21. Alex
I turned my head slowly, looking past Josephine toward the wall. Aisling stood there, shivering in nothing but her underwear. And I felt a surge of hot, black rage boil up in my gut.
But it was the sight of the blue dress on Josephine that truly set my blood on fire.
I looked back at Josephine, and for a second, I didn't see her. I saw my sister, Violet. I saw the night the world fell apart. I saw the way Helena and her pack of rats had stripped us of everything—our home, our father’s life, and our dignity.
Seeing Josephine in that dress, she ripped off of Aisling felt like a repeat of the past. It felt like she was spitting on the Van Alen name all over again.
I wanted to reach out and wrap my hands around her neck. I wanted to feel the life leave her for what her mother had done. My heart hammered against my ribs, and my vision went dark at the edges.
Then I saw her eyes.
Josephine was cowering in the corner, her back pressed so hard against the wood that she looked like she wanted to melt into the wall. She was shaking so violently that the blue fabric shivered against her skin. She looked small. She looked terrified.
She looked exactly like I had felt when I was eleven years old, watching the world burn.
The rage didn't go away, but I forced it down into a cold, hard knot in my stomach. I wouldn't kill her. Not yet. Death was too easy.
I took a slow step toward her, my boots crunching on the broken glass.
"Who allowed you to wear clothes?" I asked. I tilted my head, looking her up and down with a look of cold disgust, "Did I give you permission to put that on? Did I tell you that you were allowed to cover yourself up?"
I saw her swallow hard, her throat moving in a jagged line.
"I told you the rules," I said, "If you behave, maybe I’ll give you something to wear. Maybe I’ll let you have a blanket. But you didn't behave, Josephine. You stole a gun. You shot at my family. You tried to run."
I reached out and touched the sleeve of the blue dress. The fabric felt soft, but on her, it looked like trash.
"Take it off," I ordered.
Josephine’s eyes went wide. She shook her head fast, her messy blonde hair slapping against her cheeks. She grabbed the collar of the dress and pulled it tight against her throat, her knuckles turning white.
"No," she whispered, her voice breaking. "Please... no."
The refusal made the anger spark again, hotter this time. I didn't shout. I didn't raise my hand. I leaned in until I could see the tiny flecks in her terrified eyes.
"You don't want to do this the hard way, Josephine," I hissed. "If you don't take that dress off right now, I am going to rip it off your body. I will tear every thread of it away, and I promise you, you won't appreciate the way I do it."
I stepped back just an inch, waiting. I watched the way she trembled, the way her breath came in fast, shallow gasps.
I wanted her to know that in this house, she owned nothing, not even the fucking air she was breathing.
"The clock is ticking," I said, "Choose. Now."
I stared at her, waiting for the dress to drop. I expected her to crumble, to weep, to beg me to let her keep the stolen dress. I expected her to obey, like the beaten dog I had made her.
Instead, I saw a flash of white-hot steel in her eyes. It was a look that belonged to Helena.
Before I could process the shift, I felt the warm, wet impact of her spit land squarely on my cheek.
I went completely still because I didn't expect it from her. I didn't move. I didn't wipe it away. I just felt the coldness in my soul expand, freezing every ounce of mercy I might have had left.
I reached out with both hands. I didn't grab her arms this time, I grabbed the fabric at her shoulders, trapping her in the dress. I twisted my fingers into the fabric, pinning her arms down to her sides.
She let out a high, terrified shriek and started to thrash. She kicked out with her bare feet, her heels striking my shins, but I didn't feel the pain. I slammed her back against my chest, the impact making her teeth clack together.
"You should have chosen the easy way," I hissed into her ear, my voice devoid of all humanity.
I didn't take my eyes off her, but I spoke to the where Aisling was standing.
"Aisling," I called, "Get over here."
Aisling appeared by my side in an instant and she looked furious. The fear from before was gone, replaced by a burning hatred that mirrored my own. She looked at the spit on my cheek, then at Josephine.
"Alex?" Aisling asked, her voice trembling with the need for violence.
"Take. It. Off. Her," I ordered, my eyes locked on Josephine’s widening ones, "Every thread. Right now."
Aisling stepped forward with a smile.
"No!" Josephine screamed, her voice tearing from her throat, "Stop! Get away from me!"
I held Josephine’s body still, pressing my forearm against her chest to keep her pinned. Aisling reached out with her long, perfectly manicured nails. She didn't grab the dress to slide it off, she grabbed the neckline with a hateful fist.
With one violent, downward yank, the fabric gave way. The front of the dress was torn open, exposing Josephine to the cold air of the room again.
Aisling grabbed the fabric at the hips and yanked again.
A broken sob tore out of Josephine’s throat. She stopped thrashing and just crumpled, her body turning heavy against me. She was sobbing loudly now. The tears poured down her face, leaving wet streaks.
Aisling continued the assault. She pulled and tore and ripped until the blue dress was nothing but a pile of shredded rags littering the marble floor. She didn't stop until Josephine was left standing completely exposed and humiliated.
"Let me clean that off your face, Alex," Aisling sneered, as she cleaned my cheek with a part of the ripped dress, "She doesn't deserve to leave a mark on you."
I let go of Josephine with a shove. Her legs gave way immediately, and she fell to the floor, curling into a tight ball on the floor, surrounded by the ruins of the dress.
She buried her face in her knees, her shoulders shaking with sobs.
She was trying to hide, trying to disappear, trying to erase herself from the world.
I looked down at the pathetic huddle of her body. .
This wasn’t even close to enough.
Not for what was taken.
Not for what was done.
Violet was gone, ripped out of this world but the damage she left behind wasn’t buried with her.
It was still here.
Still breathing.
Still owing.
And I was going to make sure it bled until the debt was paid.
"Get up," I said, as I kicked the pieces of the dress away from her.
I reached down and gripped her arm. My fingers dug into her skin like claws. She tried to pull away, her small hands scratching at my wrists, but I didn't feel it. I yanked her upward, forcing her to stand on her weak, shaking legs. She was still sobbing, her chest heaving with deep, broken gasps.
I didn't wait for her to walk. I began to drag her toward the front of the house. Her bare feet skidded over the marble floor, then over the rough rug. She stumbled and fell to her knees, but I didn't stop. I pulled her along, the sound of her skin dragging against the floor filling the hallway.
We reached the front doors and then I led her straight to the gardens. The night air hit us like a wall of ice. It was a cold, bitter night, and the wind began to whip around us, biting at my face and making Josephine shiver so hard I could hear her teeth clicking together.
I dragged her out onto the stone patio and down into the grass. The grass was wet with dew. I threw her down near the edge of the stone wall. She curled into a ball on the damp ground.
I walked over to the side of the stone wall where a long, black garden hose was, I grabbed the nozzle and turned the heavy brass knob on the wall. I heard the water rush through the pipes.
I turned the nozzle to the strongest, coldest setting.
I pointed the hose at her and squeezed the handle.
A thick, powerful blast of ice-cold water hit her squarely in the chest.
"AGH!" Josephine let out a sharp, strangled gasp. The air was knocked right out of her lungs. She tried to scramble away, her hands slipping on the wet grass, but the water followed her.
I moved the hose up, soaking her hair until it plastered to her face in messy, golden streaks. Then I moved it down, hitting her shoulders, her back, and her legs.
"Please!" she screamed, "Stop! Please, it’s too cold! I can't breathe!"
She was shaking so violently now that she couldn't even stay on her hands and knees. She collapsed onto her stomach, burying her face in the wet grass to try and escape the spray.
"I told you what happens when you don't behave," I said, my voice rising over the sound of the rushing water, "You wanted to play games. You wanted to act like your mother. This is what you get for being her daughter, Josephine."
I hosed her down from head to toe, making sure every inch of her was dripping and freezing. The water pooled around her on the ground, turning the dirt into a dark, cold mud. She was making a small, whimpering sound now, a low cry of pure misery that the wind carried away.
I watched the water wash over her, feeling a dark, empty satisfaction in my chest. I wanted her to feel the cold in her bones. I wanted her to remember this every time she thought about standing up to me again.
Finally, I let go of the handle. The water stopped with a soft hiss. The only sound left was the wind and the gasps coming from the girl at my feet.
I looked down at her. She was a heap of shivering limbs in the mud, her skin so pale it almost glowed under the harsh moon. The water continued to drip from her hair, hitting the wet grass. She tried to pull her knees to her chest, but she was shaking too hard to even hold herself together.
I tossed the hose onto the stone path.
"You spent the last hour screaming to get out of the mansion, didn't you?" I asked as I leaned down, resting my hands on my knees so I could look her right in the eyes, "You fought Aisling, you shot my mirrors, and you begged your mother to come save you from me."
I felt a cold smile pull at my lips.
"Well, congratulations, Josephine. You’re out. You finally made it."
I stood back up and spread my arms wide, gesturing to the dark, freezing gardens and the tall iron fence in the distance. The wind picked up, whistling through the bare branches of the trees.
"Escape all you want," I said, "Run for the gate. Scream for the neighbors. But just so you know, the gate is locked, the walls are ten feet high, there are no neighbors and the dogs haven't been fed since yesterday."
She looked up at me, her eyes wide and glassy with shock. She tried to speak, but her jaw was locked tight, her teeth chattering so loud I could hear them from where I stood.
"N-n-no," she managed to stutter out, "P-please."
"You wanted to leave? This is it," I snapped. I turned on my heel and started walking back, "You’re staying out here for the rest of the night. Maybe the cold will finally make you appreciate the room I gave you. Maybe it’ll freeze your brain enough to help you remember the memories you’re trying so hard to hide from.
Maybe by sunrise, you’ll realize the truth, Josephine.
I’m not your brother. I was never your brother because you were never a Van Alen. "
I reached the front doors and stepped inside. The heat of the house hit my face, but I didn't feel guilty. I grabbed the heavy brass handle and looked back at her one last time. She was a tiny, blue-tinted shape in the middle of the dark lawn.
I stood there for a second, watching her through the glass as she realized she was truly alone in the dark.
Then, I turned off the outdoor lights, plunging the garden into total, freezing blackness.
Aisling was standing by the kitchen island. She had already changed into a new dress, a tight, emerald green dress. She looked perfect again, every hair back in place, as if the chaos of the last hour hadn't happened. She was holding a wine glass, her eyes watching me.
"The table is set, Xander," she said, her voice smooth and sweet, "Should I heat up your dinner? I prepared the steak just the way you like it."
I walked over to her, and stopped when I was inches from her face. I could see the faint red mark on her neck where the wind of the bullet had grazed her.
"No," I said, "I’m not hungry."
Aisling blinked, her smile faltering. "Oh. Well, maybe a drink—"
"In ten minutes," I interrupted, my eyes boring into hers, "you are going to go back out there. You are going to pick her up off that grass and bring her back inside."
Aisling’s jaw tightened. I saw the flash of anger in her eyes.
"And then," I continued, "you are going to heat up some soup. Something hot. You are going to make sure she eats it. If she dies of hypothermia tonight, Aisling, you will be the one I hold responsible. Do you understand me?"
Aisling slammed her wine glass down on the marble counter. The red liquid splashed over the rim.
"Why?" she hissed, "You shouldn't care for her like this. Not after what she did. She pointed a gun at you! She spit in your face! She didn't care about you back then, and she doesn't care about you now. She’s just a smaller version of her mother."
I stepped even closer, forcing her to lean back against the counter. My hand came up, not to touch her, but to grip the edge of the marble on either side of her waist, trapping her.
"She was five, Aisling," I said, "She was a child. She did what her mother told her to do. She didn't know any better."
"That doesn't mean you owe her anything—"
"Enough," I snapped, "Aisling, please...
Do not ask me questions again. Do not tell me who I should care for or how to run my own house.
You are here because I consider you family.
If you want to help me, you are welcome to stay.
But if you can't follow my lead, the door is right there. You can leave."
I pulled away, letting her breathe. Her face was pale, her lips pressed into a thin, tight line of silent fury, but she didn't talk back. She knew the limit, and I had just hit it.
"Ten minutes," I repeated, checking the watch on my wrist, "Bring her in. Get some hot food in her. Lock her back in the room."
I paused, looking Aisling dead in the eyes to make sure she understood the most important part.
"And tell her you did it on your own. Tell her you felt sorry for her. Do not tell her I told you to do this. Understood?"
Aisling stared at me for a long beat, her jaw tight. Finally, she gave a slow, stiff nod, "Fine," she whispered, "I'll do it. I’d do anything for you, Alex. You know that."
I didn't answer her, I simply turned my back and walked toward my study. I shoved the door shut, and stood in the center of the room, my chest heaving, the image of Josephine’s terrified face and the feeling of her spit on my cheek repeating in my head like a broken film.
A roar of pure, unfiltered frustration ripped out of my throat. I didn't care about being calm anymore. I didn't care about being the man in control.
I turned to my desk, a massive slab of dark wood covered in expensive pens, heavy ledgers, and crystal paperweights. With a swing of my arm, I cleared the surface. Everything went flying. The pens scattered like shrapnel, the ledgers hit the floor, and the crystal shattered against the rug.
But then I looked down.
Near the leg of the desk lay a picture frame. It had fallen face-down. My anger vanished instantly, replaced by a cold ache. I reached down and picked up the frame. A few shards of glass fell away, tinkling onto the floor, but the photograph remained.
I stared at the beautiful faces behind the cracks.
There was my father, looking tall and proud. There was my mother, her smile soft and full of a light that had been extinguished a lifetime ago. And there, standing between them, was me and Violet. My real sister. Her hair was neat, her eyes were bright, and she was laughing at something I had said.
I sat back against the edge of the desk, my thumb tracing the line of the broken glass that ran right across Violet’s face.
I gripped the broken frame so hard the metal bit into my palm. My eyes stung, but I didn't let the tears fall. I looked at my father's face, searching for an answer I knew I wouldn't find.
I sank to the floor, let my back slide down the front of the desk until I was sitting right in the middle of the wreckage, my legs spread out and my head leaning back against the hard wood.
I continued staring at my father. He looked so sure of everything. He thought the world was a fair place.
I stared at my mother, who used to sing me to sleep.
And then, my eyes landed on Violet again.
She was so small in the photo. So innocent. She didn't know that she would be the one to pay the highest price for a war she didn't start.
I felt the sharp edge of a glass shard press against my thumb, drawing a tiny drop of blood. I just kept staring.
"I'm trying..." I whispered into the dark, empty room. My voice sounded small, like it belonged to the boy I used to be, "I'm trying to make them pay for what they did to you."
I looked at the way Violet’s hand was tucked into my father's palm. I remembered the warmth of that house. Then, I thought of Josephine, shivering and wet in the dark mud outside.
The two images crashed together in my head. Violet’s laugh and Josephine’s scream.
But as I sat there on the floor, holding the only thing I had left of my real family, I realized I was just as broken as the glass in my hands.
Because I was still waiting for a family that was never coming home.