“My big sister was murdered,” is what I tell the operator on the end of the line.

Despite their findings to the contrary, I know better.

Penelope might’ve taken those pills, but she didn’t want to die.

Someone drove her to it, and I know exactly who that person was.

I still do.

And I’m willing to sell my soul to the devil to watch him suffer. That’s how important his pain is to me; I need to see him bleed.

Two and a half years later, I find my chance in Havoc.

The next morning, I wake up on Aaron’s bed, wrapped in his scent, decimated by memories. My eyes find this spot on the door where we accidentally dented it with my head. Yep, my fucking head. Aaron and I tumbled against the door in a frenzy, hands tearing at each other's clothes, adrenaline pumping through our bodies.

Youthful rage and desire, all mixed into one. I stand up and put my fingers against the dent before opening the door, fully expecting to find Vic looming over me, staring down at me with those crow-black eyes of his. Instead, I find an empty hall, the distant giggles of the girls drifting to me from a cracked door at the other end.

Relief surges through me and I slump against the wall with my right shoulder, closing my eyes and listening to the sounds of play, sounds that I left behind a long, long time ago. It feels like it's been centuries since I was a child.

The Thing stole that from me, my innocence and my childhood.

My sister.

Gritting my teeth, I open my eyes and then push up off the wall, moving down the hallway to open Kara's door. The three girls are sitting around an iPad, watching a TikTok video about eye shadow. They look up guiltily as I pause in the door, leaning against the jamb.

I feel exhausted, emotionally and physically.

Between the Halloween party, the Thing's visit, and Aaron's near death … I'm dead on my feet. Add in the video and I'm about half-ready to crack, steal one of Oscar's guns, and go take care of my stepdad myself.

“We were just looking,” Heather says, pausing the video, like wanting to learn how to put sparkly eye shadow on is the devil's work. It's Mom's fault that she feels like this. Pamela has never kept her jealousy or distaste hidden from us, calling me and Pen whores and sluts for dressing up and wearing makeup. She’s scared Heather out of having any interest in fashion or makeup or fitness. Or at least, I thought she had.

“If you guys can stay up here for a little while, and keep the door closed, I'll take you to get some makeup later. If you're really good,” I tease, crouching down next to them and pressing play on the video, “then I'll show you how to put it on, Bernadette style.”

I reach out and cup the side of Heather's head, giving her a kiss on the forehead, even as she wrinkles her nose at me and sticks out her tongue. I'm glad she thinks something as simple as a kiss from her big sister is icky; that's how I used to feel. It means she believes I'll be here forever.

I intend to be, even if it means putting my faith back in Havoc.

When I made the decision to call out that word, to bring their dark wrath down on me, I knew what I was getting into, knew I was climbing into bed with demons so they might fight my devils. Lesser of two evils, that's all they've ever been. Somehow, I let myself be tricked into believing that my childhood fantasies about the boys might actually come to fruition. I lost my mind in a pretty black wedding gown, tattooed hands, and sultry smiles.

“We'll stay upstairs,” Heather agrees, eyes sparkling at the idea of some colorful new eye shadow. She won't pick pink like Pen, that's for sure. More than likely, she'll choose something I'd like. Purple. Teal. Black.

“Good girls,” I say, giving Kara a kiss, too. Ashley is still a little shy when I'm around, clutching a stuffed narwhal and leaning away from me, so I don't bother her. Nobody should have affection forced on them, not even children. Even when it seems innocent—go sit on your new daddy's lap, Bernadette—it might not be.

With a groan, I shove to my feet, feeling like an old lady as my joints protest. All that running I did yesterday has shown me exactly how out of shape I really am. Add in the bruised knees from my many falls, and I’m practically limping.

I head down the stairs, fully expecting a confrontation with the guys. Instead, I find Aaron, slumped over on the couch, shirtless and bandaged and sleeping. I pad over to stand in front of him, watching his eyelids flicker as he dreams, wondering if they're more nightmares than anything else. He doesn't stir, not even when I reach out and brush some auburn hair back from his sweaty forehead.

“You still love him.”

I turn my head to find Vic, leaning against the arch that leads into the kitchen, his inked-up arms crossed over his equally inked-up chest. My breath comes out in a rush as my body comes to life, my heartbeat racing, my skin flushing with heat. Nobody ever said we were lacking chemistry. It's trust, apparently, that's missing here.

And when I was just starting to believe their bullshit, too.

“You're a Havoc Girl now, and we don't keep secrets from each other.”

“You must've gotten a good laugh out of all this,” I say, stepping back from Aaron and turning to face the leader of the Havoc Boys dead-on. Vic stares back at me, his arms a mosaic of color, his face a study in masculine architecture. Whatever dark god created him, they should be proud. He oozes sexuality and confidence, danger, violence. He's the perfect alpha male, the perfect leader.

He's also a liar.

“A good laugh?” Vic asks, cocking a dark brow. “Out of what? You seeing your sister raped on film? No. I never wanted that.”

“If you didn't want that, you should've told me sooner. You should've let me make that choice,” I growl, pointing to my chest as I grit my teeth and feel my lust quickly being replaced with anger. “After all your bullshit, all your reassurances, you and the others, you're exactly what I thought you would be.”

“And that is?” Vic asks, uncrossing his arms and moving toward me. He keeps a healthy distance between us—smart move on his part—but it still feels too close. He's always too close to me, always digging beneath my skin and into my soul with those depthless eyes of his. Unending. Infinite. Eternal. Victor Channing will outlast an apocalypse, I'm sure of it.

“Monsters,” I clarify, exhaling sharply and then moving past him to get into the kitchen. I forgot to eat yesterday and I'm starving. When I open the fridge, I find leftovers from a taco dinner: cooked ground beef in a Tupperware container, chopped green onions and shredded cheese, all of it wrapped up and carefully put away. Havoc is far more domestic than they first appear, and you know what? That makes them even scarier. There's nothing they can't do, no chasm they can't cross.

“Hael cooked for the girls last night,” Vic explains, without my even having to ask. “He's surprisingly good at it.” He lets out a low chuckle and shakes his head, stepping back into the archway and blocking me into the kitchen. I'd say I didn't think he meant to do that, that he's just big and muscular and the space is small, but I don't believe that for a second.

Nothing Vic ever does is by accident.

“Must be all those morning-after breakfasts he cooks for his one-night stands,” I quip, despite the fact that tacos aren't exactly a breakfast food. When I suck in a deep breath, I can smell the weed curing in the bathroom around the corner, just past the laundry room. There are joints all over this house; I just need to find some, light up, and try to calm my head.