Chapter 32 Arlo
We’ve moved bunkers more times than I can count. Always trying to stay one step ahead. Arsen won’t tell me what’s happening—only that I’m not allowed to leave. And maybe that’s the part that hurts the most. Because I could’ve disappeared already. Not that there’s much left to live for.
I spend most of my days locked in whatever room they decide to leave me in.
Most of the time, the only face I see is Arsen’s and he barely speaks.
He won’t tell me anything. Not about my father.
Not why we’re still running. Not why Dad was kept alive all those years just to die on the floor in front of me.
Our newest bunker is secluded in the woods. It’s old and smells of rust, dirt, and damp earth. But there are windows. Real windows, even if they’re covered in metal bars.
The door creaks.
“Arsen wants to talk to you,” Wolff says, standing in the doorway with that same expressionless stare he always wears.
“About?” I pull on a pair of Arsen’s sweatpants I stole from the laundry. They’re too big, cinched and rolled three times just to stay up.
He doesn’t answer. Just jerks his head.
The hallway reeks of gun oil, stale coffee, and testosterone. Voices echo from deeper in the compound. Arsen stands at a table littered with maps, blueprints, and scattered weapon parts. Axe stands beside him, arms crossed.
“Arlo.” Arsen barely looks up at me when he tosses something I’d never expect on the table. “Your flight leaves tonight.”
On the table lies a fake passport and a thick manila envelope.
“What is this?”
“A plane ticket. A new identity. The envelope has enough cash to get you started, anywhere you want. You’re done.”
This is everything I wanted…but it feels too easy.
“You’re…just letting me go?”
“It’s what your father would have wanted.” A muscle tenses in his jaw. “I can’t protect you anymore—not from the Sovereign. Your best chance is vanishing.”
I stare at the passport. A new name. A chance to be no one. But my father’s face flashes in my mind, broken and bleeding. Priest’s hands on me, his voice in my ear.
“Is that what he wanted?”
Arsen finally looks up. “What?”
“Did he even say anything about me before he died?” My throat tightens. “Before he was killed?”
Raze strolls in, drops into a chair with a groan. “Only one who knows what he said is Priest. And he’s out of his goddamn mind.” His gaze cuts toward Arsen. “I’m going to shove antipsychotics down his throat if he doesn’t stabilize soon.”
“He’ll be fine,” Arsen snaps. He turns away, but not before he sees my face. “I’ll have someone drive you to the airport.”
Raze snorts. “Does Priest know you’re shipping off his property? Because the second he finds out, this whole bunker is going up in smoke.”
Arsen doesn’t respond.
“I’m just saying.” Raze shrugs, eyes flicking to me. “Nothing else calms him down, except her.”
My skin crawls at the word property. I grab the passport, the cash, the escape ticket I’ve been dreaming of.
“Shut the hell up,” Arsen mutters, snatching a tablet off the table. “Arlo, grab what you need. You’re leaving.” He disappears down the hallway with Axe before I can stop him.
This is it. This is freedom. So why do my hands feel numb?
I turn to Raze, the question bursting out before I can stop it. “What did you mean?”
He lifts a brow. “What?”
“You said I’m the only thing that calms him. What the hell does that mean?”
A slow grin creeps across his face. “Oh, stray. You really don’t know?” He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Priest is broken. Always has been. Since Valcross. There’s something fucked in his head. The only time it stops is when he’s got his hands on you. Or his dick in you.”
His smile turns mean. “Mint used to work, but now? You’re the new drug. And nothing else quiets his fucked-up head.”
A sick weight sinks in my stomach. He doesn’t just want to break me. He needs me to function.
“Fuck you.”
“Wish we could,” he shoots back, winking. “But your keeper would slit our throats before we got close. Now go pack your bag before he gets back and decides to chain you to the fucking bed.”
I turn, walking numbly toward the hall, and then stop against my better judgment.
“What’s Valcross?”
The grin slides off his face before he looks away. “Hell,” he says finally. Then picks up his knife, dismissing me with a flick of his wrist. “Now get the fuck out.”
The road winds endlessly through the dark and trees blur past the window. The man Arsen sent hasn’t spoken since we left, his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror every so often—just enough to remind me I’m still being watched. Still not free.
But even if I was, what would I do with it?
This is supposed to be a new beginning. And yet all I feel is grief. Not the kind that crashes loud. The kind that seeps in quietly. Because he’s really gone. And this time, there’s no pretending he might be out there somewhere. No fantasy of reunion, no hope to chase down.
My father is dead.
Again.
And only Priest heard the last thing he ever said. Whatever truths he carried to his grave, whatever regrets or warnings or absolution he tried to speak with his dying breath—Priest took that from me, too.
Maybe some things are better left buried.
But I can’t stop wondering.
The car slows as we turn onto a narrow road.
No matter where I go, I’ll never stop being his daughter. I bear his name, even if I’ve lost it. I bear his legacy, even if I run from it. I bear his scars. And no amount of distance will ever be enough to outrun that.
And somehow that hurts more than anything.
Because what they don’t tell you about survival is that it doesn’t come clean. No matter what name I wear—no matter what life I’m forced to build from the ashes—none of it feels like winning. Not when survival means losing everything you love, and still having to carry what’s left.
The car stops as we veer onto a side road.
“Fuck,” the driver mutters, reaching into the center console. He pulls out a gun and checks the mag. “Stay in the car.”
I don’t get a chance to respond. Two masked large figures step out from the brush, dressed in black. The driver’s door is ripped open and he’s yanked out, his head slammed hard against the frame. The wet crack of bone shatters the silence.
I lunge for my bag—gun already halfway out—but the back door swings open before I can aim.
“Going somewhere, kitten?”
My heart punches against my ribs. For a second, everything stills—the air ripped from my lungs.
Priest leans against the open door, peeling off the mask slowly, his dark, damp hair hanging across his forehead in jagged waves.
Raze grunts in the background, hauling the driver’s limp body into the back of the SUV. He slams the door shut.
The car shifts as Priest climbs in beside me. His size swallows the space. He grabs my bag, tosses it into the front seat, then reaches across me and unbuckles my seatbelt with a soft click.
“Look at me, Arlo.”
I don’t. I can’t.
His hand shoots out, clamps around my throat, and shoves my head back against the seat.
“Did you really think I was going to let you go? That you could just disappear?” His eyes are black. Not dark…black. Devoid of blue. Devoid of anything human.
Raze’s voice echoes in my skull.
Priest’s head is broken. You’re the only thing that quiets the noise.
“I’m not yours.” The words barely escape past the pressure at my throat. The corner of his mouth curves into something that should be a smile.
“You’ve been mine since the night I found you.”
I jerk away, but his other hand clamps down on my thigh, fingers digging in hard, holding me still.
“Stop—”
“Tonight, I’m going to give you something you’ve never had before.
” He leans in until his forehead presses to mine.
“I’m going to give you your sick, twisted little fantasy.
The one you keep buried. The one I saw in your eyes the first time I took your throat.
The one where you’re hunted. Where you’re taken.
Where you don’t get a choice. I’m going to give you what you want. ”
“I want nothing from you. You’re sick,” I spit out. “You’re fucking sick.”
“We already know who’s the sick one here, Arlo.
” He releases my throat and pulls out a knife.
The small blade glints in the dim light from the dashboard.
He drags the tip of it over my cheek, down my throat, a thin, cold line of promised violence.
“The girl who craves the man who ruined her. Who gets wet thinking about the monster who took everything from her.”
I hate the fear clawing up my throat. The way my heart slams against my ribs. But what I hate more is the heat pooling low in my belly—the way my body answers his voice, his touch, his presence with a traitorous pulse.
“I’m going to hurt you.” His knife trails the edge of my stolen sweatshirt. “I’m going to make you scream until your throat is raw and your voice is gone. And when there’s nothing left of you but shaking bones and shattered pride, I’m going to make you beg for more.”
Fear rushes in like a flood. True fear. The kind that steals your breath and numbs your limbs.
And still—
The scent of him—gunpowder, mint, and blood—sinks into my lungs. And my body, in its cruel betrayal, aches.
Before I can bury it, he grabs the back of my neck and yanks me forward.
Crashing his mouth to mine. His teeth tear at my bottom lip, drawing blood, and I taste copper and want and ruin all at once.
I shove at him, push hard, claw at his back, his shoulders, anything I can reach.
My nails sink into his skin. He doesn’t flinch.
He laughs and when he pulls back, his eyes are black fire.
The knife presses to the side of my throat, the tip biting into skin. Blood slowly trickling down.
“It’s time you learned what a real monster feels like, Arlo.” He smiles, the blade dragging slowly down the center of my sweatshirt.