Chapter 39
LIA
The highway stretches before me, an endless ribbon of asphalt guiding me away from Ravenwood—away from him. My knuckles are white on the steering wheel as I've been driving for hours, pushing south toward Florida. My parents' house. A sanctuary I didn't even warn them I'm seeking.
I haven't called anyone. My phone's been buzzing in the passenger seat, Vane's name flashing over and over until I finally switched it to silent. What would I even say?
I'm in love with a murderer.
I promised myself I wouldn't run this time.
Swore I'd face whatever secrets Vane was hiding, no matter the cost. But witnessing him torture that man—seeing the satisfaction in his eyes as he wielded those pliers—shattered every wall I'd built around my feelings for him.
My body moved without conscious thought, fleeing before my mind could catch up and remind me that running never solved anything.
Old habits. Old fears. The same cowardice that sent me to that bus station fifteen years ago.
The image of Orlov's bloody face won't leave my mind. The calculating coldness in Vane's eyes as he sliced into human flesh. The way his voice remained so calm, almost pleased, while inflicting unimaginable pain was disturbing.
My stomach lurches again, and I pull onto the shoulder, throwing open the door just in time to vomit onto the gravel. It's the third time since I fled the warehouse.
“How could you?” I whisper, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “How could you become this?
I remember eighteen-year-old Vane, hunched over our AP Chemistry lab table, explaining molecular bonds with such clarity that even our teacher was impressed. The boy with a quick wit and a quicker mind. The boy whose intelligence intimidated me even as it drew me in.
That boy had potential. That boy could have been anything.
But that boy is gone, replaced by a monster who tortures people in warehouses. Who cuts off ears with the same hands that so tenderly held my face this morning?
And I still love him.
That's the worst part—the part I can't reconcile. Even after witnessing the horror of what he's become, something in me still aches for him. It's like a sickness, this love, wrapping around my heart like a parasite.
I pull back onto the highway, wiping at tears I didn't realize were falling. Florida is still hours away.
The miles blur together as I press harder on the gas pedal. My mind keeps replaying what I saw—Vane's steady hand gripping those pliers, the sound of Orlov's screams, the blood. So much blood.
I always knew the Blackwoods operated in gray areas. You don't become Ravenwood's most powerful family by following all the rules. I'd imagined tax evasion, maybe some bribery, perhaps even blackmail. The kind of white-collar crime that keeps the wheels of power turning in small towns.
But torture? Murder?
My stomach churns again, but there's nothing left to expel. Just acid burning my throat like the bitter truth burning through my illusions.
“What did you think, Lia?” I whisper to myself, my voice hollow in the empty car. “That he ran an empire on handshakes and stern looks?”
I switch lanes mechanically, barely registering the road signs. How could I have been so blind? Or worse—had I deliberately kept myself blind? Had I chosen not to question where his money came from? Had I willfully ignored the sudden hushed conversations when I entered rooms?
The Vane I thought I knew—the possessive, obsessive man who orchestrated my return to Ravenwood—was troubling enough. But this Vane, with blood under his fingernails and death in his casual conversation, is someone I never prepared myself to love.
I can't go back. I can't be the woman who shares his bed knowing what those hands have done. I can't be complicit in a life built on others' suffering, no matter how much my treacherous heart protests.
My eyelids grow heavy as I pass through another small town I don't bother to name. The white lines on the highway have begun to blur, and twice now I've caught myself drifting into the next lane. The adrenaline that fueled my escape has long since faded, leaving bone-deep exhaustion in its wake.
“Can't keep driving like this,” I mutter to myself, rubbing my eyes.
When I spot a flickering neon sign advertising the “Sunset Motel” with vacancies, I signal and take the exit. It's a typical roadside place—single-story, rooms facing the parking lot, paint peeling around the edges. But right now, it looks like paradise.
I pull up to the office, grab my purse, and reach for my phone, only to find its screen black and unresponsive. Dead. Perfect timing. I'd been so focused on the road, I hadn't noticed.
The night clerk barely looks up from his magazine as I enter. A small TV behind him plays a rerun of some sitcom, laugh track echoing in the empty office.
“Need a room,” I say, my voice raspy from crying and disuse.
“Single?” He doesn't wait for confirmation before sliding a registration card across the counter. “Sixty-five plus tax.”
I fill out the form mechanically and hand over my credit card. He runs it through the machine, the receipt printing with a whine that makes my head throb.
“Room 14. Down at the end.” He hands me a key attached to a plastic tag. “Check-out's at eleven.”
The room smells of cheap detergent and cigarettes, despite the No Smoking sign on the door.
I drop my purse on the bed and lock the door, sliding the security chain into place.
My reflection in the bathroom mirror is startling—pale skin, red-rimmed eyes, hair a tangled mess.
I splash cold water on my face, trying to wash away the memories of what I witnessed.
I should call someone—my parents, maybe, to warn them I'm coming. But my phone is dead, and I'm too exhausted to care. Tomorrow. I'll figure everything out tomorrow.
I collapse onto the bed fully clothed, not bothering with the covers. Sleep comes instantly, my body surrendering to exhaustion.
I jolt awake to thunderous banging, my heart racing as I try to orient myself in the unfamiliar room. The digital clock reads ten forty-five PM. I've been asleep for less than an hour.
The pounding continues, relentless.
“Lia! Open the goddamn door!”
Vane. My stomach drops. How did he find me?
I stumble from the bed, momentarily disoriented. Maybe if I stay quiet, he'll think I'm not here. But the banging only grows more insistent.
“I know you're in there. Open up or I break it down.”
Against my better judgment, I move to the door, my hand shaking as I slide off the security chain. I crack it open just enough to confirm my fears.
Vane stands there, his face a storm of fury and worry. His hair is disheveled, his eyes bloodshot. He looks nothing like the controlled, calculating man I saw wielding those pliers hours ago.
“What the hell do you think you're doing?” He demands.
I try to slam the door shut, but his boot wedges in the opening. I back away as he forces his way into the room.
“Fuck off, Vane. Leave me alone.” My voice breaks, betraying the terror and heartbreak churning inside me.
He reaches for me, but I flinch violently away from his touch. Those hands—those same hands that tenderly held my face this morning had methodically tortured a man, had cut flesh with practiced precision. I can almost see the blood still beneath his fingernails.
“Don't touch me,” I whisper, wrapping my arms around myself. “I saw what you do with those hands.”
His expression shifts. “Why were you at the warehouse?”
“I saw everything,” I say, my voice stronger now despite the trembling in my limbs. “I saw what you're capable of. The violence. The... enjoyment.” I shudder at the memory. “How could you?”
Vane's face hardens. “You don't understand what you saw.”
“I understand enough. You tortured that man. You were going to kill him.”
Vane runs a hand through his disheveled hair, his eyes never leaving mine. “You want the truth, Lia? Fine. There's darkness inside me. Violence is part of who I am—who I've always been.” His voice drops lower. “It's how I survived. How my brothers and I built everything we have.”
My back presses against the wall as he takes a step closer.
“But it doesn't change anything between us.”
I laugh, the sound harsh and brittle in the cheap motel room. “Doesn't change anything? I watched you torture someone, Vane. I heard you talk about killing him like it was nothing more than checking something off your to-do list.”
“Business is business,” he says flatly. “And my personal life is separate.”
“Not to me. Not anymore.” I wrap my arms tighter around myself. “I can't pretend I didn't see what I saw.”
His jaw tightens. “You signed a contract, Lia. You're mine for a year. There's no running from it.”
My breath catches in my throat. The Hunt contract. In my panic to escape, I'd forgotten the legally binding document.
“So what are you saying?” My voice trembles despite my effort to keep it steady. “That you'll force me to come back with you? That I have no choice?”
Something flickers across his face—doubt, perhaps, or regret. For a moment, Vane looks torn, as if warring with himself. The predatory confidence that usually radiates from him wavers, replaced by something almost vulnerable.
But just as quickly, it's gone.
“Yes.” His voice is quiet but firm. “I told you I wouldn't let you run again, and I meant it. Fifteen years was enough, Lia.”
“How did you even find me?” I ask, a sudden realization dawning through my fear. I hadn't told anyone where I was going. I didn't even know myself until I hit the highway.
Vane's expression shifts, a flash of guilt crossing his features before his jaw sets again.
“Your phone is tracked,” he admits without a hint of remorse. “Lost signal about an hour ago when your battery died, but it was clear you were heading to Florida.” His eyes never leave mine as he adds, “And then I got an alert when you used your credit card here.”