Ophelia’s eyes flash strangely in the dark, and as I let go of all of that carefully coiled temper and rage, memory peeks in. So dark and awful that I can barely stand to look at it.

“Shh, son, it’s okay, it’s okay.” Ophelia strokes my hair back from my face as I cry, strokes it with long, white fingers tipped in perfect nails. She traces one of those nails down my nose before cupping my face and then turning my head toward hers.

The kiss she gives is inappropriate; her touches are agony. Her pain becomes my pain, forced through my body whether I like it or not.

I blink, slow and dark, and I wonder if, in this forest of shadows, she can see that I no longer have anything but malice and dark intent for her. Memories left long-buried surge to the surface as I finally, mercifully, release the last of my anger.

The sound of footsteps crashing through the forest draws my attention, and I turn just in time to see several of Maxwell Barrasso’s men heading in our direction. Likely, they’re trying to subvert the VGTF and get to their boss before the feds do.

That isn’t going to happen.

Heather screams as Ophelia turns and takes off, dragging the little girl with her while the men aim their weapons at me and take fire through the trees. Without a gun of my own—Bernie most certainly needs those rounds more than I do—I have to play the game a little differently than I would on a normal day.

But I’m not afraid.

My temper has finally come uncoiled, like a snake ready to strike. Ducking behind the large trunk of a tree, I wait for the men to get a bit closer, and then I slip out like a shadow from the right side. The attacker closest to me takes a shot, but I’m already diving into his stomach and knocking him to his back. We go rolling down the small incline together as the shouts of the other men fill the woods all around us.

I have to get to Heather.

That’s the thought that permeates most.

Heather.

Because she’s the light in Bernadette’s eyes, and I’d kill the world just to see a flicker of it. A shimmer. A glint. Heather is basically Bernie’s daughter and as such, she’s also mine.

Such a terrible word, isn’t it? Mine. So possessive, so dark and deep. One person can never truly own another person. I know that. I’m smart enough to understand. And yet, the most primal parts of me call out for Havoc; they scream for me to twist those five souls around my fingers and yank on them.

I own Havoc.

It’s with that knowledge burning inside of me, mixing with the broken dam of my rage, that I let myself go in ways that I never have before.

Once we hit the bottom of the incline, I tear the man’s gun from his grip and fire once into his face. Just like that. There’s blood everywhere, but it doesn’t matter. I could be drenched in blood, swimming in it, and it wouldn’t matter.

For weeks—no, more like months—I’ve been obsessively going over scenario after scenario in my head, trying to find some way to deal with Ophelia. Oh, and Maxwell. But he’s a secondary concern and he always has been. My mother has a way of insinuating her way into people’s lives; if we killed Maxwell and left her alive, she’d just find someone else to use, some other way to dig into me like a poisoned needle.

Rising to my feet, I swing the weapon around and fire at the other men approaching through the forest. Where just minutes ago, there were only three, now there are many. Too many.

Maxwell has called in his cavalry.

Without Mason or Russ or Will, he doesn’t have the loyalty or the skill left in his men to take us with small numbers. He needs brute force. So, it appears that he’s made a call and—even with the threat of the VGTF—his men have come.

I unload the first pistol I stole and then search through the dead man’s pockets for additional ammo. Gunfire rains down on me and I’m forced to move, hiding myself behind another tree while nearly a dozen men clomp and thrash their way through the woods, moving as if the earth owes them something rather than the other way around.

That just … pisses me off even more. I can’t explain it. Maybe it’s the wolf inside of me? That wild, primal nature that demands to be obeyed.

The next thing I do is climb that tree, shimmying up with powerful thighs and strong arms, just the way has Cal shown me on numerous occasions. “There’s always a way up, hidden footholds or handholds. You just have to be patient and search them out.”

I manage to make it up into the boughs of the tree just as two of my attackers come around the trunk. They’re surprised to see me missing, but it isn’t really in human nature to look up. I come down on them both, knocking one to his back while the other stumbles away and opens his mouth to shout for help.

My hand wraps his throat as I slam him into the tree trunk. I must look ridiculous, dressed in my prep school uniform, my graduation gown abandoned in a trash can on campus. The feral grin that takes over my face is wildly inappropriate, but I can’t seem to help myself.

The second man is already climbing to his feet, but I use my free hand to steal the first man’s pistol and then shoot his buddy in the throat. Slipping the gun into my pocket, I use the strength of my grip to finish off my attacker. There’s no joy in it for me. I don’t love being a wicked monster who does wicked things, but this is the world I live in, the one I was forced into.

I play by Prescott rules.

The body slumps to the ground, and I whip around the trunk of the tree, slamming my fist into the stomach of another man. The pistol in my pocket becomes my best friend as I shoot and duck, twist around trees and reemerge. Everything is seamless; everything flows.

When I run out of ammo, I drop my weapon and steal another. Because theft is an integral part of the ecosystem in south Prescott, and there is no surviving without it.

These men are nothing to me, just a haze that I have to wade through in order to accomplish my ultimate goals.

Rescue Heather.

Kill Ophelia.

Get back to Bernadette.

The forest floor runs red with blood by the time I start working my way back through the woods in the direction of the south gate. That’s where Ophelia will be headed, that’s where she’ll go. Because she wants to get out of here, regardless of the cost—even if the cost is Maxwell and his merry band of assholes.

Checking the magazine on my latest stolen weapon, I see that I’ve only got three rounds left.

Fuck.

I’ll have to be careful, creative even. But I’m used to working with scraps, so I don’t let that get to me.

Since my mother is a much better scion, a much better blueblood, a much better apostle of greed, than she is a huntress, it isn’t hard to follow her tracks. As soon as I see her, I drop down to my belly and slither like a fucking snake. The serpent that my mother trained me to be.

Ophelia doesn’t see me coming, yanking Heather along behind her. When the girl protests and struggles too much for her liking, she turns and backhands her so hard that Heather falls on her ass. If I weren’t already crawling forward to handle the situation, I might just break.

I can’t stand seeing that. I just can’t fucking stand it. And not only because I love Bernadette, but because I’ve grown to love Ashley and Kara and Heather, too. I like kids because kids don’t fuck around the way adults do; they don’t hurt people the way adults do. Maybe, too, I like kids because I never really got to be one.