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I sprinted toward him, throwing my arms around his neck. “I’m not. I’m hallucinating. I don’t even think you’re here. I wish like hell you were.”
Anderson glanced over his shoulder at the Black Mamba and nodded. He returned his attention to me and gently cradled my face with both palms, engulfing me with warmth and a sense of security, like a shield protecting me from harm’s way.
“Phoebe, it’s okay,” Anderson said.
“You don’t understand.” I sniffled through my tears. “The Black Mamba looks exactly like my stepbrother, but . . . my brother is dead.”
As soon as those words left my lips, confusion and then anger contorted Anderson’s expression. He dropped his hands and then whirled around to confront the Black Mamba.
“Really, asshole? You have some fucking nerve.”
“Mind your own business, Anderson.”
Anderson’s legs ate up the space between him and the Black Mamba.
“She is my business!” Anderson pointed at me, his entire face red with anger.
I had no clue what was happening; I just wanted someone to take me home.
Black Mamba grabbed Anderson by the throat. “She’s been my business since we were teenagers. She’s mine. Get that through your head and help her before she spirals out, goddammit.”
Anderson’s nostrils flared. “I’ll do this for her, but this isn’t over between us, man.”
I rubbed my arms, warding off the eerie chill. What if I wasn’t hallucinating? How would I know the difference?
“Phoebe.” Anderson took my hand in his. “What are you seeing?”
“My stepbrother.” I licked my lips. “He died in a house fire four years ago, so I know he’s not standing in front of me.”
“What was his name?”
“Jagger . . . Whitlock.” I looked at Anderson, terrified of what he would say next. Either the grief and blow from Peter had officially sent me over the edge, or . . . I couldn’t even fathom the thought of anything else.
Anderson pulled me against him, holding me tight. “Phoebe, I don’t know who told you that, but Jagger is alive. He’s in this room. He never died.”
A bubble of nausea worked its way up my throat and I repeatedly swallowed, willing myself not to puke all over Anderson.
I had to get myself together. Anderson wouldn’t lie to me, but what had happened? How was Jagger standing in the room with me? My head spun with questions, then reality slammed into me, knocking the air out of my lungs. Jagger was alive. Why hadn’t he told me he’d survived the fire? I’d punished myself for his death every day for four excruciating years. I allowed Peter to do horrible things to me because I thought I deserved it.
A seething rage burned through my veins and I pushed away from Anderson. I bolted to Jagger, and as I came into arm’s reach of him, I clenched my fist and punched him in the nose.
“Phoebe!” Anderson cried out as he rushed toward me, but it was too late—I’d already hit Jagger a second time in his mouth, knocking his head back with a sickening yet gratifying thud.
In an instant, Jagger’s iron grip wrapped around my neck and I gasped for breath, taken aback by the darkness in his eyes when they met mine. His upper lip curled into a cruel smirk as he drawled, “Hello, Ariana. So nice of you to join me.”
He released me and I stumbled backward in shock. Blood trickled down his chin as he wiped it away. Jagger grabbed his nose and snapped it into place without flinching, the sound echoing off the room’s walls. The air crackled with tension as fear tied my stomach in painful knots.
“How are you alive?” I asked through gritted teeth, my anger still boiling inside me. My brain could hardly comprehend how he stood before me unscathed after everything he had put me through. My mind raced and whirled like a fucking wind-up toy as I struggled to understand what was happening.
He slid off his cloak and then slowly opened each button on his long-sleeved black dress shirt until it hung open—there it was. The black mamba was ready to strike as it coiled around him like a living shadow. I remembered he had the outline done with his uncle’s consent. If our parents had known about it, they would have come unhinged.
“If you still think you’re hallucinating, then . . .” Jagger released his shirt and held his arms out for me to see. “It’s really me, Ari.” His voice sent goose bumps over my skin. “I’m alive.” His lips shifted into an infuriating smirk as he added, “But tell me, how are you alive?”
Anderson remained quiet in the corner, watching the catastrophic show unfold.
I took a deep, cleansing breath to clear my addled brain. Surely, I hadn’t heard him right. “What do you mean, alive?”
“What I said,” Jagger roared. “Tell me what happened after the fire.”
