Chapter 13
GARRET
She wants to die, and she’s okay with me being the one to do it. But why? It’s not what I expected her to say. Who the hell is okay with dying? She didn’t cry out or scream like I thought she would, and none of it makes sense. Why would she go through all the trouble with John if she wanted to die? She could’ve just jumped off a roof or something.
You would stop her. Someone would. There are cameras everywhere.
I close my eyes, pushing the thought away.
My phone vibrates in my front jeans pocket.
I fish it out.
Alaric: Make sure you go to class. I have the info you asked for. My assistant will be in shortly to explain. I trust it will be an educational experience.
Garret: I thought you graduated like a million years ago.
Alaric: Stop hating because I’m smarter than you, and don’t disrespect your elders.
Garret: Yes, Dad.
Alaric: I can be your daddy if that’s what you want.
Garret: I guess you want to die and be buried next to the last Nox.
Alaric: After your next lesson in class, I think you’ll want to save those thoughts for someone more deserving.
The thought of killing her sits like a hot coal in my stomach, burning my insides after she admitted the last thing I expected.
I imagined material things—money, an education, sex. It definitely wasn’t the wish to die. Or for me to be the one to carry it out.
I’m practically running to class to find out what Alaric doesn’t want to tell me over the phone. What’s so educational that involves Rose?
The smell of her skin still lingers in my sheets. I snuck into the bedroom this morning while she was eating the breakfast I ordered. There was no way I could get rid of something that smelled so beautiful.
She reminds me of the lingering scent of a black rose. My little Darkthorn.
I knew if I touched her, she would consume me. And I couldn’t let that happen.
I walk into my International Relations class and take the seat closest to the exit. I like the freedom to leave without making a fuss. Not like the professor would question me for ditching early, but still, I like to make things easy.
The fact that Alaric chose this class to tell me something doesn’t sit right. International laws, globalization, human rights —nothing in this class should have anything to do with Rose. It’s an easy course, one I took only because I had to stay my entire senior year when I could have graduated early and been sitting behind a desk, barking orders in my late father’s building downtown.
I stretch my legs, ignoring the glances girls aim my way as they file in, staring at the time on my phone and waiting for class to start.
I only look up when the professor walks in—thick glasses, a porn mustache—waiting for him to announce that we have a special guest. My leg starts shaking.
Anxiety gnaws at me as Professor Mullen takes his time extracting a leather folder from his attaché. He notices me. Or maybe it’s the tapping noise I’m making with my sneaker, repeatedly hitting the metal chair leg. I want to grab his head andshove it inside the damn thingso he gets the hint and hurries the hell up.
The door swings open, and my blood pressureskyrockets. Azriel. The last person I want to see. What the fuck is Alaric thinking?
Valen’s younger brother doesn’t belong in a place like this. He’s good—better than most—but he’s been doing questionable things lately.
Like caring too much for the girl who lied to us all. I see the way he looks at her. He likes her. Maybe he’d sleep with her if she showed any interest.
But I know she doesn’t. She’s still conflicted about whether she should trust him. And right now, she has every right to doubt him. Rose is an addiction for someone like me—a psycho .
I want to cage her.
Dominate her fucking mind.
Terrify her.
But at the same time, I want her to desire me.
She brings out the dark, unhinged version of myself that I keep locked away—the version I reserve for others when I want to wipe them off the face of the earth.
“Today, I want to go over human rights and globalization,” Professor Mullen begins. “As you can see, I’ve brought Mr. Vikiar. He has conducted extensive research on the matter and would like to share his findings. This is an opportunity to spread awareness about the issue. He will cover human trafficking and the context of migration, labor, and exploitation.”
Panicrisesin my chest, forcing me to sit up.
Azriel’s gaze lands on mine.
There’s something in his eyes. Pity. Guilt. All I see isred. I want tostrangle the knowledge from his mouth.
“My name is Azriel Vikiar. Some of you may not know, but I’m a hybrid student. I would like to share the results of my findings with you.”
The class grows quiet. He shuts the lights. The projector flickers on. The bastard has a whole presentation prepared.
My eyes dart across the screen as he flips through images—buildings in the middle of nowhere. Then, an image stops mecold.
Young girls. Barely ten years old. They’re dirty, malnourished. Their eyes hold adrug-induced daze—similar to the way I found Rose on the shower floor.
My stomach churns.
The bruises. The scars.
Track marks etched into their delicate skin.
Needles.
Drugs.
Girls sprawled on filthy mattresses in different rooms.
“This is where human traffickers hide their victims,” Azriel says.
Gasps echo around the room. Some students watch with blank faces, unfazed.
It makes me sick.
“I know there are stories and reports of women and young boys being trafficked, but I would like to share this topic with children.”
I only pick up bits and piecesof his words. The ones that matter. The ones Alaric wants me to hear. The ones that involve Rose. If that’s even her real name. Because she might benameless. No parents. Because these fuckers impregnate themto produce more. To sell them. Like animals.
Then I see it.
An image of a young girl withsoulless eyes?—
And atattoo of a set of numbers.
I tear my gaze away. Bilerisesin my throat, threatening to spill out of my mouth. No one knows what the numbers mean, but it’s how they mark them.
To be used.
To be owned.
To be sold.
I bolt out of the chair. Rush into the men’s bathroom. And throw up.
That motherfucker bought her like a dog.