“Shit,” I grind out, because I don’t like the sound of that. I don’t like it at fucking all. “Chasing who?”

Oscar gives a slow, simple shake of his head, and I grit my teeth in anger. Not at him. At myself. At Prescott. At the world in general. Callum Park should be at, like, fucking Juilliard or something, not chasing down Nazis during a school shooting.

See if the other boys come home, Bernie. Then call Ophelia. Make her put you in touch with Maxwell. If he has Callum, or he knows what happened to him, he’ll tell you. He’ll do that because he’s a monster, and monsters always recognize other monsters.

And their weaknesses.

The Havoc Boys are my strength, but they’re also my weakness. My life force and my demise. My rise and fall. Fuck.

“I was worried about you,” Oscar says, and a quip hops right to my naked lips, the ones that feel foreign because they’re not covered in brightly tinted wax, brilliant jewel tones of stolen color that represent so many different things. It’s part of my armor, that lipstick, that color, those opinions. Because if I can tell you what lipstick I’m wearing and why, then I don’t have to answer all those other pesky questions that a person can pose: who are you? what do you do? where are you going in life and why?

“I was worried about you, too,” I say, my eyelashes fluttering as Oscar takes my face in inked fingers and then swiftly drops his mouth to my lips, tasting like mint and cucumber water. I bet they gave him that to loosen him up, to make him feel less like a prisoner and more like a friend. But people like us are not their friends. And they’d best remember that.

Oscar draws back from me slightly, looking me right in the face from a distance that’s both physically and emotionally close. Right now, in this moment, I know he can see every single part of me—bad stuff as well as good.

“We need to call Ophelia,” Oscar says, turning his head away sharply, like the level of intimacy between us in that kitchen is too much for him. He keeps touching me, and I remember my question from the ski lodge: do you want me to keep touching you?

He confirmed it.

Look, I’ll give credit where credit is due: he was marginally better after that night. Of course, that was only two nights ago. Trauma does, of course, accelerate things. Emotion. Trust. Those tight bonds that hold you together when the whole world is trying so desperately to tear you apart.

His hold on me is endless and eternal; it isn’t unbreakable because the possibility of being broken was never even an option. It just is. A fact. As sure as the moon rises.

I swipe a hand over my face to clear the poetry. Jesus, give me a traumatic moment, my fingers buried in some sister-fucker’s eye sockets, and endless amounts of blood, and I start thinking my everyday thoughts in purple prose. What I was trying to say is: I’m glad that Oscar’s back. Because I love him. And I know that, in his own special secret way, he loves me, too.

“I visited Ophelia,” Vic says, surprising me. He hadn’t mentioned that until now. To be fair, we haven’t been here for all that long. Two or three hours, tops. Most of it spent speaking with our crew via text or phone—oh, and that quickie fuck in the bathroom. “She was with Trinity, at a restaurant in one of those fucking tree neighborhoods.”

I smile at that, but it’s a sad smile. It’ll remain that way until I see the other boys. Callum, in particular. How is it that we just got Aaron back and now Callum is missing? That doesn’t seem fair, does it? In books and movies and shit, isn’t it always the girl who gets kidnapped and spirited away? Patriarchal bullshit, to be sure, but I’d trade my life for any one of these boys in an instant.

Bet they’d be pissed if they knew that. Probably spank me some more, too.

I better tell them, just as soon as we’re all together again.

“Well?” Oscar asks, an edge of annoyance making the single word feel sharp, like broken glass. “What did they have to say about the … incident?”

Prescott High Massacre.

That was the title of the article I read, written by a reporter by the name of Emma Jean. Fakest fucking name I’ve ever heard in my life, but shit, maybe she’s on the run from someone or something? Who the fuck knows? The reason that I recognize her name is that she was infamous for being able to get Scarlett Force, the locally famous female racer with the three boyfriends, to give exclusive interviews.

I shake my head, reaching up to rub at my temple with two fingers. I got the ever-living shit kicked out of me today and the bruises to prove it. My body is mottled and purple, like a corpse, just after the blood settles and discolors the skin. Shiver. Shit, I’m even creeping myself out now. Cal would be proud.

My throat tightens as I cock a brow at Vic.

He stares back at me, eyes like crows, a mouth of lush heat, muscles that get every feminine part of me to purr and rub like a cat in heat. I blink a few times and he sighs.

“Those persnickety bitches are acting like they didn’t know about the hit,” Victor tells Oscar, looking at him instead of me. Oscar remains right where he is, pressed up against me, fingers splayed on my hip and against my right cheek. It’s like … we’re frozen in that wardrobe all over again, like he’s stuck here, glued to me against his will. I know we’re having a moment; I’d appreciate it more under different circumstances. “According to them, James organized this on his own. Trinity looked like she might shit herself when I told her that her brother—or is it fuckbuddy?—was dead.” Vic steps forward and snags another cigarette. Chain-smoking, like he always does when he’s nervous.

“James Barrasso, dead on arrival,” Oscar purrs out, and then he looks back at me like he’s having trouble catching his breath, too. Then, and I swear to god this wasn’t planned, I feel a warm trickle against my thigh and glance down to see a bit of red in the darkness, sneaking out from beneath Callum’s shorts that I borrowed. I have a habit of doing that, borrowing my men’s clothes.

Doesn’t it feel nice, to cover yourself in their scent? It’s primal, I guess, and I can be a primal bitch.

“What great timing,” I choke out as Oscar closes his eyes and releases me. “And yes, James Barrasso is dead; Maxwell is never going to let this go, not even if it was his crew’s fault to begin with.”

The blood hits the floor in a bright red splotch, visible even inside the darkened kitchen. Twilight cuts through the sliding glass door, its silver brilliance enough to cut through the frigid cold of a January evening.

“You can wash up,” Oscar tells me, opening his eyes to stare at me. “I promise that I won’t fuck you and leave this time.” He just keeps looking at me, and I turn away, ignoring Vic’s lingering stare as I head into the upstairs bathroom with a curse.

Of course I’d get my period today, of all days. As irregular as usual, as unpredictable. Is this a sign of how my powers work, huh? Like, they’re tied to the moon and blood and the irresistible power of being female?

I slam my hands on the countertop and stare at myself in the mirror for a moment.

Take control, Bernadette. Period blood is a sign of magic.

I stare at myself, at eyes the color of an evergreen forest, stuck forever in a shade of emerald. My skin is pale, like the flesh of a ghost who’s never met the sun. My cheeks are too pink, my stomach twisted up with cramps. Fuck, that hurts. I feel like … well, like I was kicked in the belly. And I was. Just a few hours ago.