Chapter 16 #2
We follow the chain of lights to the funhouse because Eli claims he needs photographic evidence of Cassian in front of one of those mirrors that shrink your legs and balloon your torso.
Cassian, to his credit, takes it like a champ and flexes in front of a version of himself shaped like a tomato.
Rowan’s distorted reflection stretches him into a lanky stork; when he tries to look severe, I wheeze-laugh hard enough I have to brace on the wall, and for a moment, everything is just easy.
Eli takes a video. “For morale,” he says. He doesn’t specify whose.
We hit ring toss next and fail in increasingly creative ways.
“It’s rigged,” Rowan observes, which is true but also the point.
Eli mutters something about physics and then throws so hard that a ring ricochets and nearly dethrones a stuffed penguin. The attendant watches us with the weary joy of a man who’s seen too many love stories and tantrums.
We pass the knife-throw booth, and I stop, teeth catching my lower lip.
The board is painted with concentric circles, a red heart in the middle, daring someone.
The knives gleam under the string lights—too bright, too clean.
Theater props, probably. But my palms know the weight of a real blade before my eyes finish the assessment, and something old and practiced sits up in my chest.
“Three throws, three tickets,” the attendant says, grin wide under a faded green cap. “Win your sweetheart something nice.”
Cassian’s eyebrow ticks. “Sweetheart?”
“Don’t,” Eli warns. “It’s just part of the show.”
I’m already reaching for my tickets. My fingers move without permission, the same way they used to reach for the practice blades Miguel laid out on the kitchen table. Muscle memory doesn’t ask. It just knows.
Rowan’s watching me and not the booth. “Jess?”
“Want to take a stab at it. Pun intended.” I hand over the tickets and pick up the first knife.
Wrong. Immediately wrong. The balance is off, the weight too far forward, like someone designed it to look dangerous instead of accurate. It sits in my palm as my fingers adjust, finding the center, the spin point, the place where force meets release. My thumb knows where to press.
Fifteen years old and shaking in our kitchen while Miguel stood behind me, smell of coffee and gun oil, his voice patient: “Find the weight. Use it.”
I exhale and let it fly.
The knife hits dead center with a sound that punches through the noise of the fair—solid, final, thunk. The handle quivers.
The attendant’s eyebrows try to leave his face.
I take the second knife. Heavier than the first. They’re not even weighted the same—cheap carnival trick—but I adjust and throw. It splits the first, shank kissing shank, both buried in red paint.
Eli whistles behind me. I push everything aside except my heartbeat and the knife in my palm and the way the third one sits differently again, begging for a finer grip.
Then I throw.
It lands left of center. Still in the heart. Still good.
The fair comes back in pieces. Music. Laughter. The salt-caramel air. My hand is steady when I lower it, but there’s a shake working its way up from my wrists that has nothing to do with aim and everything to do with the weight of their attention.
“And the lady wins a prize,” the attendant says, gesturing to a row of medium stuffed animals, then gives me a sly smile. “Or you could go again now or anytime before we close for a bigger prize.”
“I’ll save mine for next time.” And I start to walk away with the guys going with me.
“Remind me never to antagonize you near cutlery,” Rowan says, and his tone sounds like it’s mixed with respect and wariness underlying something darker I can’t quite name.
I should laugh. Make a joke. The shape of one is forming—something about trust issues and sharp objects—but my airway won’t cooperate. Because this wasn’t just carnival tricks. This was proof of everything I’ve spent years trying to forget.
“Saw this in your records,” Eli says quietly, “but damn. Seeing it in person is a whole other level.”
My stomach twists. Right. They know things about me. Things I didn’t choose to share…or at least Eli does. And by the expression of surprise on Cassian and Rowan’s faces, I’d say he was telling the truth.
“Who taught you?” Cassian asks, and my eyes burn thinking about my past.
“My father hired someone when I turned fifteen.” The words come out flat. Easier to deliver facts than feelings. “A guy named Miguel. Don’t know where he found him, and I learned early not to ask questions.”
Don’t tell them that was two months after Sabrina disappeared. Don’t tell them you were so scared you couldn’t sleep. Don’t tell them Miguel was the only adult who made you feel like survival was possible.
Miguel. Gray at his temples, chicken pox scars dotting his cheeks. The way he never touched me without asking first, which made him safer than most of my father’s staff.
“He taught me knives, pistols, leverage points.” My shoulder rolls, trying to shake off the weight of it. “What to do if someone grabs you from behind. How to break a hold without breaking your hand.”
The fair blurs a little at the edges. I blink, and it sharpens. “My dad called it ‘being practical,’ but he never taught me anything himself. Too busy with his work.” Too busy pretending our family wasn’t falling apart. Too busy to see me drowning.
Cassian’s quiet. Listening with his whole body. “And what did you call it?”
“Insurance.” The word tastes metallic. Old. I swallow, and it sits wrong in my chest. “He outsourced parenting to a man with a gun safe and called it love.”
A laugh tries to escape. It comes out sharp enough to cut. “He thought it made up for my mom being at the bottom of a bottle all the time. It didn’t.”
I should stop talking, but the words are spilling out like I’ve been holding them too long.
God, I need to sit. My legs are suddenly unreliable. We find an empty bench and I sink onto it, grateful when they settle around me—not crowding, just close enough to catch me if I fall apart.
“Miguel was kind, though. He didn’t just—” My breath catches. I push past it. “He made sure I knew how to protect myself. Think it was because my dad didn’t want the guilt of someone hurting me without him being there to protect me.”
“Jess,” Eli says carefully as though I’m porcelain and his words might shatter me. Maybe he’s right.
“It’s fine.” And it is. Mostly. The wound’s old enough that it only aches when someone prods it. “I’m fine.”
Except I’m not, and we all know it.
“What happened?” Rowan asks. “I can tell there’s something you’re not saying.”
Eli’s expression shifts—a warning—but Rowan doesn’t see it.
“Eli knows,” I hear myself say, “but I’d rather you hear it from me.”
“My mom started drinking after my sister Sabrina vanished.” The words are jagged, coming out, catching on every soft part. “She never stopped. Some days she doesn’t even remember my name.” A sob tries to follow, and I choke it back.
Eli wraps an arm around my shoulder. Rowan sits on my other side, fingers lacing through mine like it’s something precious. Cassian kneels in front of me, taking my other hand in both of his.”
“What about Sabrina?” Cassian asks, and his eyes are so devastatingly gentle I almost can’t stand it.
Her name is a hook behind my ribs. It pulls, and everything bleeds.
I focus on a family with three kids under the age of ten strolling by. On the lights of the fair, glowing against the darkening sky. On the way, my pulse ticks unevenly. Anything but the grief threatening to swallow me whole.
“She was the glue that held our family together. I didn’t realize it until she was gone.” The words come slower now. Heavier. Each one costs something. “Braided my hair when Mom forgot. Snuck me food when Mom put me on a diet I didn’t need. Hugged me when Dad and Mom screamed at each other.”
Protected me. Loved me. Made me feel like I mattered when no one else did.
I stop. Shake my head. There are things I don’t say out loud, even now. Especially now.
“She was sent to Nexus, and then she was just—” My voice wavers. I force it steady. “Gone. Not runaway gone. Not ‘changed her mind’ gone. Just… erased.”
I drag a breath in. “Officially, the system says she was ‘placed.’ Assigned to an Alpha. End of story.” A humorless laugh scrapes out of me. “But there’s no pack name. No address. No follow-up wellness checks. No exit logs. Nothing.”
I look down at the ankle monitor blinking against my skin.
“After Sabrina vanished, Nexus tightened security—trackers, escorts, triple verification. They say it’s to protect us.”
My jaw tightens. “But all those protocols came after she disappeared. Back then, it was a mess—half their records were still on paper, half digitized, cameras that glitched if someone sneezed too hard.”
My nails bite my palms. “My dad pulled every string he had. Judges. Politicians. Even some people you don’t ask for favors unless you’re desperate.”
I hiccup a sob. “Nothing worked. It was like she walked off the edge of the world. And every time we pushed for answers, someone at Nexus shrugged and blamed ‘system errors.’ Or ‘clerical loss.’ Or that her pack requested privacy.”
Anger burns the back of my throat. “Privacy isn’t wiping every trace of a person’s existence. That’s a cover-up.”
Seven years, two months, thirteen days. But who’s counting?
The fair is still spinning. Still bright. Still full of people who probably aren’t missing anyone. Who isn’t this broken.
“Eli might be the only reason I could find what happened to her.” I look at him then, and see grief and determination and something fiercer in his expression.
“I can search the Nexus database,” Eli says. “But I can’t promise anything, Jess. If Nexus screwed something up with your sister, they wouldn’t keep records.”
“I know.” And I do because Dad would’ve used his mafia ties to get info. I’ve made peace with the likelihood that I’ll never know what happened to Sabrina. But having someone try—having someone care enough to look—that’s more than I’ve had in years.
“Thank you,” I whisper, and the tears I’ve been fighting finally win. They spill hot and fast down my cheeks.
Eli rubs my back in slow, soothing circles. Rowan keeps his grip on my fingers, steady and sure. And Cassian lifts my palm and kisses my knuckles before tucking it against his heart, and his pulse there is strong and alive and real.
We sit like that for I don’t know how long. Long enough for my tears to slow, for the hammer in my chest to ease, and for me to remember how to breathe without it hurting.
“Fair’s going to be closing soon,” Rowan says eventually. “Do you want to leave?”
“No.” I stand, reluctantly letting go of them both. I wipe at my face, probably smearing mascara everywhere, and I don’t care. “I want to do the knife throw again. Get my prize.”
They exchange looks—concern and surprise, and something that might be pride.
“You sure?” Eli asks.
“I’m sure.”
Because I need this. Need to take back control of something. Need to prove to myself I’m not just the broken girl crying on a bench. I’m also the girl who can put three knives in a target without flinching.
We walk back to the booth, and the attendant’s eyes light up when he sees me. “Back for more?”
“Back for the big prize.” I hand over more tickets.
He grins and sets out three fresh knives. These are slightly better balanced, like he’s pulled out the good stuff for a repeat customer. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
The first knife settles in my palm. I don’t think. Don’t hesitate. Just breathe and throw.
Thunk. Dead center.
The second knife feels eager, like it knows where it wants to go. I adjust my grip and throw it.
Thunk. So close to the first, the handles nearly kiss.
The third one is heavier, but my body knows what to do. My arm cocks back. My wrist snaps. The blade spins silver under the lights.
Thunk.
All three clustered in the red heart, tight enough to make the attendant whistle low. “Lady’s got a gift.”
Rowan’s watching me with something intense in his expression. Cassian gives me a high five. Eli just shakes his head, smiling.
The attendant clears his throat. “That’ll get you any of the big ones.” He gestures at the wall of prizes hanging on hooks—massive stuffed animals in a range of colors.
“The shark,” I say immediately.
The shark has eyes that go in different directions and looks more comical than scary. It’s ridiculous. It’s perfect. And choosing it—choosing something absurd and joyful after everything I just shared—feels like reclaiming something I didn’t know I’d lost.
“Are you sure?” Cassian asks, eyeing a dignified stuffed polar bear.
I laugh, and it sounds clearer this time. Lighter. “Obviously. It’s hideous and I love it.”
The attendant wrestles it off a hook, which takes genuine effort, and shoves it across the counter. Cassian takes it, and the visual of a broad-shouldered Alpha hauling a giant plush shark through a fair like contraband is going to live in my memory forever as one of my favorites.
We walk the pier, and a brass band plays a song I almost remember.
Rowan buys me a hot chocolate I don’t ask for and doesn’t make a production of giving it to me.
Eli drapes his sweatshirt over my shoulders when the air sharpens, and it smells like him—something warm and slightly spicy that makes me feel safe.
Cassian carries the shark like it weighs nothing, adjusting his grip whenever it blocks my view, until my laugh comes back easy and genuine.
By the time we hike back home, I’m exhausted—wrung out in the best way. Tired of feeling things instead of running from them.
“Tonight was—” I start, then stop. I don’t have words big enough.
“Yeah,” Rowan says, and somehow that’s enough.
I’m not bracing anymore.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s okay.