Ace places a hand on my back, his touch uncharacteristically gentle. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t push. Just stays, a silent anchor as I drown in memories.
Minutes pass before Cyrus returns with a steaming mug. He sits on my other side, the couch dipping under his weight. “Here,” he murmurs, placing the tea on the coffee table. “When you’re ready.”
Their bodies create a protective barrier on either side of me. These men who kill without remorse, who claimed me so brutally during the Hunt, now handle me like I’m made of glass.
“Richard Henderson,” I finally whisper, the name burning my tongue like poison. “My third foster home.”
Cyrus takes my hand, his calloused thumb tracing circles over my knuckles.
“I was thirteen.” My voice sounds distant, detached. “He and his wife, Margaret, seemed perfect at first. Nice house. Regular meals. A bedroom with an actual door.”
“The first month was... fine. Better than anywhere else I’d been.” I stare at my hands, unable to meet their eyes. “Then Margaret went on a business trip. And Richard came to my room that night.”
Cyrus’s grip tightens on my hand. I feel Ace go perfectly still beside me.
“He said I needed to earn my keep. That the state didn’t pay enough for—” My throat closes around the words. “He took me to the basement. There was a camera.”
The silence that follows feels like glass about to shatter.
“I was there for six months before they moved me. One time I tried to run away, and Richard broke my ankle to ensure I couldn’t run. I never told anyone. Not the social worker, not the next family. No one.” I finally look up. “No records exist. No reports. Nothing. So how does this person know?”
Ace takes my phone, studying the message again. His face is a controlled mask, but his eyes burn cold. “We’ll find out.”
“We’ll find them,” Cyrus corrects, his voice unnervingly soft. “And then Richard Henderson.”
“He’s probably dead by now,” I whisper.
“For his sake, he better be,” Cyrus says.
Ace stands, already pulling out his own phone. “I’m calling Felix. We need to trace this account.”
As he steps away to make the call, Cyrus pulls me against his chest. I can feel his heartbeat, steady but fast, the rhythm of contained violence.
“No one will ever hurt you again,” he murmurs into my hair. “Not while we’re alive.”
For the first time since seeing that message, I believe I might actually be safe.
I clear my throat, the sound unnaturally loud in the sudden silence. My hands twist together in my lap, knuckles white.
“There’s more, isn’t there?” Cyrus asks, his voice gentle but knowing.
I nod, unable to meet his eyes. “When I was fifteen...” My voice catches. I swallow hard and try again. “My fifth foster home. The Pattersons. They seemed decent enough. Busy with their own lives, but not cruel.”
Cyrus waits patiently, his hand still covering mine.
“They used to leave me with his father when they went out of town. William Patterson. He was over seventy.” The words taste like ash in my mouth. “A drunk. Always reeking of whiskey.”
My vision blurs as tears fill my eyes. “He would come into the guest room at night. I—” Bile rises in my throat. “I can still smell him. The alcohol. His aftershave.”
A sob escapes me, harsh and raw. “And he—” I can’t finish. My body convulses with disgust, with the memory of his withered hands on my teenage body.
Cyrus pulls me against his chest, one hand cradling the back of my head. I feel his heartbeat accelerate, though his voice remains unnervingly calm.
“What was his name again?” he asks softly, his lips against my hair.
“William Patterson,” I whisper against his shirt. “But everyone called him Bill.”
Cyrus’s arms tighten around me, protective and possessive all at once. When he speaks, his voice is velvet-wrapped steel.