more accepting of contract refusals." His voice goes tight, eyes clouding over. He looks older, regret settling into the lines around his mouth.

I'm not surprised in the slightest that Vincent's giving out contracts he knows we'll refuse in an attempt to get under our skin. At first, it used to be easy to get around him when he was still fairly new after Archie died. But now, four years later, he's grown a confidence that borders on arrogance, and his word is law. Still, I almost spit back at Adrian every thought that's consuming my mind. That he's a coward. That he gave in and destroyed what little choice we had left. But I spot the regret in his eyes, the sadness that comes when you hear their pleas echoing over and over in your head until you feel like the only way to stop it is to put a bullet through your skull. I know that pain. Fuck, I feel it, too.

My arms fall as the ache in my shoulders spreads down to my elbows. "I know it must have been hard." My voice is softer now. Adrian is the best guy in this place, always taking care of the younger recruits, always offering a hand with maintenance. I know the toll this is taking on him, and I know how fucking hard this contract must have been.

He lets out a laugh, bitter and hollow, shaking his head. "I became the monster Archie always wanted me to be tonight." He turns away, peeling the wraps from his hands.

I don't answer. I can't. I know how it feels to be ruined so badly by the ones who own you, to become the very thing you try so hard to avoid. I clap my hand against his shoulder, hoping to offer him a little comfort, because it's all I can do.

"Go and get some rest, old man."

Adrian nods, rolling his neck as he leaves, his footsteps heavy as they echo across the empty room.

Now I'm alone again in this empty gym. I drive my fist into the heavy bag, again and again, and with each punch, my mind races. I can never escape it. The blood, their screams—and I know Adrian will feel it, too, even if he doesn't want to admit it.

It used to fuck me up more in the beginning. It would start with the night sweats, then terrors as I'd try to sleep, but their screams would echo around the room. Eventually, it did get easier—until nights like this, when they'd all band together in my head and remind me of the sick cunt I am because my heart fluttered as their blood spilt onto my skin.

I haven't told anyone that, though. And I don't think I ever will, because how will anyone understand that the thing I hate is the thing I crave the most?

Chapter Four