Olivia kicks against me, the ball of her foot smashing against my shin. I release her, and hold my hands up, palms out. She whips around, fists up. They drop when recognition dawns on her face.

"You did work," I say, grinning through a wince.

She sags against the closed front door, though, face pale. She sinks to the carpet and draws her knees to her chest.

"Liv?" I cross the distance between us and sit next to her.

Blinking away tears, she shakes her head over and over again. It’s a steady hand that brushes her hair out of her eyes, though, and I know my girl’s going to be okay. Still, I wrap an around around her and pull her close.

"Sorry I scared you," I whisper into her hair.

Her head snaps up, though, as if she’s already showed too much vulnerability for too long. Those eyes ice over—a look I’m more than familiar with. Olivia is trapped in her own prison.

She lifts her chin. "What do you know about Mercer Reynolds?" A cold, calculating gaze searches my face.

"The name doesn’t really ring a bell," I say, "but isn’t that your last name?"

"Mercy, then?" Her face is as hard as white marble, the usual contours of her cheeks gone.

I shrug. "Olivia, what’s this about?" I hug her closer, even though her body is rigid.

"You should know." Her voice is sharp and accusing. "You were in prison with him!" Those eyes glare up at me.

Frowning, I churn the name around in my head. During my sentence, I mostly kept to myself. I didn’t need the usual color-coded protection because I’d killed a child molester. In even the hardest criminals’ eyes, I was a hero—which meant I avoided the others. For the most part, they avoided me too.

I close my eyes and go back in time, floating through concrete halls and a blur of faces. Mercy. The name does sound familiar.

Then I remember.

"He came in after me," I tell her, eyes still closed. "He banded up with the whites. Not the Nazis. There were a few white groups." I remember him sitting at a table in the cafeteria. He wasn’t any taller than anyone else, but he had a presence about him. Jet black hair. And those same goddamn eyes.

My own eyes open, zeroing in on Olivia’s immediately. "I can’t believe I didn’t see it," I mutter.

"So it’s true?" Her eyes fill up with tears, and I can’t tell whether she’s furious or what. "Mercy is alive?"

"You want to catch me up here?" I nod for her to follow me to my room. Even though Lucy has a strict no smoking policy, it’s cold as fuck outside. And I picked up this cigarette smell neutralizing spray shit the other day. It smells like crisp mountains or something equally fake.

I’ve officially been domesticated.

We sit on my bed, my back against the wall and Olivia in my arms. My legs form protective walls around her. Smoke curls into the air for several long minutes.

Then she tells me what Donny told her.

"Did you ever talk to him?" she asks, twisting around to meet my eyes.

"A few times." I glance down at my cigarette, mind spinning. Yet another way that we’re connected. And here we sit, on my bed—the rightful heirs to the club. I suck in a deep breath. "Olivia, there’s something you need to know. About me." And us, but I don’t say so.

She closes her eyes, a long blink. "I just want to know what he’s like. Who he is."

"And I’ll tell you," I promise. "But first you need to know who my father is."

She turns in my arms until she’s facing me. Drawing her limbs into a cross-legged position, she sits with her knees touching mine. "Shoot," she says.

"Sebastian Demmel," I say, nearly choking on his name in disgust. "Or Bastard." I pause, feeling bile rising up in my throat. This is more Lucy’s story than mine. It almost feels like a violation of her privacy. But if we’re going to be caught in this web, then Olivia needs to know the truth.

All of it.

"Lucy’s parents—your parents—worked a lot of the same shifts, so she was always over at my house. I loved her, Livvie. We were both only-children, and there weren’t any other cousins in the family yet." I smile as memories of chasing Lucy around my backyard skip through my head. I take a deep breath.

"She used to stay overnight." Grimacing, I shake my head. "I can’t give you the details, but she started having nightmares. She was so confused. She’d beg her parents to let her stay home, but she still always wanted to see me." I light another cigarette, hands shaking. "Finally, she told her parents."

I look Olivia straight in the eye, pain pulsing in my temples. "Sebastian," I spit out his name, "was . . . hurting her." The familiar searing ripping in my chest splits my heart. My fingers twitch in reflex. I bring the cigarette to my lips, pulling in a long drag until my lungs burn.

"Jesus," Olivia whispers, wrapping her arms around herself. "He was molesting her?"

I nod, my jaw flexing. The fire rips through me. I’m standing in that kitchen all over again. "I’d been out at work. No one else believed her. I didn’t know she was coming over that night. When I got home—" My voice breaks. I turn away, staring ruefully at the wall. I don’t want to repeat what I saw before the red washed it away.

I suck in a deep breath. "I pushed him off her and shoved her aside. I think she hit her head on the cabinet doors. But she curled up and backed into the corner. Then I lifted him off the chair." I shake my head. "He was so much bigger than me, but somehow I did it. And—" My lips curl into a smile.

In the dying light of the bedroom, I must look like a jack-o-lantern.

Olivia says nothing, though. She just watches me, listening, her chest barely rising and falling.

"I threw him onto the floor. My fists kept pounding into his face." I can still hear the way they sounded, flesh connecting with raw meat. A sort of heavy, wet smacking. "Broke his nose, caved in a cheekbone. And I kept hitting him."

I look down at my hands, the cigarette limp between two fingers. "Then I wrapped my hands around his neck. And put all of my weight into it." I blink, remembering how his legs kicked out, arms jerking. "There was still some fight in him. I snuffed it out."

I look at Olivia again. "I killed my own father, Olivia."

"You saved Lucy," she begins, but I cut her off.

"I enjoyed every second of it," I say. "I didn’t do it to help Lucy. I did it because I wanted to, because I knew it would feel good." I lean forward. "And I would do it again."

"It felt good," she echoes.

"Yes." I stub out my cigarette. "This is what I am, Olivia. This is why you need to stay away from me. Because I snap. I lose control, and the urge takes over." I think of all the men I beat up. The ones who preyed on the quiet men, the few that dared to fuck with me. The time in seg was always worth it.

"One of the few times I spoke to Mercy," I say, "he complimented me. He said, 'Nice form.' And then he walked away. He didn’t even bother asking me to join his group. He knew I didn’t need them."

I show her my hands. "I’ve touched you with these. How does that feel?"

She stares at me with wide eyes. No fear swims in them, though. Her nostrils flare. "Like I want you to touch me again," she whispers.

Then she’s in my lap, hands grabbing my face and crushing my lips to hers. Those long legs wrap around my waist, and she pries my lips open. "Fuck me, Cliff," she breathes into my mouth.

And I want to—physically, anyway. Maybe even emotionally, whatever the fuck that means. But I can’t. Because I’ve now shown her who I am. Now that she’s seen a glimpse of the monster, there’s no happy ending here. We’re not going to make love and then fall asleep in each other’s arms.

It ends now.

I push her out of my lap. Not hard enough to send her flying, but enough to get her attention. "No," I growl. I stand from the bed and pace the room.

Jumping up from the bed, she touches my arm with a delicate hand. "Cliff, you did what you had to—"

I shove her hand away. “Everyone keeps saying that." Caging her, I back her up against a wall. I press my body into hers. "Don’t you get it?" I seethe. "You’re playing with fire, little girl."

Her hands strain at my chest, her mouth twisted. "You’re telling yourself the wrong story, Cliff." Those luminous eyes meet mine. They glint with lust—and something else. A fire that I can’t name. It makes me want to claim her even more, to make her mine forever.

But I can’t.

I lean in, our noses touching. "Become a social worker," I rasp. "Get out of this town, and save little kids. But don’t ever come near me again."

Her eyes flicker. "Don’t do this, Cliff." She isn’t pleading. Her voice is hard. Like she’s so much wiser than I am, like she can see the future.

I have to let her go, though.

Gripping her arms, I press her hard against the wall. Lucy will be home soon. And I have to leave.

I release her, resisting the urge to kiss those lips one last time. Then, grabbing my cut, I brush past her. As I walk through the living room, I hear a tiny meow. My gaze snags on the cat carrier on the floor, wondering why Olivia would bring Dio over to Lucy’s. But it doesn’t matter. I have to get moving, get out of here before Lucy gets home and talks me out of this.

I slam the front door behind me, and Olivia doesn’t follow. Even as I stomp on the kick starter, I sort of hope that she will. But this isn’t a fucking Disney movie, and my resolve has to be solid. For her safety, and for mine.

I let the Screamin’ Eagle speak for me as I roar away, locking my heart down as tightly as the engine welded underneath me.

* * *

Pulling into the parking lot of The Wet Mermaid, I decide I really need a second vehicle. The roads were slippery, and I nearly wiped out a few times. I don’t want to outdo Skid. He can keep that title.

I find Beer Can inside, sitting at the bar. Seeing it is a stinging reminder of Olivia. Of course, she isn’t here. A woman I’ve never seen is currently serving, but that doesn’t say much. I’m still an alien here.

"You’re late," Beer Can says without looking at me.

I sit on the stool next to him. "Yeah. I got caught up in something." I shake my head at him. Since I’m a Prospect, I’m not included in Church or votes. I’m pretty much in the dark. But I’m seriously pissed that they sprung all of the Mercy shit on Olivia without giving me a heads up.

"Something you wanna say?" Beer Can eyes me, bloodshot and red-rimmed.

"No." It comes out a gruff rasp, harder than I intended. But fuck it. I’m in a shitty mood.

"Can I get you something, honey?" the bartender asks. Golden hair flows over her shoulders, cascading to her hips.

There isn’t a drink in the world that is strong enough, but I order a whiskey on the rocks.

"Now that you’ve got your sippy cup," Beer Can says, standing, "follow me. I’ve got a job for you.”

He leads me to the rooms upstairs, then knocks at a closed door. A woman’s voice answers, and he pushes it open.

She sits on the bed, black chin-length hair tucked behind her ears. I peg her at about my age. The clothes she’s wearing are a mix of a size too big and too small—a mashup of donations, from the looks of them. Bruises mar her face and neck. The clothes cover the rest of them. It’s just a guess, but from the way she ducks her head, I’d say it’s worse than that.

"Cliff, this is Bree." Beer Can nods to us both in introduction. "She’s your job."

Holding my whiskey, I look back and forth between them.

"Bree is a friend of the club. She needs a ride to the train station." Beer Can tosses me a set of keys. "You’re taking the blue Chevy."

I raise my eyebrows. "I don’t have a license."

"That hasn’t stopped you from riding that bike around," he remarks.

"Yes," I say slowly, "but we’re talking about driving into New Haven. Lots of cops. Spot checks. Shit like that."

Beer Can laughs, crossing his arms. "Well, well, well." His eyes skewer me. "Don’t ask questions. Just do what you’re fucking told." He picks up a duffel bag from the floor and shoves it into my arms. "Take the lady to the train station, Prospect. When you get back, you can take her room."

He leaves us, swaying as he heads down the hall.

I turn to look at Bree. She stands from the bed, hugging herself.

"Well," she says, "shall we?"

* * *

I chainsmoke as I drive, eyes flitting from the rearview mirror to the side mirrors to the windshield. This whole thing makes me nervous as fuck. Strange woman, unlicensed driver. Probably an unregistered car. Maybe they’re testing me to see how loyal I am.

"So how do you tie in with the club?" I ask, stopping at one of Naugatuck’s million stop signs. My plan is to avoid the highway and 63. It’s going to take us forever to get to New Haven. At least I don’t have dinner plans.

"Oh, well, you know." I glance at her. She smiles. "I help out here and there. They help me." Her shoulders lift and fall.

“That's not vague." I light another cigarette. "Are you a hooker?"

Bree snorts. "Are you a bank manager?"

My eyebrow twitches. I check the speedometer. I’m pushing the speed limit. Letting off the gas a little, I try to put the pieces together. Donny is the club’s Enforcer. Beer Can is the Sergeant-At-Arms. Bree is a friend of the club who’s wearing an awful lot of bruises. "Who are you running from?"

The laughter dies on her lips. "No one," she says. "Not anymore."

Bingo.

I relax back into the driver’s seat. "Where are you going?"

"New Haven," she replies. "That’s where you’re taking me, isn’t it?"

"Yeah, the train station." I glance at her again. She’s staring out her window, probably looking for ghosts. "How far out of state do they want you to go?"

"My, my. There are some brains behind that handsome face." She shifts in her seat, and I notice the edge of a tattoo on her wrist. She pulls her sleeve down before I can get a good look at it.

"Sounds like this is a regular thing for you." I hold my pack of cigarettes out to her over the center console.

She pushes them back to me. "That’s pretty presumptuous for someone who just met me fifteen minutes ago."

"Look, I’m not looking down on you." I rake hair back from my face. "I’m just wondering . . . Aren’t you tired of running?" I know I am.

Bree doesn’t answer.

After ten minutes, the silence starts to get to me. I turn on PLR, since I’ve recently discovered that WMRQ is no longer the alternative rock station that I grew up with. PLR mostly plays classic rock like Def Leppard and Tesla, but they slide in some Stone Temple Pilots and the like every so often.

The closer we get to New Haven, the more Bree checks the time on the dashboard. I don’t know what time her train leaves, but it must be soon. Ditching the back roads for 63, I push the speedometer as far as I can without truly speeding. I just hope we don’t hit the regular gridlock.

Whoever designed New Haven’s network of one-way streets was an asshole with a sadistic sense of humor.

Traffic in the city isn’t bad, but it’s still slow. Bree fidgets in her seat, looking more and more like she’s going to eject herself from the car and run the rest of the way. We inch toward Union Station. I’m not the one catching the train but I’m starting to feel anxious, too. If I fuck this up and Bree misses her train, I have a feeling I’ll be losing more than my cut.

But traffic starts flowing again, and I pull in front of the station at 5:39.

Bree grabs her duffel bag from the backseat.

"Am I walking you in?" I don’t remember whether Beer Can said.

But Bree shakes her head. "My train is for 5:45. I’ve got to haul ass." She leans over and gives me an almost motherly peck on the cheek. With one hand, she pushes open the passenger door. Then she climbs out, slamming the door shut behind her. She starts to walk away, then pauses. Turns.

I roll down the window. "Gonna give me a tip?"

A smile touches her eyes. "Take care of my daughter, Cliff."

Then she turns and disappears inside.