Chapter 26
twenty-six
Uncle Leven was there the first time I cut a man’s eyes out.
I threw up all over his shoes. He grabbed a fistful of my hair and shoved my face so close, eyeball gunk smeared across my lips.
“You are no longer allowed to be weak,” he told me. Hell of a fifteenth birthday. Today, I don’t flinch. I don’t even blink.
He’s still breathing, barely. His lips tremble around something wet and gurgling. His hands twitch against the zip ties. One of them is broken. Not the tie—the hand. Crushed bone, snapped tendon. His body jerks trying to decide whether to keep living or let go.
It’s just me and him, and the sound of his life bleeding out over thousand-thread-count sheets. My hands are shaking. Not from fear or adrenaline. I can slice the skin off a man’s face without as much as a spike in my pulse.
It’s rage crawling under my skin with nowhere to go.
I crouch beside him. He gurgles again—no words, just noise. A dying animal.
Lindy was right.
This world? It’s blood and ghosts and chains. You don’t pull someone like her into it and expect to keep them whole. And now I’ve lost her. Because I couldn’t keep the violence from touching her. I’m going to make Travis wish he were never fucking born.
I stare down at what’s left of the man I carved open and know she hates me because she saw this.
That hurts worse than any knife ever could.
I wipe the blade clean on his shirt. Doesn’t matter.
My jacket’s ruined. Blood soaked into the lining.
I won’t burn it. Not in a hotel room with sprinkler sensors and high-end ventilation.
I peel it off, fold it inside out, and slide it into the compression sack I brought.
Same with the gloves. Shirt too. I grab a clean rag from my bag, wipe my face and the back of my neck.
I change into the dead man’s clothes, his suitcase is open, tailored shirts and slacks neatly pressed.
I choose navy. Neutral. Forgettable. I wear forgettable well.
The whole thing takes four minutes. I've timed it. Practiced it. That’s the job. Kill, clean, walk out.
In the bathroom, I scrub my hands, fingernails, and the creases of my palms. Blood lifts, pink and warm, swirling down the drain. I catch my reflection in the mirror. Calm. Cold. The man Lindy walked away from.
I press the heel of my hand to the counter. Breathe once, hard. Think. Where the fuck is she? Is she safe? Did she run? Is she okay?
I told her to stay away from this fucking room.
She was safe with the wife by the pool. I checked the angles.
Cleared the cameras. But that was before.
Before she saw me for what I am. There’s a huge fucking difference between training in our basement and walking in on me removing an eye from a man’s face.
I glance at the clock. Fifteen minutes since entry. Too long. I’ve got maybe five before the body starts to go cold, before his wife or someone else notices he isn’t answering his phone and decides to check the room.
I don’t give a fuck. His wife could walk in right now and I’d give her identical slashes to her sick-ass husband. Innocent or not. I can’t think about her. Or about the corpse. Any of it.
There’s only Lindy.
I shove the compression sack deep into my gym bag, zip it closed, and slide my sunglasses into place. My head is up, shoulders squared. I walk out of the room like I belong here. Because I do. I’ve made peace with that. It's her here I haven’t made peace with. Her softness burned into me like acid.
I move through the hallway, past the cameras Adrian disabled thirty-seven minutes ago. The loop will hold another twenty-two. The lobby is quiet. No screams yet. No discovery.
I blend. Blend and vanish.
And the whole time, the only thing I see is her face.
Our hotel room smells like her. Vanilla and coffee and that damn strawberry shampoo that settles in your throat and stays there. If I close my eyes, I can almost pretend she’s still here.
I’ll give her space. It’s the right thing. Pressing her now will only push her further. But every hour that passes stretches something inside me tighter. Makes it harder to breathe.
I cave and text her.
You don’t have to talk to me. Just let me know you’re safe.
Ten minutes later, three dots pop up. Then disappear. Then come back. Then, finally—
Lindy Girl:
I’m okay. I just need a little breather.
I read it a hundred times. Could be worse. Could be goodbye. Could be nothing. Another message buzzes in.
Lindy Girl:
Your world. I was so sure I could be cut out for it. But it’s a lot.
I type out ten different responses. Delete them all. Eventually, I settle on truth.
Then let me build a new one for you.
She doesn’t answer, not that I expected her to. I can’t fix this. I can’t make her forget the way it felt when she saw me scrape out a man’s eyeball.
So I wait.
The police show up. Sirens low, lights off. One marked car. One unmarked. I watch from the rental, hands clenched on the steering wheel, still stained under the nails even after I scrubbed them raw.
They don't look my way. No reason they would. No one saw us together. The cameras caught me checking in under an alias two hours apart from him. Different floors. Separate bookings. Adrian made sure of it. If the hotel’s staff has any gossip to spill, it’ll be about the sobbing wife, not the man in the suit who never spoke to anyone but his wife.
I check in with Adrian.
“Lindy’s clean?”
“She’s good,” he replies. “Nobody’s asking about her. His wife hasn’t mentioned talking to her either day.”
Her name lights up my phone.
Lindy Girl:
I’m heading to the bookstore. Don’t worry.
My throat burns reading it. I nod, even though she can’t see me.
Even though I want to drop to my knees and beg.
I’d never stand again if it meant she’d stay.
I won’t ever let her go, not really. But, to love her I have to let her figure this out for herself.
Being with me will never be easy. If I could promise she’d never see me that way again I would, but that’s not a promise I’ll be able to keep.
I walk up to our room and hang a canvas bag on the doorknob for when she’s back and send her a text.
I left the keys to the rental on your door with some cash. I’ll meet you at home. Be safe my darling.
Then I call Adrian.
“Get me wheels.”
“Car is already on the way,” he says.
“Do you ever stop eavesdropping?”
“No.”
The new vehicle is dropped off in front of the lobby an hour later, but I don’t go home because Melinda doesn’t go home. She goes to Victoria’s. I park across the street and watch the lights flick off. Window by window, room by room, until there’s only one.
Atlas knocks on my window before sunrise.
I crack it an inch. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“You need a shower and to sleep in a fucking bed you weirdo,” Atlas says. “I’ll watch her.” Atlas walks around to the passenger side, and I hit the button to unlock it for him. Once he’s inside he says, “Go home Cassius. I swear I won’t leave until you get back.”
“People saw us together. I have no fucking clue who was at the hotel. I never should’ve listened to Travis. Who knows what sick fucks know she’s important to me now.”
“We watched the entire time. If someone noticed you as the Machine, no one spoke about it. Adrian was monitoring every text and email for keywords about you and Melinda. There was nothing.”
“It’s bad enough I could lose the three of you. I don’t need another weakness.”
“It’s a little late for that big brother.”
“I don’t know how to keep her safe. Everything in me says to force her to leave Victoria’s fucking apartment and come home with me, but I have to let her decide.”
“Why?”
“Are you serious?”
Atlas shrugs. “It’s not like you two had a conventional start, what’s a little kidnapping?”
“She never said no, never left, never asked me to leave or stop. I’ll never stop watching her, but I won’t take her free will.”
Atlas studies me, then nods. “Then we won’t stop either Cassius. As long as you want us to keep an eye on her, we will.”
“I know you can watch her, find her, track her every move. Adrian can hack anything I’d ever need, cameras, her bank accounts, medical records, all of it.
Caleb, well I’m not sure what the mathematician brings to the table, but he’s good moral support.
None of it matters. Unless I’m within arm’s reach, none of you can stop someone from hurting her. And that’s the part I can’t live with.”
“Not to be a dick, but that’s mostly your fault.”
“I don’t regret making the deal I did with Uncle Leven. I would never wish my life on you three.”
Atlas tilts his head. “Not even if it meant we could keep her safe? Like you can?”
“Not even then.” The words are out before I can stop them. But we both know they’re a lie.
“Go home, Cassius. Get a shower. Sleep.”
I glance at the lit window. “If she leaves—”
“I’ll be on her before she hits the sidewalk.”
I don’t like it. I hate not being the one between her and everything else. But if I’m not sharp, I’m no good to her.
“Don’t take your eyes off her,” I say.
Atlas pops the passenger door and steps out. Cold air slides in, sharp enough to sting. He leans down to the open window, meeting my eyes. “Don’t insult me.”
I grip the steering wheel hard enough for the leather to creak. “Don’t fuck this up.”
Atlas shuts the door and heads toward his own car. I don’t watch him. I keep my gaze on the window until the light clicks off. Only once the apartment is dark do I drive away.
Our house feels like a crime scene. There’s no blood or bodies. But I’d take both over her absence. Over the way her scent is already thinning from the sheets. Over the ghost of her laugh hanging in the corners.
Her coffee cup is still in the sink. The lipstick print faded from the rim. Her hair tie is looped around the stair banister where she must’ve dropped it. There’s a strawberry shampoo bottle in the shower, almost empty. I don’t touch it.
Caleb watches me pace from the kitchen. His arms are crossed, expression unreadable.
“She’s not coming back,” he says.
I stop mid-stride. “She will.”
“You saw her face after the job,” he says, pushing off the doorframe. “She thought she could handle it, but it broke something in her.”
“She’s not broken.”
“She’s not like you, Cassius.”
“You’re right,” I snap. “She’s everything I’m not. That’s why I love her.”
Caleb exhales through his nose, slow and deliberate. He’s trying not to start a fight. “Love doesn’t change reality. Spider’s still out there. We’re still at war. You think she wants to live in that kind of crossfire?”
“I told her the truth.”
He studies me for a moment, then shakes his head. “You told her you’d keep her safe. You can’t promise that.”
“I will keep her safe.”
His voice sharpens. “From everything? Every enemy? Every bullet?”
We’re toe-to-toe now. My pulse is hammering. “She’ll come back.”
He doesn’t argue again. He turns and walks out of the room without another word.
I go upstairs and check my phone for the tenth time in an hour. Nothing.
I sit on the edge of the bed on the side she sleeps, elbows on my knees, staring at the invisible imprint her body left in the mattress. I should be going over all the shit I got off that guy's computer with Adrian.
But I can’t focus. I can barely think. I keep hearing her voice.
You are my husband, Cassius, and I’m not afraid.
Liar.
I deserve the lie. I made her believe this could work, that I could keep her safe, sane, whole.
I drag a hand down my face, grab my jacket, and shrug it on. I need to move. Clear my head. Maybe the air will take the edge off the ache in my chest.
The Vegas night consumes me the second I step outside.
Streetlights hum faintly overhead, throwing weak gold across the cracked asphalt.
Somewhere down the block, neon signs pulse in pink and blue, casting a glow on the parked cars.
A couple is laughing as they pass, their footsteps quick against the sidewalk.
It’s the kind of night she would’ve liked.
It’s cool and the stars are barely visible past the haze of the Strip, the city breathing with a slow, restless heartbeat.
I can almost hear her pointing out some constellations I’ve never cared enough to learn the names of, but when she says them they become important.
I take the back exit through the garage, hands deep in my pockets.
The streets are too quiet. No shouting from the corner taco stand, no laughter bleeding off the Strip.
Heat should be lifting off the asphalt; instead the air goes thin and cold.
In the glass of a dark storefront, a brim tips where my reflection has no hat.
There, where a reflection shouldn’t be, are eyes on my shoulder, two fingers raised like a count. Then he’s gone, the window empty, the night ordinary again.
I square my shoulders, knife-hand loose, and keep walking. I’m halfway down the block when the boots come fast—too even for drunks, too coordinated for tourists. Two pairs of boots.
I pivot left, instincts firing, but not fast enough.
A hard blow clips the side of my skull, and my vision flares white. I stagger back, reach for the knife at my hip.
I drive an elbow back without looking. Meat and cartilage give. I catch him by the throat and lift.
A second shape slides in tight from my blind right. Cold presses at my neck as a hypodermic needle punches in. Chemical burn floods hot, bitter—pennies and antiseptic.
“Gonna carve your little spider on me too?” he wheezes. “Or should we save that for your wife?”
I rip the syringe out; blood beads; I drive a head-butt into the closest face. Something cracks. He drops.
The other comes in from the side, collapsible baton cracking against my temple. Light detonates behind my eyes. My grip slips.
I lunge anyway—hand on a jacket, fingers hunting a windpipe, the drug climbing my veins. Knees hit asphalt. Grit bites my palms.
Atlas.
If they kill my baby brother I will kill their mothers in front of them. I will skin the people they love alive all the way down to their fucking pets. And that won’t hold a candlestick to what I’ll do because they took my Lindy girl.
I shove, try to get up, to keep swinging, to get to her—
—but the drug surges hot.
Lindy.
Her hand in mine on the hotel balcony.
Her laughing at something I didn’t mean to be funny.
Her head tucked into my chest, trusting me to keep her safe.
The way she taps three, then five, on the back of my hand until the Machine remembers how to breathe. If they have me, they’ve already got her. I try to count odd—three… five… sev—
The street rolls sideways. Neon smears. The night swallows me whole.