He lets out a groan, twisting my face by squeezing my jaw in his palm, forcing our gaze to meet. “Look at me now, Prescott. Has my dad really raped you?”

I nod slowly, not breaking eye contact. “I wouldn’t have killed him otherwise.”

His azures drown in my hazels. He’s getting lost deep inside me, and me? I’m pulling him in. I can see it through his dilated pupils. The compassion. The guy who bought me a ticket to London after a first half-date underneath the stars. The guy who fell in love with a girl whose father is responsible for him becoming an orphan. It’s all there, in our messy, dirty truth. His eyes drop to my lips.

“Prescott.” He breathes. He moves to kiss me, and I purse my lips instinctively. “Let me go.”

It’s an order.

“Never.”

It’s a promise.

He kisses me again, this time harder, on the mouth. I gag a little, but remain composed. When his lips leave mine, he’s still gawking at me, taking another silent drag of his cigarette.

“Tell me the truth, Prescott. Is the giant twat a pawn?”

I shake my head slowly. “I’m in love with him.” I find the strength in me to smile. That’s the last thing I say before he smashes his fist into my nose and my eyes roll back into darkness and I see stars.

Nate.

Even before I walk back to our seat by the window, I know something’s wrong. I can feel it in my bones. They’re cold. When I round a corner and Prescott is not seated on the sofa overlooking the busy street, cold turns to hot. When I pace over to where we sat, cutting through charged air that seems to lack oxygen, hot turns to sick. There’s a small napkin on the table with an address scribbled on it. I look it up on Google Maps, unsurprised to see that it’s in Marble Arch.

Fucking Camden.

I jog out and signal for a cab, but they’re all busy. It’s early in the afternoon. Suited men and women pour in and out of taxis. Time is wasted, and I hate that I’m running out of it. She needs me now.

Finally, a black cab stops in front of me and I jump into it and rap the divider frantically, giving him the address.

He got to us before we got to him. He conned us into thinking he was out of the country. We were so drunk on being happy once in our f*cking lives, we lost focus.

The driver’s trying to strike up a pleasant conversation from the plastic screen, but soon realizes that my current state doesn’t really allow talking. Or breathing, for that matter.

We were so sure Camden would run or hide behind burly, brainless soldiers like the rest of them. We committed the very same sins that made Sebastian and Godfrey’s hourglasses run out of sand. We got comfortable. And cocky.

Pea and I had gotten away with so much during those short few days. Unplanned and uncalculated, we took them down, one by one. It was almost too good to be true. It made us feel invincible. Now, I worry that I might soon find out that we are anything but.

When the cab stops in front of Archer’s building, I bolt out, leaving f*ck knows how much money behind me. Maybe more than a fat tip. Maybe not enough to cover the fare. I jog up the stairs to the second floor, taking them three at a time, and throw the door open without knocking. I’m met with a beefy guy in uniform—a waiter or a driver or f*ck knows what. He charges from a tuxedo sofa in the living room right in my direction, waving a vaporizer pen in his hand.

High on adrenaline and fury, I let him run all the way to my spot near the door before slamming his head into the nearest wall. But then I feel it. In my stomach.

He digs the pen into my abs on a throaty roar, leaving it inside as he collapses to the floor. The scent of blood comes before the sting of the blade. Then I see it. And when I see it—it’s everywhere.

All the red.

The pen is not a pen. The pen is a f*cking knife. A sharp motherf*cker, too.

I stagger back, staring down at the hole in my middle. Not too big, but way too deep.

The cocksucker gutted me. I need to get to Prescott before I drop dead from blood loss or f*cking Peritonitis.

Maybe it hurts. I believe that it does. Bile shoots up my throat and a blood stain spreads rapidly across my white shirt. I pull the knife out in one go, sighing in relief when it doesn’t come out along with my intestines, roll my attacker on his back and stab him in the throat. The knife slides all the way through until it meets the floor. His limp body comes to life, jerking one more time before he gives in and drops dead.

Pen in hand, I stumble into the corridor, the drip, drip of my blood sounding against the floorboard. I see a door ajar and know what awaits inside. I crack it open. I want to charge through it like a blizzard, but with every step I take, my vision becomes blurrier, my steps wobblier. Am I dying? I might be. But I don’t care.

Prescott.

The bastard’s back is to the door. Who does that? Who gives his rival his back? Someone who wants to die.

Someone who wants to be surprised.

Someone who knows I won’t kill him because he’s got something of mine that I want back.

I sway like a drunk, bumping into the wall and the dresser in his bedroom, until the knife is pressed against his throat. He probably thought I’d never get this far, that I’d be intercepted in the living room by his muscle man. Surprise, scumbag.

“Let her go.”

I’m blinking furiously, trying to regain focus, and I know I’m dripping blood all over him, but when the sight in front of me registers, I have bigger problems than losing consciousness.