Chapter 9
A week passes.
I become a ghost.
Leave for class. Come back. Lock my door. Leave for work at the bookstore. Come back. Lock my door.
The routine becomes armor. Wake up. Avoid eye contact in the hallway. Pretend the brothers don't exist. Pretend I don't exist.
I don't eat with them. Don't talk to them. Don't exist in their space unless I absolutely have to.
Margot tries. She knocks. Soft, tentative raps that make guilt coil in my stomach. Leaves food outside my door. Tupperware containers that go cold while I stare at my laptop screen, unable to focus. Sends texts that I read but don't answer.
Sweetheart, I'm worried about you.
Please talk to me.
Just let me know you're okay.
I'm not okay.
But I can't tell her that.
My hands heal slowly. The bandages come off after three days, replaced with smaller ones. Then just band-aids. Then nothing.
The scars remain. Pale. Raised. When I flex my fingers, the skin pulls tight, a dull ache that radiates up my wrists. A reminder of what happens when I lose control.
I catch myself favoring my right hand when I write. When I carry books at work. When I grip the steering wheel too hard on the drive to campus, knuckles going white around the leather.
I haven't taken a suppressant in seven days.
Nothing's happened yet. No symptoms. No changes.
But I can feel it. Like a clock ticking down in my chest. Like standing at the edge of a cliff, knowing the ground is crumbling beneath my feet. Every day that passes is one day closer to—
I don't think about it.
Can't think about it.
It's Tuesday night when hunger finally drives me out of my room.
My stomach cramps, sharp and insistent. A headache pulses behind my eyes, the kind that comes from not eating enough, not sleeping enough, not being enough.
I've been living on granola bars and whatever I can grab from the campus vending machines, but it's not enough. My jeans hang lower on my hips than they did a week ago. My reflection in the bathroom mirror looks gaunt. Hollow. My stomach is cramping. My head pounds.
I need real food.
The house is quiet when I unlock my door.
It's late—almost eleven. The kind of late where the house settles, wood creaking as it cools, the distant hum of the HVAC the only sound.
Richard and Margot are probably asleep. Atlas is likely in his office.
I've seen the light under his door at three in the morning more than once. Bane could be anywhere.
And Zero—
I push the thought away.
I step into the hallway, heading toward the stairs. My footsteps are soft on the plush carpet runner. I've learned how to move quietly here. How to be invisible.
The shared lounge is between my room and the staircase. The door's open. Warm light spills into the hallway, amber and inviting in a way that makes my chest tight.
I glance inside as I pass.
And stop.
Zero's at the pool table. Bent over, lining up a shot.
Black t-shirt stretched across his shoulders, the fabric molding to the lean muscle of his back.
Tattoos dark against pale skin. The overhead light catches the sharp angles of his face, the scar through his eyebrow, the dangerous curve of his mouth.
He sinks the ball. The crack of contact echoes through the room. Straightens. Sees me.
Ice-blue eyes lock onto mine. Predator spotting prey.
"Well, well." He sets down the cue. The wood clicks against the table edge. "The ghost finally emerges."
I'm frozen in the doorway. One hand on the frame. My fingers ache where I'm gripping too hard. I should keep walking. Head downstairs. Ignore him.
But I can't.
Something in his expression holds me there. Something sharp and knowing and wrong.
"Don't run away on my account, Carter." His voice is lazy. Amused. He rolls his shoulders back, loose and confident. "I was just finishing up."
I take a step into the lounge. The carpet is softer here. Thicker. It muffles my footsteps. "Stay out of my room."
"Your room?" He tilts his head. The movement is predatory. Calculated. "That's funny. Pretty sure that was our room first."
"You know what I mean."
"Do I?"
My hands curl into fists. The scars pull. Ache. A sharp reminder of brick and blood and everything I'm trying not to think about.
I move further into the lounge, closer to the bar area. The dark wood gleams under the recessed lighting. Expensive bottles line the shelves behind it, labels I don't recognize. Putting the pool table between us.
"You went through my things."
"Did I?" He leans against the pool table, arms crossed. The tattoos on his left arm shift with the movement—intricate lines and shadows I can't quite make out from here.
"You flushed my pills."
Zero's smile sharpens. White teeth. Dangerous. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
Liar.
"Fuck you."
I turn to leave, but he's faster. I hear the movement before I feel it—footsteps, quick and sure. He crosses the space between us in three strides and grabs my arm, spinning me back around.
His grip is iron. His fingers dig into my bicep hard enough to bruise.
"Let go of me."
"Not until you explain what the fuck your problem is." His grip tightens. I feel each individual finger pressing into muscle. "You walk around this house like we're the enemy. Like we did something to you."
"You did do something to me."
"I threw away some mystery pills. Big deal." He leans closer. I can smell him—gunpowder and black coffee and something sharper underneath. Ozone. Like the air before a storm. "What are they, anyway? Xanax? Oxy? You got a little habit you're hiding from Mommy?"
"They're none of your business."
"Everything in this house is my business."
I try to pull free. Yank my arm back hard enough that pain shoots through my shoulder. He doesn't let go.
"Let. Go."
"Make me."
Something snaps.
I shove him. Hard. My palms connect with his chest. Solid. Unyielding. But he wasn't expecting it.
He stumbles back a step, surprise flashing across his face.
Then he grins.
And it's the most dangerous thing I've ever seen.
"There it is," he says. His voice drops an octave. Goes rough. "I knew you had some fight in you."
He comes at me.
I dodge, but he's faster. Stronger. His hand catches my shoulder—fingers digging into the joint—and slams me back against the wall.
My head cracks against drywall. Stars explode behind my eyes. The air rushes from my lungs.
"You want to fight, little brother?" His breath is hot against my face. Mint and coffee and rage. "Let's fight."
I swing.
My right fist—still tender, still healing—connects with his jaw. The impact radiates up my arm. Pain flares through my knuckles.
My fist connects with his jaw. His head snaps to the side.
For a second, there's silence.
Then Zero laughs.
Low. Rough. Unhinged.
"Fuck, you actually hit me." He touches his jaw, checking for blood. Runs his tongue along his teeth. There isn't any. "Not bad. For someone your size."
He moves.
I try to block, but he's on me before I can react. His fist drives into my stomach—precise, brutal. His fist drives into my stomach, knocking the air from my lungs. The pain is white-hot. Blinding. I double over, gasping, and he grabs the back of my neck.
His fingers tangle in my hair. Yank hard enough to make my eyes water.
Drags me forward.
Slams me down onto the pool table.
The felt is rough against my cheek. My hip bone cracks against the table edge. Zero's weight presses down on me—solid, overwhelming, inescapable. Pinning me. One hand on the back of my neck. The other braced beside my head.
The wood groans under our combined weight.
I can't move.
Can't breathe.
Can't think past the pressure on my spine, the way my ribs compress against the table, the sharp bite of pain in my still-healing hands where they're pinned beneath me.
"You done?" he asks.
I try to buck him off. Arch my back, twist my hips. Nothing. He's too heavy. Too strong. He doesn't budge.
"I said, are you done?"
"Fuck—you—"
He leans down. Closer. His chest presses against my back. His thighs bracket mine. I can feel every hard line of him. His mouth near my ear.
And then he breathes in.
Deep.
Slow.
I feel his chest expand. Feel the exhale ghost across my neck, hot and shaky.
I feel the exact moment it hits him.
His entire body goes still. Tense. Every muscle locks. His grip on my neck tightens just slightly. His breathing stops.
"What the fuck," he breathes.
No.
No, no, no—
He breathes in again. Deeper. His nose presses against the curve where my neck meets my shoulder. His mouth is so close I can feel the heat of it against my skin. And this time, a sound escapes him. Low. Guttural. Almost pained.
His hips jerk forward involuntarily.
His eyes roll back.
I feel him getting hard.
Feel it press against my hip, thick and insistent and wrong, wrong, wrong—
Oh god.
"Zero—"
"What the fuck is that?" His voice is rough. Strained. Wrecked. "What the fuck do you smell like?"
I can feel his heart hammering against my back. Can feel the tremor in his hands. He's shaking. Or I'm shaking. Maybe we both are.
I turn my head away. Press my cheek harder into the felt. Close my eyes. Try to disappear.
But I'm trapped. Pinned beneath him. His body is a cage I can't escape. Heat radiates from him in waves.
He shifts. Presses closer. Grinds against me, just once, and the sound he makes is almost feral. I feel him—hard, insistent—against my hip.
The room is too hot. Too small. The air is thick with something I don't want to name.
"Answer me." His hand slides from my neck to my jaw, forcing my face toward him. His fingers dig into my cheeks hard enough to bruise. His thumb presses against my pulse point. "What are those pills, Max?"
"Fuck you."
"Tell me."
"Stay out of my room. Stay out of my life."
His jaw tightens. A muscle jumps in his cheek. His pupils are blown so wide his eyes look black. For a moment, I think he's going to push harder. Demand answers. Do something worse.
But then he pulls back.
Releases me.
The loss of pressure is so sudden I nearly fall. My legs shake when I try to stand.
I scramble off the table, putting distance between us.
My hip throbs. My hands scream. My neck burns where he touched me.
My heart is hammering. My hands are shaking.
I can still feel the ghost of his weight on my back.
Can still smell him—sharper now, mixing with my own scent in a way that makes my skin crawl.
Zero stands there, chest heaving, eyes dark and wild. His hands are clenched at his sides. His shoulders rise and fall with each ragged breath.
There's a bulge in his jeans that he makes no effort to hide.
"Get out," he says. His voice is gravel. Broken glass.
I don't need to be told twice.
I bolt.
My feet slip on the carpet. I catch myself on the doorframe, momentum carrying me into the hallway. I don't look back. Don't stop until I'm in my room with the door locked behind me.
Lean against it. Slide down to the floor.
My whole body is shaking.
My hands won't stop trembling. I press them against my thighs, but it doesn't help. The scars pull and ache and I deserve it, deserve all of it—
He smelled me.
He smelled me.
And he knew.
Not what I am—not yet. But he knew something was different. Something was wrong.
Something that made him hard.
I press my hands against my face. My palms are clammy. My fingers are ice-cold despite the heat crawling under my skin.
I'm still hungry.
But I'm not going back downstairs.
Not tonight.
Maybe not ever.