Thirty-Seven
Ara
I think there is someone up there who detests that I lack the ability to be surprised anymore. Hence, I stand here in utter shock while I try to wrap my head around the murder and mayhem here.
One emotion rings clearly out of all the cocktails I feel.
Betrayal.
It’s ugly and potent, and it wants to rear its vicious head, but I push it down, meeting the hard look of the perpetrator with my own confident stride. I don’t have to feel the courage to fake it.
And for a second, between the fight, to think that the fates were done throwing me curveballs. But it seems like they weren’t.
“Harley,” I say, not recognising my voice anymore.
"Just a minute, darling," she answers, her tone calm as she continues tying the men in place, her movements smooth and deliberate. "Need to make sure these arseholes stay down long enough for us to have a chat."
And in that moment, the woman before me is a stranger. The Harley I knew, the one who I’d called a friend, who had been my confidante, is gone. In her place stands a woman who radiates power, cold and unyielding.
She’s taller than I remember, no longer hunched or meek. The platinum blonde hair I used to associate with softness is now pulled into a tight ponytail, the strands almost painfully taut. Her clothes, once casual and easy, now cling to her in the form of black leather, hugging her body like it was made for it. The leather suits her—sharp, lethal, and dangerous, like a second skin. Stiletto boots add a few inches to her height, making her look more like a predator than a person. The makeup is bold, the red lipstick cutting through the darkness like a warning.
And the confidence in her? It’s no longer hidden behind that soft tremor of doubt that used to haunt her voice. The Harley I knew was tentative and uncertain. This woman—this warrior—is something else entirely.
"Vince," she calls, her voice holding none of the softness it once had.
It’s clipped, and commanding. The name hangs in the air, and I watch as a man steps from the shadows. He’s young, too young to be involved in something this savage, but there he is, wearing the same dark attire, the same weapons at his waist. His round glasses reflect the dim light as he bends to tie the men together, his every movement filled with practised precision.
He bends and starts tying the men together while Harley creaks her neck.
"To think he would send someone capable," Harley murmurs to herself, glancing down at the leader she just kicked aside.
She looks at him as if he’s nothing more than an inconvenience, her gaze cold and assessing.
Vince glares at her back as she walks towards the kitchen counter, her heels clicking sharply against the floor. She seems so different now—like she’s stepped into a role she was always meant to play. She sits on the counter with eerie grace, one leg resting casually over the head of the bald man, her eyes glinting with something dark and dangerous as Vince finishes securing the last of the men.
“Surprise?” Harley calls, drawing my attention back to her.
I can feel the anger boiling in my blood, a fiery rush that makes my teeth clench so hard it hurts. But beneath it, there’s something else. A sinking sense of betrayal that threatens to suffocate me.
She lied to me. Every word, every smile, every gesture—it was all a facade. I should’ve known. Yuri tried to warn me. I didn’t listen.
I bend to check Yuri’s pulse, my heart thudding painfully in my chest. His arms are broken—completely shattered. I nearly break down as I feel his pulse, weak but steady. He’s still alive. He can still be saved. I make a move to take him out of the house.
“Not so soon, kid.”
I turn to her, noticing what it was that always put me off of her. It is not her attire, her confidence, or the sheer display of lethal skills. It was her eyes and now, the smile on her face. She has done a tremendous job of hiding the sheer madness in those eyes. Bordering on dementedness. Her smile is one that matches a wicked devil more than a human. And I know her saving me was not out of the goodness of her heart.
“He needs to get to the hospital,” I say.
“All in time,”
“He can die,” I argue.
"If you don’t sit your ass down, I will kill him right fucking now." Her voice is so matter-of-fact, it’s almost as if she’s discussing the weather.
There’s no hesitation, no remorse in her tone.
It’s the same way Zagan speaks—cold, detached, as if death is just another part of the world they inhabit like it’s nothing.
The realisation hits me hard, like a punch to the gut. This is not who she’s become; this is who she always was beneath the surface.
I know she doesn’t care about Yuri—he’s just another pawn in whatever game she’s playing. But I can’t let her take his life. Not after he risked his for mine.
I turn my back on her, grabbing an armchair and pulling it into place. I try to gulp down the pain flaring over all over my body and sit across from her, my eyes never moving. Vince finishes tying the last of the men. He reports that all of them are still alive, except the two that Yuri and I killed. He doesn’t bother touching them. Instead, he goes to sit on the stairs, his eyes focused on me, an unsettling curiosity in them.
"Yes?" I snap, my voice sharp, and I’m not sure if I want to hear the answer.
The change in Harley is immediate. Her smile falters, and her eyes—those deadly eyes—flare with rage. She jumps down from the counter with an almost predatory grace, her heels clicking against the floor, and I stand my ground, refusing to back down, even as she closes the distance between us.
She bends to the right of the coffee table, pulling it between us as if to establish some kind of boundary. Then, without warning, she reaches into her jacket and pulls out a picture. She slaps it down on the table, her eyes gleaming with something that might be satisfaction, might be malice.
I don’t look at her—I can’t. My gaze is locked on the picture in front of me, my chest tightening as my heart begins to hammer painfully in my ribcage. The woman in the photograph stares back at me, her eyes wide and hauntingly familiar. My breath catches in my throat as I whisper the name that rises unbidden from my lips, barely able to comprehend the truth of it.
“W…Willow.”
"Yes." Harley grits the word through clenched teeth, and it’s like the air in the room thickens, turning suffocating.
Tears sting my eyes as I look back at her, the weight of everything crashing down on me.
I see it then. I understand the anger, I understand the hatred, and I even see the hollowness inside her eyes. The one that comes from losing someone important. And I know who she is.
Willow has spoken about her. On countless nights when we couldn’t sleep in that wretched dungeon, we shared our stories. We shared the dreams of escaping that damned place. And she always spoke of her younger sister, who was awaiting her return.
The sister who would bring down hell on the people who hurt her. And the said sister is staring into the eyes of the killer who took Willow’s life.
“Time to talk, Ara.”
Indeed.