Having finished her coffee, Sara stands up and looks down at me with a curious expression on her face, like something about me has managed to surprise her. Guess she’s managed to surprise me, too, because I almost, sort of, kind of like her a little bit. Almost.

“Anyway, dealing with minor child placement and custody issues is not a part of my job description.” She gives a small sigh and shakes her hands out, like she can’t believe she’s actually doing this. “Send me a picture of the girls today, so I can see that they’re alright and I’ll let CPS do their own work.”

I let out a sharp exhale as Sara turns away, collecting Constantine near the front door before slipping outside and heading down the street. I stay where I am, waiting for the familiar flicker of shadows, the chorus of musky male scents, and the scraping of chair legs on the floor.

When I look up, I’m surrounded by all five Havoc Boys.

“How did it go?” Aaron asks, the arms of his shirt pushed up to reveal corded forearms dressed in ink. I finish my coffee and set it aside as Cal steals my croissant and proceeds to eat it, crouched in his chair instead of seated on it. Other café patrons are staring, but screw them because they drink cat shit coffee and Cal is a hot fuck. Also, he’s loyal and protective and an incredible dancer and he’s all fucking mine.

“Actually,” I say, glancing over at Oscar on my right, Hael seated beside him. Victor stays standing, leaning his monstrous body up against the window behind him. “It went surprisingly well. For the first time since this all started, I’m wondering if things aren’t going to work out okay after all.”

“They will,” Oscar purrs, a nightmarish smile lighting on those pretty, peremptory lips of his. “Provided we can come up with a plan for Maxwell and Ophelia.”

And he’s right.

Because even if Trinity is playing along for now, and Ophelia has backed off, and Maxwell is quiet … this isn’t over yet.

In fact, it’s far fucking from it.

“Was that really our first day?” I ask as I flop down on one of the hideous gray sofas in the living room, trying and failing to not appreciate the view outside our wall of windows. It’s pretty much fucking awesome, seeing the whole of the Willamette Valley sparkling in the distance like a handful of jewels across an ebony blanket. “Because it felt like a fucking year. Also, I’m probably going to fail every class I’m signed up for except maybe gym.” I scrub both hands over my face, dressed in a pair of BlackCraft Cult sweats with a Ouija board pattern and a tank top that says I Have Witchcraft on my Lips. Being in love is its own kind of magic, so I figure it’s not a total lie.

A quick glance at my phone shows a few old messages from Sara Young asking me to call her. Since we already had a conversation today, I delete them and don’t think anything of it. I don’t ask how high when a cop tells me to jump. I’ve also got a few texts from Vera, describing in great detail her newest conquest’s cock. Actually, there’s a picture that goes along with her anecdotes. Guess we’re ride or die bitches now. I suppose helping us murder a well-known gang member kind of sealed the deal on that one.

“Why the fuck do you have a picture of some random guy’s dick on your phone?” Aaron asks, pausing behind me with shower-damp skin and a pair of pajama pants that should be illegal. They cling to his slender hips, showing off that sharp set of V-muscles and a light trail of chestnut hair that disappears under the waistband. Fuck.

I force my gaze away from him and back down to the dick on my phone. Honestly, it isn’t that great of a dick. The head is too flared, too purple for my liking, and the veins are just out of control. A few here and there are nice, but like, this one is spider-webbed with them.

“Vera sent it to me for examination. Frankly, I’m not impressed.” I tap out a message telling her so as Aaron snorts and comes around to sit on the sofa with me, his eyes taking in the apartment with a mixture of excitement and distaste that I full well understand. Like, this place is nice, and it feels safe, but it’s also foreign and excessive and cold.

“I don’t like you getting pictures of random cocks on your phone,” Vic says from the direction of the kitchen, unloading a bag of groceries that he had delivered to the front gate about an hour ago. The security guard collected the purchase, inspected the items, and then had a courier deliver it to our room. That’s how things work here, at Oak Valley Prep. There’s a servant for every menial task. The edge of my lip curls up in distaste.

“Well, you can just deal, Alpha-Dick.” I send the text to Vera and then set my phone aside, picking up the leather-bound journal from the table that Aaron got me for Christmas. He wrote a message on the inside that’s almost too sweet to repeat, something about how I should, like, chase my dreams or something. This is where I’m going to write my poems, now that I’m not in Mr. Darkwood’s class anymore. My English class here is … way different. We’re reading some shitty story called Bartleby, the Scrivener that makes my teeth hurt a little bit whenever I try to start it. It’s that terrible. “Vera is the only possible girlfriend candidate that I have right now, and I intend on keeping her around.”

Vic snorts at me, but he really isn’t all that bad as he appears. He’s an alpha male, sure, but he isn’t a controlling misogynistic twat-waffle.

Aaron watches me poise my pen above the page and I lift my eyes to his, feeling that same warm brush of heat in my chest that I always get when we look at each other.

“I wish the girls could stay here with us,” he says, glancing back at the apartment. There’s plenty of space here. In fact, there are three bedrooms in total. We could probably finagle a way to get the girls moved into the space, but the whole point of them coming here under aliases was so that the GMP didn’t know they were here in the first place. If they don’t know where Kara, Ashley, and Heather are, they can’t come looking for them.

And if the GMP does come looking for us … the girls won’t be around to see the bloody aftermath.

“Me, too.” I set the journal down and lean into Aaron, closing my eyes as he runs his fingers through my hair. Oscar, meanwhile, hangs near the front door with Hael, installing a series of locks that Callum’s chosen to keep us as safe as possible. I find the sight of a half-dozen locks comforting because it reminds me of Prescott, of home. That is, Aaron’s house and not the duplex I lived in with Pam.

Pam.

Shit.

A subject I’ve been avoiding for weeks now.

I use my toe to lift the cover of the journal, so that I can see the wrinkled and smudged piece of paper that contains my list. Only one name remains. The most damaging name of all. The one person who led me to the Thing, to Coraleigh, to the Kushners. All along, Pamela was involved in the very same human trafficking ring as Ophelia. Shit, Penelope and I were involved in that.

We were sold once upon a time.

I choke on the memory and draw my foot back, letting the journal slam shut.

“Are you okay?” Cal asks, padding down the hall from the direction of the bedroom in a pair of boxer shorts and an unzipped hoodie over his bare chest. In this light, I can see all of his scars. The sleeves of his sweater are pushed back just enough that I can make out the fallen ballerina tattoo on his arm as well. “You look lost in memory.” He smiles, like he well knows that feeling, that face, that sense of falling into something even when you’re trying your very best to fly.