47. Freya
47
FREYA
T hey’re not dead. They’re not dead. They’re not dead.
I keep saying the words over in my head, trying to convince myself that I didn’t see the house explode. That it wasn’t Eli and River opening that door. Except I know it was.
The video wasn’t fake. Layla wasn’t in that room. I know she wasn’t because she’s lying on the seats across from me.
That’s the only reason I got in the limo.
She’s unconscious but her chest rises and falls softly with each breath. Her dark hair falls over the light brown of her cheeks as she lies on her side.
Zach sits next to her head and my gaze flits to him as he flicks the plastic barrel of a syringe.
“What is that?” I ask. My voice is dull. Dead.
Zach pushes down on the plunger until a drop of liquid beads on the tip of the sharp needle. “Just a little motivation.” He sets his crystal blue eyes on me. They’re unnervingly perfect. Almost inhuman. “You do anything other than what I say, and I inject five milligrams of cyanide into Layla’s pretty little neck.”
I clench my teeth and fight off a wave of dizziness. It takes everything in me not to launch myself at him as he brushes Layla’s hair off her face and brings the needle to her skin.
Just him touching her makes me want to burn his hands off his body.
“What do you want from me?” I ask, the words cracking under the pressure.
Zach tilts his head, strands of his brown hair brushing his forehead. “I don’t want anything from you, Little Star. I just want you to suffer.”
“Is that why you took Josh?”
Zach suppresses a smile. “Josh was just a messenger.”
That’s why he left him alive. So he could tell us about Layla. Everything Zach’s done, helping Maxwell, freeing Angelica, killing Farrah, it’s all just been to mess with us.
The hum of the engine vibrates under my hands as I grip the edge of the leather seat. “Why?” I ask, honestly confused as to what I’d done to make my own brother hate me so much.
Zach’s tongue flicks over his bottom lip and he tips his head back to look at the low, felt covered roof of the limo. “I don’t know what he saw in you.”
“Who? Our father?”
Zach’s eyes snap to mine. “ Your father. I did everything right. I was exactly what he wanted but no matter what I did, I was never good enough. All because it wasn’t his blood running through my veins.”
Realization hits me, burning away some of the numbness. “Maxwell’s not your father, Jeremiah Lock is.”
His smile is bitter. “Took you a while.”
I can see it now, the resemblance. His hair, though shorter, is the same shade of brown and the jaw line under the neatly shaved stubble is the same oval shape as his father’s. Then there’s the eyes. The same unerring blue as Jeremiah Lock’s.
“You wanted him dead,” I say. “That’s why Allie called about the Dying Angels.”
Zach tucks Layla’s hair behind her ear, further exposing her neck. “I played Maxwell’s games long enough. It’s my turn now.”
“So, what, you take me to some warehouse and torture me? I hate to break it to you, but you wouldn’t be the first.”
Zach chuckles. “See I always thought Maxwell was too narrow-minded. It was all about cutting with him, but you know what I’ve discovered?”
When I don’t say anything, Zach raises a brow and sinks the tip of the needle into Layla’s neck. My chest tightens. “What?” I bite out.
“I discovered that there’s an awful lot of ways to make someone hurt and one of the best is when they do it themselves.”
“Why would I do that?”
He looks down at Layla. “I’ve told you what will happen if you don’t do as I say. If you do, if you play, I’ll let you take Oz’s sister home. Alive,” he adds, like it’s an afterthought.
I look from Layla to Zach.
“Where’s my sister?” I ask.
Zach shrugs. “Enjoying her newfound freedom, I’d imagine. Poetic isn’t it—saved by her big brother.”
I press my lips together, trying to hold back the overwhelming dread that filled me the second the bomb exploded. I have to play this carefully. “I want you to stay away from her,” I say, my eyes on the needle. “From all the people I care about. If I’m going to agree to anything, I need your word you won’t hurt them.”
Zach withdraws the needle from Layla’s neck. “Angelica means nothing to me. Nor do the FBI agents you’ve been whoring yourself out to.”
I wait.
He raises a brow. “I won’t touch them, Little Star.”
Despite the pet name, my heart settles a little and my breathing calms.
“What do you want me to do?”
Zach’s lips curl up. “I want you to sacrifice your queen.”