Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Everleigh
? Flashback. Age sixteen. ?
My father stood on the opposite side of the study. He wasn’t the affectionate type so any distance between us was deliberate. Everything about him was deliberate and was always taken so seriously.
His expression was hardened and never soft, not even when he looked at me. His own daughter.
It felt less like standing in front of a parent and more like I was standing before a judge in court.
“I won’t be able to trust you fully until you know all there is to know about this life,” he said sternly. “Because in this role, weakness is a death sentence.”
The words were said as a fact.
I nodded swiftly. I’d learned early that hesitation invited correction.
Learned, as in multiple beatings and emotional abuse throughout my childhood.
He turned slightly and gestured to the wall of shelves behind him.
The shelves were huge, towering up to the ceiling.
Every inch packed with books with volumes on Psychology, Behavioral science, Power theory, Negotiation, Manipulation and Deception.
Subjects that didn’t belong in a teenage girl’s mind.
All that I should’ve been thinking of at that age was boys, sex and school. But all I had was the knowledge of an FBI agent at the age of sixteen.
“These,” he said, “are your inheritance.”
I followed his movement, stepping closer to the shelves. My fingers then brushed over the spines. I slid one book out from the shelf it was on. Body Language and Micro-expressions. I didn’t open it because I already knew what it would demand of me.
“You will memorize every one,” he continued. “Not just the words, but the intention behind them. Why people lie. When they lie. What fear looks like before it speaks.”
I swallowed, throat as dry as dirt.
He circled slowly, like he was assessing whether I was good enough to even have this information. “Your beauty,” he said, stopping behind me, “is a weapon. Just like your mother’s was.”
I stiffened at the mention of her, but I didn’t turn around.
“Your innocence,” he went on, “is a fabrication. Your tears are tools. If you don’t master them, someone else will. And they won’t be gentle about it.”
I faced him again, forcing my expression into something neutral.
“You will act,” he said, his tone sharpening. “Not just here. Not just when it’s convenient. You will act in every room you enter. Every conversation. Every breath you take. Until no one can tell where the performance ends and the real you begins.”
I drew in a steadying breath. “I will do my best, Father.”
His mouth twitched. It wasn’t a smile, no. More like approval without warmth.
“Good,” he said. “Because I don’t tolerate failure.”
The lessons didn’t end that night. They multiplied.
Hours stretched past midnight as I stood beneath harsh lighting, practicing expressions like lines of dialogue. My face was sore at nights end from constant trembling lips and downcast eyes. But my father corrected every flaw and wouldn’t let me leave until it fit his definition of perfect.
I learned how to let tears fall on command while my mind stayed sharp. I learned how to mix truth with lies so seamlessly that even I had trouble separating them.
By the time dawn crept through the windows, sixteen had stopped meaning childhood.
I wasn’t just a young girl anymore.
I was being shaped into a weapon.
His weapon.
My head throbs like it’s been cut open and stitched back together in all the wrong ways. The room swirls endlessly as I try and focus. The ceiling tilts above me and makes me want to vomit from the vertigo. My limbs are uncooperative as the memory of Dante drugging me re-enters my mind.
“Fucking asshole,” I mutter.
We had specifically agreed to no needles.
But because he’s like me and likes to lie through his teeth, I had to experience how it would feel to have your body betray you while your mind noticed enough to register the humiliation of it.
We’d talked about boundaries and about what lines we wouldn’t cross.
Did he think those boundaries were drawn up in lead and not ink? You can’t just erase promises like that.
I shift, testing the new restraints at my ankles. “Damn it.”
I swallow hard, fighting the next wave of nausea curling in my stomach as I glance down to see the rope tied tightly at my feet.
The door opens suddenly and Finnic steps in alone.
I’m not sure how long I’ve been out for, but I feel somewhat rested. I assume it’s been at least a few hours.
He shuts the door behind him quietly. He doesn’t look at me right away. His attention instead goes to the far wall, to a spot just over my shoulder.
Anywhere that isn’t my face.
That alone tells me everything.
Dante must’ve spoken to him about his role in all of this while I was out.
“You’re awake,” he says, leaning against the door.
My body is eerily difficult to move. My temples are still aching, but I can work with that. Though the drugs did have an effect on my limbs, causing them to feel heavier than usual.
“Congratulations,” I remark hoarsely. “You drugged a girl. What a big win that must be for your life.”
I can somewhat make out a muscle flexing in his jaw.
His arms are folded across his chest to make it seem as if he is closed off from all emotions. Or from me in particular.
“You shouldn’t antagonize me,” he retorts. “Not right now.”
I huff out a weak laugh. “What are you going to do? Bite me?”
His eyes flick to my ankles, then away just as quickly.
“I’m not here for this,” he grumbles. “It was my hour to check to make sure you weren’t trying to escape again and it looks like you’re not, so I am good to go.”
He’s following procedure accurately which is a good sign that he’s doing his best to be completely loyal to Dante and my father, Gabriel.
“Oh, that’s comforting.” I continue, “Please do hit yourself with the door on the way out.”
He doesn’t even try to leave yet. He’s all talk and no bite.
Unlike me.
I can see the effort it takes for him to stay detached.
I do my best to shift on the mattress again, letting my hands curl weakly against the mattress’s material. “You know,” I murmur quietly, “for someone who keeps pretending not to care, you’re really bad at it.”
His heads whips in my direction.
“You don’t know a thing about me,” he hisses.
With a soft tone, I add, “I know you don’t want to hurt me.”
He shakes his head, seemingly trying to disagree.
“That’s not how this works,” he insists. “You don’t get to decide what I feel. You’re just my job for the next few days. An annoying one, but a job nonetheless.”
I loll my head to the side. “Then why do you look like you’re waiting for permission to leave?”
That one seems to pinch a nerve.
He takes a step closer before he can stop himself, then freezes.
“Stop,” he mumbles.
“Why?” I lean forward, challenging him. “Because I’m wrong? Or because I’m right?”
His hands curl into fists at his sides.
“You think this is a game,” he scoffs. “You think you can poke and prod until you find a soft spot and crawl inside it.”
“I think,” I retort back, “that you already have one. And it scares you.”
Something wounded flashes across his face, but it’s masked seconds later. “I’ve seen what happens when you let that shit in.” He looks away. “It doesn’t save anyone.”
His voice is calm, but his eyes are looking everywhere but at me.
I swallow, my own throat suddenly tight. “Then why are you still standing here? Weren’t you just here to do your job?”
He doesn’t answer or move to leave.
He watches me with bewilderment. The expression a tell-tale sign that I’d dragged a truth into the open he’d been pretending didn’t exist.
“You don’t have to say anything,” I comment back. “I already know.”
His jaw squeezes with frustration under his mask. “You don’t know shit.”
I let out a slow exhale through my nose. “It’s okay, I won’t take it personally. You’re not angry at me,” I declare. “You’re angry at yourself.”
His eyes darts back to my face. “Stop doing that.”
I can’t make out many expressions on his face due to the material covering it, but his cheeks were most likely red with fury from my comment.
“Doing what?” I question innocently.
“Reading me,” he hisses. “Like you’ve got me figured out.”
I yawn and stretch to the best of my ability as my body becomes my own again, “You keep telling yourself this is just a job,” I remark. “That I’m just another random hostage you took. But if that were true, you wouldn’t still be in here.”
He gives a quick shake of his head, “I’m not your savior,” he says, but it’s almost as if he’s trying to convince himself of that very thing. “And you’re not going to turn me into one.”
I nod once. “I know.” Followed by a small sigh, I then continue. “That’s not what I need anyway.”
His brow furrows. “Then what do you need?”
I don’t respond and instead let him sit in silence.
Just as he goes to ask again, I blurt out, “Time.”