Sometimes I also write

I told myself I’m not going to do this. I don’t need to. I know what I saw. I survived it. I don’t need to immortalize it. I don’t need to understand it. I should let it go. 

But, I don’t know what to do. I need to understand where I was, and what it’s done to me. What it can do to those who don’t survive it. 

I guess, being a psychiatrist, it’s in my nature to pry into things. People. Memories and their significance. I dig and search until I figure out where a person got stuck. Where the neurologic pathway has wired itself into a loop. Maybe, it was at a certain point in time or a place. Even…a conversation.

They call it ‘The Backrooms'. I think it’s a fitting name, since it seems to be a backroom into a person’s mind; the part of your psyche housing things you wish you could forget.

Even if the time has passed and the place is gone and the conversation is over, if you don’t forget it—move on from it—is it really gone?

It all started with a patient. One I really tried to help. Unfortunately, he was the worst kind of patient a therapist could get. 

It might seem bad to say, but given my last memories of him, I can’t find it in myself to care. 

He could never be wrong. He could never be a failure. In anything. He could never see his faults. Of course, he came into my office regularly for our sessions. That was good. That was a start. However, he'd sit there, and I’d try and try to make him see the point. But, how can you help someone who believes—deep down—that they don’t need it? That they’re above it. That everyone and everything else is the problem. 

At his last session, he came to me with this yellow paper. Haphazardly drawn rooms and hallways were on it, taking strange shapes and forms. Leading to nowhere and everywhere all at once. He said they were in the basement of his shop. All of them.

I must’ve looked at him weird then, because in a second, he was out of his chair, angry and irritated. He said something about “getting me proof” before leaving. 

I didn’t fully relax until I heard his car drive off. 

At that moment, he reminded me of my mother. 

Perhaps this is why I cared when he sent me a strange voicemail saying he “opened the window”, why I went to his furniture shop—‘Cap’n Clark’s Ottoman empire’ — when he didn’t show up for our next two sessions. 

The shop’s door was open, and ‘The Backrooms’ were just where he said they were: in the basement.

You must understand something. There is no ‘door’ to The Backrooms. Not like how we understand them. You just…end up there. You fall through the walls, and hope the landing is soft, and that you’re alone. 

Every wall is covered in pale-yellow wallpaper. Every room, and anything in it, is odd and twisted. Chairs melt into each other. Signs are spelled wrong. Doors are blocked and windows show pictures to give the illusion of ‘outside’. 

The hallways narrow and bend in places, yet stretch endlessly in others. Even the shadows seem to be dragging you in, leading you nowhere.

I don’t think the place is trying to make you lost. But you are. Make no mistake, you are lost. 

I found the drawings before I found him. They made no sense. They reminded me of my mother’s frantic scribblings and paranoid scrawling.

I should’ve ran, then. I didn’t. I will forever regret that I didn’t. 

Clark came out of a shadowed hallway in the middle of the wall. I don’t remember what he said. I wish I could. I wish I could understand why he did what he did next. 

He choked me. 

I woke up to find myself tied to a dining chair in a gross mock-up of a kitchen. There were…beings sitting around me. Not humans. Things with too many or too little eyes. Without nerves. Stills and props in a scene no one is watching anymore, so they have no purpose. No soul. 

He was there, manic and angry. He wanted to be right. Not about the rooms; about everything, everything leading to the collapse of his life as he knew it. 

It was his wife’s fault. It was the world’s fault. It wasn’t his fault. Ever.

For months, I'd played along. I'd placated him and tried to sympathize with him; I couldn’t take it anymore. 

I'd screamed at him, then. I told him everything I couldn’t say in my stuffy office, where professionalism kept my mouth shut and my true thoughts dormant. 

He listened. He finally listened. 

That last conversation with him might’ve been the most productive one we’ve ever had.

I keep thinking, if I'd been honest from the start, maybe none of this would’ve happened. 

The sounds came first. Human-like breathing and groaning. Steps that were too heavy for any human to produce. 

Then it appeared. They call it ‘Pirate Clark’. 

It was horrifying. A moving creature that’s long and wide. A mascot of the `person drawn by a child who’s never seen a human before, only heard descriptions of one. He'd tried to reason with it for my sake. Told it I'm not dangerous. I don't know what he saw when he looked at it.   

It killed Clark. It ate Clark. 

I hate him for putting me in this situation. I hate him for everything after. But, if he hadn't untied me before he died...Well, you wouldn't have been bothered with this statement. 

I survived it.

It chased me through the hallways, in cluttered rooms and large open spaces which blurred together the more I ran, but I survived it. 

In the end, when it was on top of me, and I could smell the metallic scent of Clark's blood and feel the absolute cold of its hold, it was a memory that saved my life. 

A piece of pavement I had in my pocket. The last piece of my childhood home. 

Looking back, it’s funny how memories influenced Clark and I. 

That place was an escape for Clark. An escape from his memories. From every bad decision he made. He could stay stuck in there. No one was there to judge him, so what’s the point of changing? Of improving when no one could see it?

He wanted to stay there…before it ate him.

Maybe…when you don’t let go of things, of your memories, your failures…they eat you. They become you. A ruined, distorted, wrong–you.

I sometimes think I’m still there.

Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I can see that pale, yellow wallpaper. I can feel myself walking. Just walking. The pale walls caving in on me from every side, and I just. Keep. Going. 

I open my eyes, and feel my legs aching. 

I’m going to go back there in a few days. They’re forcing me. If I don’t, they’re going to kill me. 

If I’m going to die, I at least deserve to understand by what.

I don’t think you can help me before I’m gone. I thought it’s worth a shot. 

I’m not so sure anymore.

Statement ends:

Jon:

Statements from the U.S. are always difficult to corroborate. And statements from twenty-six years ago? Well...suffice to say I don't expect much from this one. 

Cap'n Clark's ottoman empire shut down in 2001, after a build-up of bills unpaid and the disappearance of the owner, Mr. Clark Kane, in 1990. 

I don't know if this is relevant or not, but Tim did note that the building was built only thirty years prior to the statement. Before it, the land had a near century-old housing compound made by a group of architects under the supervision of one Robert Smirke.

*Grumbling* Can't believe that man's influence reached even the US. 

Proving to be the most competent of my team, Sasha has been able to find records on Ms. Kline's mother, Nova Kline, who was admitted to a psychiatric facility for paranoid schizophrenia. The reports say her admission was due to her endangering her daughter's life by locking her in the house for weeks at a time. 

So, a family history of paranoid schizophrenia. Doesn't bode well for the validity of Ms. Kline's statement, given how absurd all of it is and the "they" she failed to-

*Door creaks open*

"Elias? What is it?"

“What case are you working on?”

…“Case 9902707. Why?”

“Hmm. Did it mention any hidden passageway or—?”

“Backrooms?”

“Yes.”

“...It did. How did you know?”

5 seconds of silence.

“I got a message from another supernatural research facility. The American one, Async.”

“I’ve heard of them. What do they want?”

“Any records you believe to be of ‘The Backrooms’ are not under our jurisdiction.”

“What do you mean not under—”

“Jon. The Backrooms are not our problem. The moment you think a statement mentions them, or anything remotely similar, you send it to me. Understood?”

“...”

“Jon.”

“Yes. Alright.”

*Door squeaks closed*

I have no idea what that was about, but I will not dwell on it. I'll give Elias statements regarding any… ‘passageways into strange rooms’, but not before I record them. It’s my job, and no message from some other facility will stop me from doing so.

In any case, I'll have Martin contact the facility on anything they might know about this. And, I believe I may have an answer on who the 'they' in Ms. Kline's statement could be...Possibly.

Perhaps, Ms. Kline's statement is not as dismissible as I first thought. 

I'm no fool. I know Landon only wants to recruit me to get some insight into the Heathens. But, as I've told them all countless times, I'm not a spy; I will not be made to choose a side in their meaningless games. 

Landon brushes some shavings off his sculpture with a soft brush, and they drift down it like glitter. 

“No.” He sets down the brush and grabs something off his desk. “As always, your brothers see you as this.” 

Holding it by the tips of his fingers, he presents a small marble statue he’s made of what looks like a fairy. She’s faceless, in a kneeling position with small wings protruding from her back. Lines dent the wings like veins, and they’re so thin and crystal-like, I’m afraid they’ll break between Landon’s grip. 

I raise a brow. “They see me as a…fairy?”

Landon drops the sculpture. 

Before I even think twice, I’m reaching for it, hands clumsy and outstretched, but I’m too far and too slow, because the fairy drops on the floor with a clank and shatters into pieces. 

Looking at the fairy with her face to the floor, wings broken and mere fragments of their full beauty, my chest twists. I straighten quietly, jaws aching from how hard I clench them. I don’t give Landon the satisfaction of asking 'why the fuck'.

He smirks. “Fragile, little King. We all see you as fragile. With so much potential to fly, yet nothing to show for it.”

His words are meant to provoke. They’re meant to cause a rise out of me so he can catalog and extrapolate information from it: vulnerabilities, buttons to push, potential truths to his bullshit. Ultimately, things he can control me with. 

I give him nothing. 

Picking up the broken pieces of the fairy, I shove them into my bag and walk out without acknowledging Landon’s existence at all. 

When I got Landon’s text, I was in the middle of a mental breakdown. 

I had two unfinished assignments, one I was actively working on, and a test tomorrow I wasn’t prepared for in the slightest. Pretty sure I’m going to fail it. It would be my ninth ‘F’. How many more failures does one take before it’s deemed acceptable to quit?

Anyway, the text aggravated me, which is impressive given how short it was.

Menace to society: family meeting in 30 minutes.

Menace to society: your presence is a formality, not a necessity, little King. Feel free to skip.

The message was delivered along with a location. 

I’m being goaded. I know I am. And why would Landon be the one to tell me if there was a meeting? 

Given everything I have to do, I can’t waste my time with this if it turns out to be one of Landon’s stupid pranks. I thought he’d grow out of them sometime around middle school, but old habits die hard, I guess. 

I switch to chat with Bran.

Alicia: Do you know anything about a family meeting tonight?

Brandyyy: Eli texted you too?

Alicia: No your brother did…what did Eli tell you?

The picture he sent me in reply wasn’t comforting. It was a screenshot of Eli’s text to him saying something about ‘defending Glyn’s honor’. 

Brandyyy: I think this is about Killian

No shit it’s about Killian. After the posts and the stalking of Glyn, I don’t doubt my cousin is feeling psychotic and plans to take it out on Kill. 

Grabbing my keys, I tell him to send me the location Eli sent him; it’s the same one Lan sent me. Maybe this is actually a meeting and we’re all over-reacting.

I’m a fast driver, and the roads were empty, so I reach the location  faster than my cousins: an abandoned warehouse near the REU’s club house. It’s always some creepy fucking warehouse. 

A sound is coming from inside. Nonsensically, it reminds me of a gushing waterfall. The entryway is wet. 

Shoving the doors open, I step inside into a puddle of water soaking the bottom of my shoes, drowning the soles. 

Killian is strapped to a fallen chair on the floor with water drenching his whole frame. Some of it, near his face, is tinged a dusty-red. Eli's holding a huge, dripping hose, while Landon has a golf club in his hand, smudged with blood.

The two stare at me, but I'm too busy scanning Killian for signs of life to be bothered by either of them. My footsteps splash as I rush to him and check the pulse under his jaw; faint, but there. 

A wet thud drags my attention back to the men in the room. Eli has thrown the hose away and now has Landon by the shirt's collar, snarling at him.

“I could excuse involving Creighton, but I told you to leave her out of this.”

“Oh, come off it. She's not only your sister, but also my cousin. Besides, I see potential in—” 

“You're going to ruin us.” 

They turn to me. 

Beyond my control, I feel my molars grinding against one another. My words come out low and strained. 

“You are the eldest Kings. You will have power, and be the faces of our family's legacy. What do you think would've happened to both of you if he had died?”

They fall still and silent. I watch them, my muscles throbbing with tension.

“You’re not gods, and you're not fucking untouchable,” I sneer. “Someone someday will get irrevocably hurt by your schemes, and your petty games for control, and it'll be too little too late to fix it.”

They don't get a chance to reply. Glyndon and Bran burst through the door, wide-eyed and frantic.

Glyn releases a small whimper when she sees Killian.

“It's alright.” I reassure her, “he's alive.”

What happens next is a blur of shouting and blaming.

Glyn screamed in Landon’s face everything she’d always wanted to say: how she’s done with his controlling nature. How he terrified her and Brandon. How tired she is of him. 

I shouldn’t sympathize with Landon—he was way out of line with this—but I watched from the warehouse’s sidelines as his face shuttered shut, concealing all possible emotions and thoughts from the world. For a second, I believe he was…hurt by Glyn’s words. Not remorseful of his actions, just disappointed this is how they’ve been perceived.

Not for the first time, I wondered if my cousin’s condition made him feel lonely, even among his own family. 

“I’m going to shoot your cousin.” 

I reload my gun and aim it at the target area. “You have a bright future, M. Trust me, he’s not worth it.”

“I’m fucking serious, Alicia.” 

Maya’s own gun clatters on the metal table of our firing lanes. Taking off her protective goggles and throwing them down, too, she scowls.

“He kidnaps my cousin, then my brother. Am I supposed to stand back until he takes my entire family?”

“No one will let him get to that.”

Abducting Killian wasn’t enough. Shortly after, Landon abducted Nikolai and imprisoned him in the basement of the REU boys’ dormitory. Brandon tried to get him out, but Creighton stopped him.  

The altercation that occurred after put three people in the hospital: Jeremy, Nikolai and Creighton. 

From the short recounting of events I got from Remi, who was in the basement when everything happened, Creighton had wanted to capture Jeremy and my cousin used Niko as bait. Nikolai intervened during their fight and got stabbed in the neck, yet Creighton attempted to kill Jeremy again. To save her brother, Annika shot him, which put Creighton in a short-term coma; our household was shaken by the event for days after.

Thankfully, everyone’s fine now. But, in an act of disapproval, I’m not speaking to my cousin or either of my brothers. No one wants to tell me the full story, so I’m mostly in the dark about everyone’s motivations leading us to this disaster. 

All things considered, Nikolai seemed more focused on the fact Brandon tried to save him more than anything else.

“Does he talk about me?”

“What did he say about the kidnapping? Did he yell at his brother for me?”

“If I wanted to get him a thank you gift, what would you recommend?”

He had the air of a child with a new pet he desperately wanted to dote on. Or maybe the pet trying to impress its owner? In any case, I answered the questions as vaguely as possible, trying to dissuade his attention from my cousin, who I knew would probably loathe it.

After the warehouse night, Glyn started getting closer to Kill, so we haven’t been talking much. Brandon is as secretive about his business as ever, and the rest of my friends are preoccupied with their own lives to regularly answer my calls. 

It doesn’t help that Med school is taking me away from their usual, weekly meet-ups. And I wish I could say I’m reaping the benefits of my sleepless nights and isolation in my room to study, but I’m still barely passing. I’m still behind on everything.

A shot rings out across the shooting range, muffled behind my protective headphones; I hit the target right in the center of the circle, and a smile spreads across my lips. 

“Impressive,” Maya muses. “Maybe I should hire you to shoot your cousin.”

I give her a look. She shrugs. “Don’t tell me you’ve never had the urge.”

Urge for violence or not, these shooting sessions have been good for me. It’s an outlet, something I can do with the listless energy I get after countless nights of continuous studying and days of dull, boring lectures and labs.

It also helps that I'm really good at it. Only months into it, and my aim is spot on seventy to eighty percent of the time. 

Giving her a grin, I strap back the gun in its holster and push down my headphones. “You can prove nothing.”

She laughs her true laugh, the one with a little snort in the end. I’ve heard her laugh to other people before, and it’s usually snobbish and mocking, or breathy and meant to allure. There’s also a third one, a combination of both, that she gives only to one of Jeremy’s guards when she’s being particularly cruel, calling him “Jeremy’s ever-loyal guard dog.”

I’m keeping an eye on this dynamic, because Maya can insult him as many times as she wants and he can pretend to ignore her to her face everytime, but I see how they watch each other when the other isn’t looking. I see the hunger behind the harsh words and the flat stare.

Inside her bag on the wooden bench, Maya’s phone rings. She goes to answer it. 

“Hey, Niko. I—”

She pauses, listening for a few minutes. Her brows furrow, then her eyes flicker to me. 

“But she’s not—”

In a few seconds, her face contorts with rage. “Tell him he can go fuck himself. Midget—”

Again, she stops to listen. Afterwards, she sighs and says, “fine. We’re on our way.”

Hanging up, Maya shoves the phone into her gold bag and slings it over her shoulder. 

“Niko wants to talk to you.”

“Why?”

She gives me an apologetic look. “Annika’s gone, and he says you know something about it."

If the men in my family take one more fucking person, I’m reporting them to the police myself. Worse, I’ll report them to Grandpa Jonathan. 

This time, it’s not Landon who’s done the stupid deed, but my brother, Creighton.

Creighton: the most passive of the Elites club. The most dismissive of their more reckless endeavors, who simply joined to have a place in the fight club, kidnapped a literal mafia princess from her home.

I’m going to murder him.

“He won’t hurt her,” I tell the Heathens present—Killian, Gareth and Nikolai. “I don’t know why he took her, but Creighton loves her. He won’t harm her”

“He can kidnap her, though,” Gareth mumbles. 

I glare at him. “Yeah, well she shot him, so.”

Maya snickers. 

A crisis brings out the worst in people, and my family was no exception. 

During Creighton’s hold in the hospital, Mum’s heartbeats were erratic—sometimes too high, often too low. Dad and Eli got into it about whether Cray should’ve remained in London or not, and I couldn’t stand seeing Cray so lifeless and my family so torn and my being so useless. I took to roaming the hospital hallways like a ghost, and hating every single second I was there. 

It was on one of those walks where I saw my father and a tall, dark-haired man standing face-to-face. Both of their postures were stiff, and I could see the other man holding a gun. Annika was beside him. Logically, I assumed it was her father. 

“This is a hospital, Sir,” I’d called out, entering the scene to stand beside my own father. Dad stiffened further. I kept my tone light and my gaze on the other man. 

“I believe it’s in poor taste to pull out a gun in such a setting.”

He did not laugh; I didn’t expect him to. He only looked at me for a few seconds. Eventually, though, he did put the gun away.

Dad ordered me to leave, but Annika lunged for me, gripping my shoulders. I’ve seen Annika only a handful of times before, spoken to her even less.

“I’m so sorry, Alicia.” she started sobbing. “You guys are close and I…I didn’t want to hurt him. I’m so so sorry.”

Her hands shook on my shoulders. She was crying, tears dripping in shiny lines down her face. 

“I hate what you did to my brother, Annika.” I told her, voice harsher than I intended. Removing her hands from me, her face squeezed in anguish. 

“But,” I sighed, “I do forgive you.”

The hallway air stilled, and I heard her breath catch.

“If anyone had put a knife to either of my brother’s throats, I don’t think I would’ve reacted differently.”

For some reason, even more tears streamed down her face as she pulled me into a hug, soaking my shirt. From above her shoulder, her father’s expression had not changed from its neutral, terrifying stillness, but I got the sense he was analyzing me.

When Dad told me to go check on my mother, I didn’t push my luck and left. 

My father and Eli wanted revenge against the Volkovs, but not Cray; Cray just wanted his girl back. 

The phone in my ear rings and rings before going straight to voicemail. Creighton never ignored my calls before, so I know the Heathens are telling the truth; he took Annika. 

Eli told me not to worry about it, and to let our dear brother have his fun.

I should’ve been an only child. 

The door slams open, and a furious Jeremy barrels inside. 

Immediately, Kill and Niko spring up from their perch on the Heathens mansion’s stairs and approach him. Gareth stands in front of me, almost like a shield, and I sinking pit forms in my stomach. 

Jeremy pushes his friends out of the way, his burning gaze set on me. 

“Where the fuck is he?” 

There’s a scratchyness to his voice, and I sense the shout building up. 

My brother could’ve taken Annika anywhere in the world, but there’s only one place untraceable enough for Creighton to keep Annika in: a  private, family-owned island named after our grandmother, Aurora Island.

I keep my face flat and cold to cover for the fact I’m positively terrified. Creighton is not here to face the consequences of his actions, and Eli is in London. 

There’s only me now.

“Where is he?” Jeremy snarls, taking a step closer. Gareth holds up a hand. 

“Be rational, Jeremy. We all know Alicia isn’t involved in any of this shit so—”

Jeremy grabs Gareth by the collar. “She doesn’t know shit about this, but she does know her brother.”

He shoves Gareth to the side. I hear shuffling  then a thud and a groan—Gareth probably falling—but I keep my focus on the furious Volkov, aware of the sweat pooling in my hands. 

Holding them behind my back, I stay silent. Every impulse in me fights the urge to just confess, to just tell him and be done with this mess. 

Jeremy grabs my arm and squeezes. “Where is he?!”

There’s the shout I’m expecting. It rattles me, but I push back the sting in my eyes and remain quiet. I don’t disrespect us both by lying.

“I could lock you here,” he threatens, “a sister for a sister. Did your brother not think of that? Are you willing to be collateral for a brother who didn’t think twice about you?”

He’s wrong. Creighton couldn’t have known what taking Annika would've entailed. He probably thought the anger at his transgression would’ve been directed at him and only him. 

I know all this—I know my brother and his intentions—so why do the words cause a twinge in my chest? They’re wrong. He’s wrong. He's angry and cruel and wrong. 

“Still not going to talk?” Jeremy continues menacingly, “fine. Have it your way.”

By my arm in his grip, he drags me forward. I don’t cry out. I don’t beg. Kings don’t plead.

“Get your fucking hands off her, Volkov,” Maya screams at him from the top of the stairs, “or I promise you, Midget will come back to find out you’re no longer the heir of any-fucking-thing.”

Jeremy ignores her, pulling me with him to some door away from the foyer. I try to dig my feet in; a futile attempt given how outpowered I am, but desperation doesn’t care for logic. Stray tears are falling down my cheeks now, from both pain and fear.

“I’ll tell Mom!”

That stops Jeremy dead in his tracks.

The only thing I know of Maya’s mother is she’s a business woman responsible for a large sector of V Corp. Incredibly successful and extremely intimidating, and from the way Jeremy reacts, I’m guessing she has a big role in the Mafia, too. Enough to threaten his, apparently. 

Hands shoved into his red hoodie, Killian steps in front of Jeremy and smirks. It’s the psychotic smile, with dilated pupils and too many teeth showing.

“Besides, he’ll be upset if you hurt her.”

“She’s nothing to him but a passing interest.”

“Still. You want to risk it with him?”

I have no idea who ‘him’ is. I don’t fucking care. I just want to leave.

Leaning back on the stairs, Niko adds with a finger in the air, “also, I like the girl, Jeremy. Can we not make her hate us like the rest of them?”

The grip on my arm tightens, but to my surprise, Jeremy lets go. He stares at me while I glare back. I wish the tears weren’t there. 

I doubt he would’ve been cowed either way. 

“What are you even doing here?” He growls, gray eyes blazing. “You belong with them. You belong with your family of psychos and snobs. So, fuck off and leave us.”

He doesn’t need to ask twice. 

I ignore Maya calling my name and the rest of the Heathens men and fuck off out of there. 

For an hour, I drove around Brighton with no purpose in mind other than not to return home. 

I couldn’t. If I got back to my dorm—if I got my hands off the wheel for only a second—I’d either call my brothers and yell at them for the danger I could’ve been in because of them, or I’d call my parents and cry until the tears ran out. 

Both situations would’ve ended up with them asking what happened, and I didn’t want to deal with the ramifications of another problem with the Heathens and their families. 

I’m so done with this island. I’m so done with college. I’m so done and exhausted with my constant failures.

I shouldn't have let Jeremy Volkov threaten or treat me like that. I’m a fucking King. I should’ve been strong. Fearless. I should’ve told him to think twice before putting his hands on me. 

Wiping at my eyes, I stop at a red light on some deserted road I don’t recognize. It’s dark and strangely deserted. I must’ve reached the edge of town. 

A car stops beside me. I wouldn’t have focused on it, if it weren’t for the color: a deep teal Lamborghini with black out windows. It's a beautiful car, no doubt, but the windows unnerve me. I can’t see who’s inside, but they can see me. I get the sense they’re looking at me. 

Clenching my jaw, I watch the traffic light, willing it to turn green, furious it stopped me. I’m furious at the whole world, and furious of the stupid car beside me adding to my paranoia. 

I watch, and wait. 

The moment the light turns green, I step on the gas. The loud revving of the engine sounds as angry as I am. It brings me a strange sort of comfort. 

In an instance, wind whips form the windows as a teal blur speeds past me. This…glorified kid car just beat me. 

A fire burns in my chest. Fuck that. Fuck it all. 

Wind ruffles through my hair as I dig my feet into the gas pedal, watching the speed meter rise and rise–80, 100, 120. I see the teal car get closer, then further again. 

A strange feeling fills my chest. I press my foot harder, following the stupid clown car as it surges forward and away from me. Buildings and street lamps mix into the same shapes at the corners of my gaze, but my attention remains on the car, its bright color un-missable against the night sky. 

Suddenly, it swerves left off a curved bend in the road in a smooth, confident arch. 

It’s dangerous. It’s reckless. A part of my brain screams for me to slow down, take the turn like a normal, rational person. 

But I’m too far gone on the thrill of this. 

I swerve the steering wheel in one sharp move and steel myself as the car twists. The wheels screech their displeasure. The air fills with the smell of melting rubber.

For a moment—a breathless, unforgettable moment—my mind quiets down and there’s only now and this. Not what happened before, or what I should do after. 

Then the curve is gone and the straight road stretches in front of me once more. I brake and pull the wheel back into its resting position, until the car straightens and slows, then comes to a complete halt. 

My breaths come out in short, fast puffs. A smile spreads across my face, then I’m laughing. A loud, unhinged, delighted sound I didn’t expect to come out of me. 

My palms stick to the steering wheel with a layer of sweat, and when I take them off, I find myself shaking with pent-up adrenaline. 

I need to do this again. 

A sound from outside grabs my attention. The teal car has turned, so now the cars are front-to-front, and the driver is stepping out. 

He slams the car door behind him and approaches. Somehow, his gait and silhouette is familiar to me. 

As he steps under the street lamp between our cars, I see his face clearly; it’s Remi. 

I’m surprised I got invited while Landon didn’t. My cousin, the self-proclaimed psycho that he is, should’ve been number one in this freak show. But, I guess simply attending the initiation would’ve been too predictable a ploy for Landon to indulge in. He likes his disasters layered and convoluted. 

The tragedy in this is I’m here willingly. 

When I got the invite yesterday, I was with Maya at a gun range. It was my first time there and, like all my other hobbies, I didn’t expect this one to last. I’d get bored eventually, once the novelty of the first time wore off and I recognized the extent of my mediocrity in this, too. 

The message read:

Congratulations! You are invited to the Heathens’ initiation ceremony. Please show the attached QR code upon arrival to the club’s compound at four p.m. sharp. 

At my surprised laugh, Maya peaked over my shoulder at the text, her rich perfume tainted with the sharp smell of metal and gun powder. 

“No fucking way,” she exclaimed, “you got invited?!”

“Ouch. Jealous much?”

This had nothing to do with jealousy and everything to do with the fact of who I am. True, I may be a student in Kings U, and therefore, as eligible for the initiation as any of my peers, but I’m also a King. As in, from the Kings who rule their opposing club, the Elites. 

“As if.” Maya had rolled her eyes, spreading her fingers to show off the freshly-done, gold-tipped manicure. “These are way too pretty to ruin. Better you than me.”

She’d said so, yet called me today at three-thirty to ask, “you’re not actually going to the initiation, are you?”

My black hoodie and leggings were answer enough, but she couldn’t see them. Putting the call on speaker phone, I laced up my boots. 

“I am.”

“Alicia,” she'd paused. “You’re not actually wasting your night with this…”

I didn’t tell her the alternative was to sit at my desk and fail to understand anything of the medical degree I chose. I didn’t tell her the ‘F’ I got on my last two papers plagued my mind enough that I needed this distraction. 

I simply repeated, “I am.”

The line went quiet for a few minutes. I spent them fixing my dark hair into a ponytail.

Each year's initiation ceremony had been different, and in the event this one needed me to move, I didn’t want any wardrobe mishaps or hair strands on my face. 

“Send me a text of your number.”

Maya's request was unusual at the time, but made sense at the gates of the Heathens’ compound when the guards gave me a mask and wrist band numbered ‘26’. Immediately, I shot a text to Maya before they took away my phone. 

What she planned to do with it, I had no idea. However, it couldn’t hurt to have someone know where I am and doing what, since my family can never know I participated in this by my own volition; I would never live it down. 

The Heathens’ compound courtyard is filled with shifting bodies and excited chattering. Everyone is wearing the frankly ridiculous white bunny masks, which successfully hides their identities. 

The disappearing sun paints us all in hues of orange and gold. I shuffle my feet on the cobblestone, apprehension slowly rising with the fading light. 

From everything I know about the Heathens, and Maya’s personal accounts of them, these fuckers are insane and prone to boredom, a terrible combination for the people around them. Given the increased frequency of clashes with them and the Elites this past school year, I’m expecting something big from this initiation, in both scale and absurdity. 

What am I doing here? 

No matter where I am in life, this question is a constant: what am I doing here? I asked myself when I stood in the halls of the Kings U admissions department, planning on entering their Medicine program. I asked it after my first day, when I sat alone in my dorm, overwhelmed by the information I had to comprehend before the week’s end. I asked it after my first ‘F’, then the second. I stopped asking it after my fifth, but then again after I barely passed my first semester with a ‘C’. 

Mum and Dad still don’t know the grade, only that I passed, and I plan to keep it that way. 

A ‘C’ is a perfectly acceptable grade for anyone else; not when you’re a King, though. The threshold for success in my family is impossibly high, and I come up short on every account. 

The lights dim around us, and the tide of chatter lowers as everyone turns to look at the figures emerging from the second-floor balcony. The Heathens. 

In the dark, the neon-stitch masks they’re wearing look like something out of a cartoon; it doesn’t help that they're also color-coded. This is fucking hilarious, and I wish Maya were with me so we could have a laugh about this together. As it were, I’m stuck here chuckling to myself, since I believe the people around me are genuinely terrified. 

Because he’s shirtless, Nikolai is easy to rule out as Yellow mask; I’ve been unwillingly familiar with his chest tattoos from my visits to Maya in the Heathen’s mansion. As the leader, the guy in the middle, Orange mask, must be Jeremy Volkov. Red and Green masks are no doubt Killian and Gareth Carson, respectively. Which only leaves…White mask. 

…Who the fuck is that guy?

The other men, I’ve seen plenty of—too much of, in the case of Killian pestering my cousin day and night—but White mask is a complete mystery to me. If he’s in the line-up, then he’s a founding member of the club, so surely they would’ve brought him up at some point, right?

“Congratulations on making it to the heathens' highly competitive initiation.” A distorted voice starts from the overhead speakers. “You are the selected elite the leaders of the club think are worthy of joining….”

Self-aggrandizing speech, check. Creepy vibes clearly meant to intimidate, check. I’m expecting the threat of violence soon. 

I don’t mean to be glib about this whole thing, but I’ve spent the better part of my first semester in the company of Killian in Med school, and then Maya when she decided to befriend me after I was thoroughly unimpressed by her uninspired attempts at bullying. Needless to say, I’m not seeing the Heathens as these imposing figures striking fear into my bones, but as their normal, casual, absurd selves: including Nikolai sleeping in the pool and almost drowning, and Killian threatening to burn his brother’s law papers if he doesn’t stay away from his crush—my cousin, Glyn. 

“...if you aren’t willing to pay that, please exit through the small door to your left. Once you leave, you’ll lose any chance to join us again.”

Ten people regain their sanity and exit through the door carved in the gate, where they get back their belongings. 

What am I doing here?

The metal door creaks shut behind them. 

Goosebumps rise along the back of my neck. For the first time since entering this ridiculous event, I'm starting to feel uneasy. I start feeling watched. 

“Tonight’s game is predator and prey. You’ll be hunted down by the club’s founding members…”

Predator and prey? Really? All of those people against the five of them? My interest piques at how they could possibly accomplish this. 

“The founding members have the right to use any methods available to hunt you down—including violence” —check— “If their weapon of choice touches you, you’ll be automatically eliminated.”

Weapons…Fine, I guess. 

With some last instructions–no killing, no questions, no mercy–they give us a ten minute head-start, which is bullshit. The Heathens would never give anyone any advantage over them, not even in a game. 

Kicking up dust and stray stones from beneath their shoes, the participants run in different directions. I watch them all, then look at my wrist watch. 4:23. 

Looking back at the balcony, I find it empty. With that confirmation in mind, I sprint to the forest with the last remaining ‘prey’, as they eloquently put it. 

The speakers announce the first round of eliminations at 4:30. Numbers seventy-four and eighteen.

There’s absolutely no logical way for the Heathens to not only get their weapons, but also reach and eliminate two people in seven minutes. Also, ‘ten minutes head-start’ my arse. 

Unlike the rest of the players around me, who probably dreamed of this chance before recognizing it for the sham it is, I don’t give a damn about winning and joining this club of posers. 

All I care about now is figuring out the how of it all. And not getting hurt too badly when I lose. 

Enough failures have taken the King competitive spirit out of me. I’ve learned it hurts less when you expect the loss before it arrives. 

So, until one of the Heathens inevitably gets to me, I’m quite content with watching the game from up here: on the sturdiest tree I could find and successfully climb.

Those rock-climbing lessons I took at fourteen really came through. Why did I quit that, again? Oh, yes, I got bored and the instructor was irritatingly chipper. 

“You can do it, Alicia!” 

“Good job. Climb higher.”

“It’s okay. You tried your best. Let’s try again next time.”

It was after that last statement when I left. Nevertheless, the short months I was there came in handy. 

Damp, cold leaves brush against my cheek, but I don’t push them away because Orange mask is beneath my tree, looking around for someone.

Footsteps thud all around our area, easy prey he could reach and have his fun with, yet he doesn’t twitch. Doesn’t even turn to look. He just stares into the woods, swaying his golf bat from side to side in a focused, rhythmic tempo. 

Jeremy Volkov has a target in mind, and I feel sorry for the sad soul who captured his attention. 

He must’ve seen something beyond my sight, because between one breath and the next, he’s gone, speeding past the tall, dark trees. I hear him run for a couple of seconds, before complete silence engulfs the forest again. 

Five minutes later, the speakers burst out with another round of eliminations, as they’ve been doing every five minutes since the game started. 

In the ten or so minutes I’ve been up here, I’ve realized three important things:

One, there are cameras in the trees, blinking red like demonic eyes watching everyone in this wannabe-hell. They’re the ones keeping a tally of all who’ve lost. 

Two, there are trackers in our wrist bands. I know this because, when numbers forty-four, thirty-nine and fifty lost a few paces up ahead, guards came to carry them away with confident, sure steps navigating the forest's complex terrain. 

I say ‘carry them’ because they were Nikolai’s wins, and his weapon of choice was the old-fashioned fist.

Three, either the Heathens are multiplying, or the predators are more than five.  

I could be wrong, but I’m probably not. It would explain what the other members of the Heathen’s club are doing.

Jeremy appeared under my tree at 4:40 and ran left. It’s now 4:46, and a not-Jeremy just stumbled out from across the tree I’m on in the complete opposite direction. 

In essence, if the tree I’m on is the center of a clock, Jeremy ran towards 5 o’clock, while not-Jeremy appeared at 11. 

It’s impossible. There’s no fucking way Jeremy found his prey and dealt with them, then ran a half-circle around the woods to emerge from the opposite direction, in six minutes. 

This is not Jeremy. I’m fucking sure of it. No tall frame or stupid, neon-orange mask can convince me otherwise. 

My suspicions are confirmed when not-Jeremy bunches up the long sleeves of his black shirt to reveal completely bare skin and slim arms, with none of Jeremy’s characteristic tattoos or muscles in sight. 

This is how they do it. This is how they’ll take out most of the participants. They don’t care about who wins or loses. They don’t give a damn how little people are admitted as members. All they care about is having their uninhibited fun. It’s physical and psychological warfare without purpose, only instincts.

Not-Jeremy throws down the golf bat in his hand and cracks his back, then presses on a discrete, black earpiece. He complains about, “humid weather” and “those pesky fuckers fighting back,” before probably getting thoroughly reprimanded by whoever he considers a higher-up. 

Eventually, he picks up the bat again, rolls down his sleeves, then sinks into the shadows between some bushes. 

I let out a low chuckle. Fucking cheaters. I wouldn’t expect anything less from a group of boys who call themselves ‘the Heathens’. 

A nice warmth fills my chest. It’s been a while since I’ve…accomplished something, something I’m actually proud of. It’s a shame I can’t share it with anyone. 

With the mystery solved and my curiosity satisfied, I pull my hood up and carefully climb down the tree, making sure to avoid any vines or slippery leaves. Some branches creak under my weight, so I pause for a few seconds and listen for any signs of someone approaching. The forest remains dark and eerily silent. 

By the time my feet reach solid ground, all I can smell is the cloying, wet scent of mildew and pinecone. I take a deep breath, anticipating the warm bath waiting for me back home, and turn. 

White mask is behind me. He towers over my frame, blocking any moonlight possible. 

My heart beats against my sternum in an angry, punching pattern. It hurts, yet I shut my mouth and take shallow, rapid breaths through my nose. 

I don’t know when the hell he appeared behind me; I didn’t hear a thing. I don’t know for how long we stand there, staring at each other. My eyes flicker to his hands, and I clench mine behind my back when I see the chain in his grip, heavy and bright, the links alternating in shining silver and white. 

Play cool. He wants to have his violent, unhinged fun. Strip it away from him. Bore him. 

“So,” I mumble, thankful for my steady intonation despite everything, “are you the real-deal, or just a doppelganger?”

He tilts his head, the action somehow bird-like and…childish. 

I snicker. “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me. I don’t snitch.”

Somehow, I can feel his gaze on me behind the mask, analytical and assessing. Which means, unlike Nikolai for example, he won’t indulge in meaningless violence for the sake of it. He’ll bid his time. Savor the hunt if he deems me interesting enough. 

My eyes betray me, glancing at his ears, but I can’t tell if he has an ear piece or not. Jeremy didn’t have one—I’d be hard-pressed to believe any of the Heathens would take orders from anyone—leading me to believe only the doppelgangers have them for instructions. 

The chains screech. I can feel them shifting against my leg like a python rising to strike. Terror grips me and in one swift movement, I grab White masks chin and pull him closer.

He freezes. Even the chains still and fall quiet. 

Crows caw and an owl hoots. I think they’re warning me: you don’t want to do this. Don’t tempt the beast. Stupid, stupid human. 

Slowly, I stand on tiptoe and lean close to his ear—no earpiece here.

 “I’ll tell you a secret,” I whisper. “It’s only fair as an exchange, no?”

I wait for him to push me back. I wait for the heavy weight of metal around my arms, legs, waist. None of it comes. 

“I have no idea what to do with my life.”

My other hand travels to the side of his face, and when I don’t sense any change in stance from him, I cup his jaw and stretch my finger until they’re near his ear. There’s no ear piece there, either. 

He’s not some clone following instructions without real intent for damage. I’m dealing with the White mask, whoever he actually is. 

The shock of it settles into my bones like a cold zap. Unlike the other Heathens, I don’t know him. I can’t diminish this all into a game with friends masquerading as monsters. 

As far as I know, he could be a true monster—the worst of them, even—and I’m completely alone with him. 

For barely a moment, I think he rests his cheek against my hand. A chuckle rumbles from deep in his chest.

“Very good, Dragotsennaya,” he murmurs. Russian. I’m pretty sure that word is Russian. 

I pull my hand back and slip away. We both know he’s letting me. We both know he only needs to reach out for me to be immobilized by him in an instance. 

Fire burns through my veins, and sweat trickles down my back in sticky, heated lines. A twitchiness encompasses all of my senses, heightens them. For the first time tonight, I fully feel like prey. 

White mask straightens, looking at me for a moment longer.

“Now,” he says, voice smooth and provocative, “run.”

He’s behind me. I know it, but I can’t hear him. 

The wind rushes through my hair as I run, whistling in my ears. I can hear my ragged breathing, can feel the rapid heartbeats thumbing against my temples, the ache in my legs and feet. I hear every branch I crush beneath my boots and the leaves fleeing from my way. 

But I can’t fucking hear him. 

If I can count on the Heathens to be anything, it’s loud. They’re all so loud, with the occasional exceptions of Jeremy and Gareth. Still, even they have their moments. Even they have audible footfalls. 

The path is barely illuminated, so the trees are nothing but vague blobs of black I zig-zag through in an unpredictable, messy pattern I’m hoping he’ll lose me from. 

It’s on one of those sharp turns I bump into a warm, solid wall and trip backwards, falling on my arse. 

Yellow light shines on me. Bloody fucking hell, it’s Nikolai. 

Rising to my feet, I lick my lips and try to fully take in the scene in front of me. Nikolai is pushing someone against a tree. Some guy, but it’s too dark to tell his number—eighty-something, maybe?

Unlike White mask, I don’t even attempt to talk to Nikolai. Nothing will distract him if he puts me in his sights like eighty-something over here. 

 He takes his mask off and stares at me, blue eyes translucent in the low moonlight. They narrow at my forehead, possibly trying to see the number embossed on the mask.

Shifting my feet, I prepare to sprint, but pause when he smirks, shaking his head lightly. 

“Get out of here, kid.”

The words themselves are a shock; Nikolai wouldn't give up a chase no matter what. However, it's the familiarity of his tone I find strange. 

My brows furrow under the mask. Why would he let me—? Maya. There’s no doubt in my mind she told him my number, and threatened him with unimaginable harm if he hurt me. All the Sokolovs are ballsy, crazy and, most importantly, possessive as hell. 

I chuckle, about to thank him—and apologize to number eighty-something for this injustice—when his gaze shifts behind me and widens.

I don’t need more clues on who could be behind me. Between one blink and the next, I’m zipping past trees in the same erratic way as before. 

In the same second the speakers announce another round of eliminations, the chain strikes a tree trunk inches from my feet. I shriek, but I don’t stop stumble. I don’t stop running.

Unconsciously, I must’ve been following the brightest path because when I burst through a clearing, my eyes sting from the sudden blare of light. 

The Heathen’s compound, a hulking mass of metal and concrete, stands in front of me. The contours of it blur with the night sky, but there are lights on inside. 

Green mask is by the door, hands on his knees and mask off. I’ve never seen Gareth Carson so…rattled. Uncomposed. His usually stiff posture is hunched forward, and from the up-and-down movements of his back, I suspect he’s hyperventilating.

I take off my mask. “You okay, Gaz?”

He springs upright, face splotchy and red. There’s a wild look in Gareth’s eyes. ‘Wild’ is an adjective I’d use for his brother, never for him. Something is very, very wrong. 

“What did you see?” He grinds out. 

I raise my hands up in surrender. “Easy. I’ve been too busy running for my life to see anything, your honor.”

Swallowing, he blinks a bit, then runs a hand through his mused blond hair and nods.

“Okay. Alright. Well, congratulations.”

“What?”

He gestures to the building with the hand not holding his bow. “You reached the edge of our territory. You won.”

I stare dumbly at him. “What?”

“The rest of the winners must be already inside. When the initiation ends, you’ll officially become a Heathen.”

The statement takes a while to register in my mind. When it does, I shiver, lips curling in disgust.

The rapidly switching scenes on the screen are starting to give Vaughn a migraine. He rubs his temples, trying to ignore his cousin and their friends’ bickering. 

A week ago, the Heathens came back to the US to attend Gabriella Luciano’s wedding. Mia, Maya and Annika got homesick and followed right after them three days later. They’ve all been there since, and while there’s no real reason for them to leave since it’s summer break, the motivation is there, all consuming like an infection. 

Vaughn is practically itching with it. 

He’d like to believe he’s containing it well. However, Vaughn’s normally calm and collected nature means any deviation from it is as blaring as a lighthouse in the dark, no matter how small the change is. 

He’s distracted. He’s easily irritated. 

Irritation on Vaughn doesn’t show up normally, though. It manifests itself as silence. Complete silence, with a rattling edge to it. 

Lidya can feel the rattling vibrate in her ear. Without taking her eyes off the screen, she asks, “did you talk to Allie recently?”

The question wasn’t directed at anyone, but everyone still turns to Vaughn. 

A muscle in his jaw feathers. “No.”

And by 'recently’, he means a day. He hasn’t talked to Alicia for a day. Her last text from yesterday was:

Angel: Hey

Angel: I’ll be really busy all day tomorrow. It’s this thing I have to do. Love you.

Vaughn: What thing?

That text sits unread in his inbox. Vaughn almost booked a ticket to London this morning. 

During Gabriella’s wedding, someone took a picture of Vaughn and Alicia in a ‘passionate embrace’, ‘scandalous position’, ‘intimate situation’, as the media describes it. It didn’t help that only Alicia was shown clearly, while Vaughn’s face was busy buried in her neck—he’s having the picture framed in his apartment. 

Her PR team has been nagging her all week for an official statement, and she had to go back to London the night the picture hit the news two days ago. 

Lidya groans, thumb punching down harder on the remote. The rubber buttons squeak against plastic. “How hard can it fucking be to reach the UK channels?!”

“Lidya.” Her mother, Kristina, sighs. “Language, please.”

Spread on the couch with her head in Kristina’s lap, Karina snorts. Her feet are resting on Kirill, who’s long past trying to push them down. As the youngest of the first generation, Karina gets the same privileges her niece does. 

Save for Vaughn, the rest of the Morozovs are on the L-shaped couch in the corner of the room. Sasha took the long side to stretch her legs, with her head on her husband’s shoulder. Konstantin and his wife are on the other end of the couch, putting Kara as the most inconvenient bridge between the couples. 

The rest of the people in the room–the Heathens, Mia, Maya and Annika–are either spread out on the remaining couches or on the floor. 

Jeremy runs a hand down his face. “Can’t you just tell—”

“Aha!” Lidya finally stops on a channel: The World Star News: Britain. 

Maya visibly perks up. On the floor, leaning back on the couch with Mia, Annika does the same. 

As the resident socialites and gossips of the family, those three know exactly the relevance of this channel; anyone interested in anything celebrities or media related knows of this channel. It’s credible, it’s thorough, and it’s entertaining. 

It’s also one of a network of channels under the same name, but with different managements depending on the country. Lidya often has it on the USA version, so this shift in interest raises every one of Vaughn’s alarms. 

And asking about Alicia? Why would she? 

Alicia’s interview. She never told him the date. Whenever he’d asked, she’d said, “I haven’t decided yet.”

Guess she did. Without telling him. While ignoring him. 

There’s a pang behind his sternum he only acknowledges by crossing his arms. 

“She told you?” Vaughn asks. The measured weight of every word freezes the room in place. 

There’s no need for him to explain what he means; Lidya understands. Used to Vaughn’s attitude since childhood, she remains unfazed at his tone, rolling her eyes to prove it.

“Please. When does your girlfriend tell anyone anything?”

She sounds as hurt as he feels. “I found the news while scrolling through their page. It was, like, this ‘big breaking news’ kind of event. I think they postponed another program for this...”

Grabbing the popcorn bowl from Maya, Lidya scoffs. “She’s my cousin’s girlfriend, and I found out from instagram.” 

She plops down beside him, criss-crossing her legs and bashing the pillows behind her to lie flat. 

 Vaughn takes it back; Lidya sounds more hurt than him.

Seconds later, the screen bathes them all in the golden color of the channel’s logo, then shifts to a man’s face, middle aged, with salt-and-pepper hair swept back in a quiff and in a basic blue suit. 

His smile to the camera is practiced. Bland. Unassuming. 

“Welcome, everyone, to today’s episode. I’m your host, Jessie Allen. And, as usual, I’m coming to you all with the latest news, and dismantling them as we speak.”

Maya leans over Vaughn to grab some popcorn from Lidya, spreading salt and crumbs all over them. His jaw aches from how hard he’s grinding his teeth. 

“All of our guests are special. All of them are valued, and the stories we get from them are unimaginable,” Jessie continues blabbering.

“But, getting today’s guest was a challenge. She’s notoriously difficult to find, and even more difficult to get an interview from. Ms. King, we’re truly honored you’re here.”

Knowing this interview is about Alicia is one thing; seeing her actually sitting there, in the gold interview armchair with her perfect posture and in her perfect white dress, hair in an up-do and hands primly folded in front of her, is another. 

She looks beautiful. It’s a given she does. But there’s something calculated in how she looks now: the soft makeup, the lack of any heavy jewelry, save for Vaughn’s ring and her grandmother’s watch. Alicia loves to accessorize, be it with layered necklaces or a  stack of bracelets. But this look…It’s a costume. An embodiment of her nickname: Angel.

At the smile she gives the interviewer, everyone straightens. Because this smile is not the one she gives all of them. It’s not even a smile you give to strangers you’re being polite to. No. This is how one smiles at a match they’ve seen the end of, and decided they’ve won

She inclines her head at Jessie. “Of course.”

“Oh, this is going to be fun.” Killian murmurs, getting comfortable on the floor beside Mia and Anni.  

Too excited at the chance of interviewing the girl no one could get answers out of, Allen completely misses the bland dismissal of Alicia’s response; a mistake he won’t repeat again. 

“Now, let’s start from the beginning, Ms. King. You’ve been the hottest topic for the past year now. But before that, nothing. No one knows why so little news of you exists. What you’ve been up to for the past years. There’s speculation you’ve been kept in New York. Is it true?”

“I’ve been staying in New York. This was not a Rapunzel situation, Mr. Allen. I don’t have the hair for it.”

Killian cackles, loud and unhinged. From above him on the couch, Jeremy smirks and leans forward, fully interested now. 

A testament to his professionalism, Allen allows only a polite chuckle before continuing on track.

“New York is a great place to disappear in. Or find yourself, some might say. What were you trying to do?”

“Not get harassed by questions and pictures during my awkward pre-teen phase.”

“Ms. King—”

“Trust, no one would’ve seen my face for another ten years if I hadn’t grown into my looks.”

The interviewer opens his mouth, closes it, then grabs the glass of water on his side-table and takes a sip. Alicia watches him do all of this with the same relaxed smile on her face. 

Allen clears his throat. “The leading theory is you've been sent there due to your deteriorating mental health.”

“The theorists' experimental method needs some work.”

“It’s because of your grandmother.”

At that, Alicia pauses. Her smile—her entire expression—flatlines. 

Noting the shift in the air, and picking his next words carefully, Allen elaborates:

“The late Alicia King had a couple of mental health issues – psychosis, delirium, severe anxiety and depression. Would you say that predisposes you to having any of them?”

There’s a heavy silence for a few seconds, poignant enough for Allen to start shifting under Alicia’s gaze. His shoulders pull back, gearing up for the full force of her offence. 

Eventually, she shrugs. “According to the DSM-5. Unless there's been an update recently. I'm afraid I haven't kept up.”

The man’s shoulders drop. “Well…yes. Theoretically, it would be a risk factor to you if she —”

“Genetically.”

“What?”

“Not theoretically, then. The association would be purely genetic. Hereditary, if you will.”

Lidya snorts around a mouthful of popcorn. Under her breath, Maya mumbles “bitch”,  but not unkindly. 

By now, the direction Alicia is taking this interview is quite obvious to Jessie Allen. It’s also obvious to anyone watching he’s holding onto his professionalism by a strand. 

“Right. So, you did get some of her mental illnesses?”

“Oh, yes. She wrote it in her will.”

“Excuse me?”

Alicia purses her lips. “I thought it a bit unfair. You see, Eli got her looks, Creighton got her likeability, and all I got is her namesake and a diagnosis.” 

“Don’t you think it crude to make a joke of this?”

“Don’t you think it crude to bring her up at all?”

The humor is completely gone out of her voice. In its place is something low and ready to attack. Something biting, and Allen senses it. Allen regrets tempting it. 

He’s been operating under the assumption this is all a joke to her. That she’s making light of all of this. But she’s not, isn’t she? She’s putting him in his place, and he has no idea how to get out of it. 

“May she rest in peace,” he offers an olive branch. 

To anyone else, Alicia’s face remains impassive. Cold. The Frozen King of everyone’s assumptions. 

But Vaughn sees the tension around her mouth as she replies, “the dead are better left dead, Mr. Allen.”

Kristina puts a hand to her chest. “My gosh.” 

Referencing the cards in his lap, Allen shifts the topic. “The reason for your popularity surge last year was due to an article. One written by Walker Teller. Have you read it?”

Alicia chuckles. “Genuinely, I’d like to meet someone in London who hasn’t read it.”

“It caused quite the disruption.”

“It was an article, not an earthquake, Jessie.”

Niko throws his head back and laughs, holding onto an annoyed Gareth. The blond shoves him away. 

To his credit, Allen snickers. “It was…speculative, I’ll admit. On some things. But the kidnapping attempts. Those are true. Those are documented.”

For once in his life, Nikolai settles down. The Carson brothers stare unblinkingly at the TV, but Jeremy’s gaze flickers to Vaughn. He’d like to believe he’s the best of them at reading Vaughn, but that’s not entirely true. No one can truly read Vaughn. And right now is no exception. 

He watches his girlfriend on the screen with his arms crossed and his gaze set and not one clear emotion on his face. 

Alicia leans back in her chair and rests her chin on her palm. “Go on.”

Allen takes another sip of water, giving himself a moment to reorient his thoughts, his composure. 

“You were on a farm. In some barn you claimed Richard Maxwell kept you in for four days. But, when you were found, it was all on fire. Only you survived it. Was the fire before or after you escaped?”

“What did the police reports say?”

Allen blinks. “They…state that the fire's origin is from a broken oil lamp, and you did have some ash on your person.”

“And what were my statements in those same reports?”

“That you don’t remember how the fire happened. You only remember the open barn door and your escape through it.”

Alicia waves her hand. “There’s your answer.”

The fire is a big point of contention because it never touched Alicia. Even though both barn doors were locked, one from the inside and the other from the outside, even though she had some ash on her, proving she was present when the fire started, Alicia got out, while her capturers didn’t. 

‘That’s not an answer!’ Jessie wants to scream. Instead, he leans forward and urges, “it’s been eight years, Ms. King. Surely you remember something more.”

“I lived those four days. Unlike the public, I have no interest in revisiting them eight years later.”

She says this without inflection. Without a hitch to her voice. Without sounding like those four days hadn’t re-shaped the trajectory of her life, the trajectory of her mind.  

Vaughn watches her closely. 

Alicia’s fingers are clasped together on her lap. It may appear casual, normal, but one hand presses against the other with more pressure, pulling her fingers back slightly more than is comfortable. It's the hand with Vaughn's ring on it. 

“What can you tell us of those four days?”

“Worst. Weekend. Ever.”

“Bitch.”  Maya grins and Lidya furiously texts people on her phone and Mia's face fills with respect and Vaughn…

Vaughn’s worried, because now Alicia is twisting the ring on her finger. To anyone, the action would look idle, maybe signifying boredom; Vaughn is not anyone. 

“Alright.” Allen rubs his beard, which is whiter than the rest of his hair. “Alright. The article also detailed another abduction attempt by one of your family’s staff members. The gardner, Mitchell Kart. He said there was a relationship between you two.”

“I suppose he’d say anything to stay out of prison.”

“Are you saying he lied?”

She tilts her head. “All I’ll say is that he’s still in prison.”

The couch creaks. Karina sits up and stares at the TV, a side of her pale blonde hair mussed. She turns to her nephew. “I don’t get it. Is she confirming or denying it?”

Lidya answers for him, practically vibrating in place. “Neither! She’s not giving him anything. It’s fucking brilliant.” 

She waves her phone around. “Everyone online is going wild.”

“People believe your family silenced him,” Allen continues, voice drowning out Lidya's last words. “They believe he’s innocent.”

“Yeah,” Alicia muses, “well, I’m sure people can dig deep and find members of the jury to argue with them on that.” 

As he puts them down, Allen’s cards clank against the glass side-table, rattling the half-empty water cup on it. He pinches the bridge of his nose, not unlike a disappointed father.

“Ms. King, you seem…uninterested in clearing your name.”

“On what?”

“Your mental health. The claims of your family covering up their crimes.”

Alicia pushes back the strands of hair framing her face. “The public has seemingly already decided their opinions on both. I’m not running in circles trying to change their minds.” 

“Don’t you care about what people think of you?”

“No.”

Plain and simple. Not a twitch to her lips or a change in her face to suggest otherwise. 

Gareth chuckles. “Frozen King for a fucking reason.”

From across the room, Konstantin purses his lips. “Why not try to win the public over? It may benefit her to be a bit more…agreeable.”

“Oh, my sweet, sweet father.” Lidya replies, shaking her head. “There’s no ‘winning the public’ when it comes to a scandal. People always want more drama. More answers. More talk. If she starts giving them an inch, they'll ask for a mile and then some.”

“Besides,” Maya drawls, picking at her long, red nails. “This is King at her most agreeable.” 

“Why did you offer to do this interview, Ms. King?” Allen asks, completely abandoning any notions of politeness. “Why be here at all?”

He's going off-script. Anyone watching could feel it: the exacerbation pulling the words out of him despite the planned lines he’s supposed to follow, the confusion narrowing his eyes and furrowing his brows despite all of his professional experience. Such an expression should not be on an interviewer's face. He should be able to get answers, not scrape for them. 

Alicia peers at him, eyes a deep grey made darker under the harsh white lights of the room and the soft makeup meant to make her look angelic, innocent, a victim. 

She looks at him until Allen starts shifting in his seat. 

The runtime of the episode ticks by, and he's aware of it. He's also aware of the sweat sliding down his neck. No matter how much he wants to, Allen can't take the question back. And he desperately wants to take it back. 

Ultimately, Alicia offers a smile and a shrug. “I was bored.”

It’s Killian who cackles this time, clapping his hands like this is the best show he’s seen in a while.

Running her fingers through her hair, Annika starts laughing, too. “My Tchaikovsky.” She turns to Vaughn, grinning. “No wonder she drives you crazy.”

“All Kings are like that.” Niko complains. “You have to fucking beg and bleed for a drop of their affection.”

The back of Mia’s ears turns red. Thankfully, her brother has the awareness of a raccoon on steroids and doesn’t notice. 

Killian stretches his arms above his head, the image of arrogance and absolute self-assuredness. “Speak of yourself.”

“Right,” Gareth mumbles in a way meant to be heard. “Some of you got waterboarded for it.”

Sasha springs upright on the couch. “What?” 

Jeremy clears his throat. “It's nothing, Mrs. Morozova.”

She opens her mouth to argue that no, actually, it's not nothing, when Kirill pulls her back to him and directs her attention back to Alicia’s interview. 

A wink to Jeremy is his only acknowledgement of the interaction. 

On the screen, Allen rubs his beard and sighs, recognizing the futility of trying to get Alicia’s history anymore. 

He switches tactics.

“What’s next for you, Ms. King?” He deflates in his chair, choosing a lighter line of questions. “You attended Mrs. Gabriella Conti’s wedding last week. Should we expect to see you in any more events in the future?”

Alicia’s response to this question is as luke-warm as the ones about her kidnapping. Though she does mentally note the sudden topic-shift. 

“Well,” she starts, “my brother and most of my friends are engaged, so I’ll be attending many weddings in the upcoming years. Those will keep me plenty occupied.”

An idea sparks into Allen's head. It's a cheap move for an interviewer of his caliber, but he's desperate for anything from Alicia King. Any answers. Any glimpse into the girl behind the challenge she's choosing to be. 

He drums his fingers on the arm rests, aiming for non-chalance. “It must be pretty lonely, being the single one among those many couples.” 

Alicia sees right through him, and expects the question as it comes:

“Unless, you’re not single at all…”

Now, here's the thing about Alicia King. The thing Jessie Allen will figure out in his dressing room later, after ruminating on it for hours and smoking half a pack of cigarettes: he couldn't catch Alicia by surprise simply because he couldn’t catch it. Surprise, like the rest of her emotions, was under a tight leash. Under her complete control. 

Any emotion on her face—or lack thereof—was by design, not impulse. 

Her smile turns predatory, showing teeth. “Nice lead-up.”

He swallows, sensing the lie and feeling the bite all in one. “Thank you. It’s my job. Now, tell us, are you single?”

‘Us’, because the public needs to know. They have to know everything about the people they see on their screens. It’s their right. But, Alicia is not a celebrity. She didn’t sign up for this or ask for it by being born a King.

People leave their families to get famous; she left them to heal in private, away from the cameras, and the questions, and the constant speculations about every aspect of herself. None of it was enough. 

“No. I’m not.”

Vaughn feels eyes on him; he keeps his focus on the screen. 

Allen hasn’t prepared for this: honesty, straightforwardness. She’s switching her pattern in the middle of the interview, and he takes a moment to switch back into ‘questioning’, not ‘scrambling’, mode. 

“I’m assuming your significant other is the man you were pictured kissing in Mr. and Mrs. Conti's wedding. Correct?”

“Assuming otherwise would be calling me a cheater.”

“No—I…”

For the first time since the meeting started, Vaughn smirks. 

Back on the screen, Allen shakes his head and continues, “what can you tell us about him? Is he perhaps a public figure himself?”

Alicia drums her fingers on the cushioned chair’s armrest, contemplating her answer. 

A corner of her lips rises. “He’s…a mystery.”

One of Allen's eyelids twitches. “Ms. King—”

“It’s how he’d like to be described.”

In the Morozov household, many snickers echo through the living room. Lidya leans into Vaughn’s personal space and teases, “a mystery. Oh, how fun. Because you’re very mysterious, Khitraya lisa, aren’t you?”

“Well, he can’t be a mystery anymore.” Allen takes another gulp of his glass of water; it’s almost empty now. “That picture is everywhere, Ms. King. There’s a rumor going around. Apparently, the person who took it sold it for five million dollars before it got released.”

Alicia’s brows rise. “Really?”

“Yes. It’s been quite the—”

“Only five?”

Kirill laughs, the sound deep and startlingly loud given how little he emits it. The Morozovs watch him as if he barked.

“Did Landon coach her for this?” Mia ponders aloud.

Gareth's reply to his cousin is laced with a long-suffering sigh. “No. Alicia could give a course on how to be uncooperative all on her own.” 

On the couch, Vaughn's smirk widens, and everyone acts like they don’t see it. 

Jessie Allen runs his tongue over his teeth. “Ms. King, are you media trained?”

“Excessively.”

When the man runs a hand through his hair, clearly exacerbated, Alicia snickers.

“I think the description you were looking for, Jessie, was compliant.”

“In which case, the answer is undoubtedly no.”

She winks at him. “We’re starting to get each other.”

No, they weren’t. That’s precisely Allen’s problem. 

The interviewer shakes his head, trying to regain some semblance of his journalistic integrity. 

“Since the man would like to remain a mystery, and you’d rather not reveal anything about him, can we assume this is not a serious relationship?”

Something interesting happens then. Something the cameras—in all their hyper-focus lenses and thousands of dollars in quality—catch quite plainly: Alicia’s gaze darkens, her focus becoming less passive, more icy. Nothing else on her face shifts. 

As the target of her merciless attention, Allen shivers. He interlinks his fingers to stop himself from reaching for the glass of water again. 

“Oh, it is, Mr. Allen,” she says slowly, the warning clear in every word. "If I valued it any less, maybe then I could let the world have a piece of it.”

Vaughn feels the room get infinitely hotter. 

On either side of him, the couch creaks as Lidya and Maya turn to look at each other, then at him. Lidya’s phone relentlessly dings between them.

“That—” Maya points at the screen. “—is the most romantic shit I have ever heard a King say.”

Killian is typing something on his phone, grinning like the psycho he is. “Glyn says Eli and Creighton are losing their shit. Well done, Morozov.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Didn’t do anything!?” Anni screeches. “This is nothing short of a public claim, Vaughn! Especially from a King.”

“She was less heated when they were talking about her past,” Jeremy teases, “but clearly your relationship with her is a red-line.”

Even Allen could sense so, because the interviewer licks his lips and nods without asking for a follow-up. 

Reaching for her own glass of water, Alicia sips it carefully, a soft pink coloring her cheeks. 

“Vaughn.”

At the call of Sasha, everyone turns to look at her. She keeps her eyes on her son. 

“No pressure, but you need to marry her. I’m getting attached.”

“Full pressure,” Lidya adds, “you can’t do better. Marry her quickly.”

He will. All in due time. Afterall, they’re meant to be together; Vaughn’s made it clear to her, and she’s made it clear to the world. Now, he only has to confirm it. 

“Uncle Kosta.” Vaughn rises and approaches his uncle. The blonde man raises an eyebrow. 

While his father handles the family’s dark businesses behind the scenes, Uncle Konstantin handles the legitimate front of the family. Including anything involving their public image. 

“How fast can you get our publicist to release a statement?”

Alicia hasn't moved in what feels like hours. 

Her phone, laying face-down on the mattress beside her, keeps blinking with notification lights every few minutes; she stopped counting at fifty. 

Keeping track of who’s trying to get a hold of her is a useless act. It’s everyone. Everyone wants explanations. Answers. Demands. The public wants to know the ins and outs of her life. The PR team is demanding action to rectify the situation. Her parents downstairs want to know if she’s alright. 

Alicia told herself, ‘I’ll lie down for a bit, then I’ll explain. Explain to my parents, to the PR team, to Vaughn.’

That was…what feels like hours ago. 

Her heels are someplace on the floor, dejected from where she took them off in the near-dark. ‘Near-dark’ because there are constantly lit sconces in her room. A remnant of her childhood trauma. A reminder of a weakness. 

She swings her legs against the edge of the bed a bit, feeling childish. She needs to get up and explain why she didn’t tell anyone about the interview. Why, yesterday morning, she got so fed up with the rumors, and the unending discussion about her, and decided to give John Allen, Jessie Allen’s brother, the interview he’s been desperate for. 

It was supposed to be a calculated, collaborative decision between her, her family and the PR team, whose job it is to feed her lines satisfying the public. Except, she had no interest in satisfying the public, so she didn’t inform them.

She didn’t tell her parents because they’re already worried for her, and their need to protect her would override her desire to shut down the claims about her once and for all. 

But, she has no idea why she didn’t tell Vaughn. Maybe it's for the same reason she didn’t tell her parents? Maybe it was shame, about what happened to her being relayed to him over, and over again?

On the ride home, she tried texting him an apology for keeping this a secret, before deleting the message. She doesn’t want his disappointment. She doesn't need to force herself into another conversation she’s not ready to face. 

The phone rings, and Alicia has had enough of it. She picks it up and puts it on airplane mode. The world’s been wondering about her for years; they’ll survive another day. 

She still needs to get up, but every one of her muscles ache, and her feet are getting numb. 

A knock on the door shakes the quiet in the room. 

If she doesn’t answer, whomever’s on the other side will think she’s asleep. She’ll be left alone for just a few more—

The door rattles open, and there’s only one fucker in this family with enough audacity to open doors without permission.

“How pathetic, cousin,” Landon taunts, “you live like this?”

Her room is perfectly organised, but Landon was referring to the pile of childhood plushies on her bed she doesn’t have the heart to outgrow. 

Alicia continues staring at the ceiling, hoping he’ll leave her alone if she ignores him. 

First mistake: one does not simply ignore Landon King.

“Impressive interview, Little King. I knew you were sneaky, I just never realized to what extent.”

If she doesn’t stop this, he’ll continue talking just for the sake of hearing himself. “What do you want, Landon?”

Another person who wants something. Another thing she needs to work her words around. The ache in her muscles intensifies. 

“Manners dictate you look at the person you’re talking to, Cousin.”

Alicia grabs one of her plushies, rage giving her enough energy to get up just to fling the soft mass at him. Except, she doesn’t, pausing with the plushie hanging from her grip in the air. 

Landon is in his pajamas. Landon wouldn’t be caught dead in anything less than a refined button-up or a luxurious linen shirt.

“Did you…directly come from home just to taunt me?”

Crossing his arms, he scoffs. “As if you’re that important. I came directly from home because Vaughn Morozov is downstairs.”

“What?!” Alicia springs up, dropping the plushie somewhere on the floor. She almost trips on her heels on her way out.

Second mistake: believing Landon King. 

Because when Alicia makes her way downstairs, she doesn’t find Vaughn—whom she wouldn’t mind seeing now, actually—but finds her cousins, brothers, and friends, all in their pajamas. 

Her brows furrow. “What is this?”

“A slumber party.” Glyn grins. “You remember those, don’t you? Ours were epic.”

“They were. But why now?”

They look at Eli. Her brother shrugs, hands in the pockets of his blue-and-black plaid pajama pants. “I thought you might need one. They used to make you feel better.”

There’s an alarming prickling behind her eyes. “You hated those slumber parties. Yet, you invited them all here?”

He shrugs again, but over Eli’s shoulder, Creighton nods. 

Rubbing at the dampness around her eyes, Alicia chuckles. “You old softie. I knew you had a heart somewhere.”

“I do not,” he denies.

“He doesn’t,” Ava denies it, too. 

She ignores her husband's stare and approaches Alicia with a wide grin, her pink silk night-gown reflecting the foyers lights. “Now, let's get you into the most comfortable pajamas you have and get this party started!”

Three hours later, the party—rewatching Alicia’s interview and laughing mercilessly at her misery—stops because news from the Morozov family’s publicist hits all media sites:

The party then shifted into an intervention to talk Eli and Creighton down from their murderous intentions; a valiant, failing endeavor. Especially with Landon there stoking the fire. 

For now, Ava was able to taunt Eli enough into ignoring the issue, and Creighton calmed down after getting offered one of Brandon’s delicious, warm hot chocolates.

Sometime past midnight, everyone—minus Creighton and Eli who left to sleep in their rooms—spread out their sleeping bags.

It’s dark in the living room, except for the light blaring from Alicia’s phone. 

She blinks at the message Vaughn sent, a giddy feeling building in her stomach. 

Vaughn: You should’ve told me about the interview.

Vaughn: We could’ve kissed and gotten the rumors cleared up way faster.

Alicia: Is that so?

Vaughn: I’m being practical, Dragotsennaya. 

Vaughn: So, who should we scandalize first: the US or English public?

Alicia: good night Vaughn

That night, reminded of her family and her partner’s love and support, even after keeping secrets from them, she sleeps with a light feeling in her chest.

Anyway, Vaughn gets weird around her. He gets quiet, which isn’t unusual for him. No. The weirdness comes from the fact he lags when she’s near him. I can’t blame him too much; it’s like she challenges him with every other sentence, which makes him lose ground. Lose focus. 

Vaughn has always been focused. He has sort of an obsessive personality. Even when we were kids, if his attention latches on something, he’s not leaving it alone until he’s completely figured it out. So why is this girl, who as far as I know he’s only met twice, captivating him?

Like right now. We’re all in the fight club–Heathens and Elites–to discuss what happened three days ago. I watch her step towards Vaughn languidly until they’re face to face, blonde hair flowing behind her.

“The best I can do for you, Mr. Morozov,” she says, “is remain in Brighton until you’re done with it. Good?”

They’re talking about her phone in his hand. Vaughn needs the phone to look into who attacked Mia three days ago. He said she needs to stay with him at the Heathen’s mansion. She told him the polite, British equivalent of “go fuck yourself.” Now, she’s flirting with him. 

My gaze flickers to Gaz, who’s not only Vaughn’s best friend, but also apparently went to high school with mystery King over here. He's trying so hard to hide a smirk at Vaughn’s absolute speechlessness. Actually, all the Heathens are looking at them knowingly with amused grins. 

“Alicia,” my brother's boyfriend calls out to his cousin, and she jumps like a kid caught stealing from the cookie jar. Though her face is all red, she still raises her head with all the King arrogance I’ve come to loathe and walks away. 

Vaughn looks like he wants to eat her. 

I lean over the ropes of the boxing ring and warn, “Vaughn, stop looking at her like she’s food, and you’re some starving animal. Her brothers might actually kill you.”

“They can try.”

My eyebrows rise at the serious way he said that. It would’ve been more normal if he’d ignored me, but something about what I said annoyed him. Maybe, it’s the insinuation her brothers might stop him if he did go after her. It’s been forever since I’ve seen Vaughn want someone. For anything. 

Vaughn’s expression is as readable as blank paper, so I decide to target his pretty princess for answers. 

“Hey, King!”

The six Kings present turn to look at me at the same time. I swear that family is a cult. I focus on the blonde one and ask, “did any of those losers take you shopping yet?”

Taking the chance when she shakes her head, I use Vaughn for support and jump down from the ring. My Jimmy Choo’s clank on the floor, proving their worth by not breaking. Vaughn looks mildly impressed. Or concerned. I can’t really tell and I don’t care much. 

Grabbing King’s arm, I pull her towards the door and shout over my shoulder, “Mia, other girl King, you’re coming with. The chauffeur is waiting.”

I don’t give any of them a choice. One way or another, I’m figuring out what this girl is to Vaughn.

“Why did you bring her along, Maya?” Mia asks from the backseat. Stalling for an answer, I pick at my nails. 

It’s annoying how much she likes mystery King. Actually, it’s annoying how much everyone likes her. Sure, she saved Mia’s life. But we can owe her without liking her. 

Lidya glances from the rear window at the car driving behind us. Since Nika decided to come on this shopping trip, we’ve had to take two cars so I wouldn’t have to suffer through her nauseating, chatty presence. For my sanity, we threw the preppy, posh bitches together. 

“I’m actually glad you did,” Lidya beams, twirling a blonde curl around her finger. “She’s really cool.”

She’s fine. At best. 

I pick at my cuticles, resisting the urge to just bite it off. 

“Maya, you will not antagonize her,” my sister stresses. “She’s been through enough.”

“Oh, what a martyr.” I drawl, not bringing up the obvious fact we’ve also been through some shit. Sure, girl King was kidnapped like us, but she’s a future doctor and her family’s angel and can do no wrong. Therefore, she deserves all the sympathy in the world. She’s beloved by the entire King clan and for some reason, by the Heathens, too; she’s fooled them all. Apparently, even Vaughn.

A girl like her hides things behind the overt politeness and the pretty smiles. It’s all a fucking scam. I’m sure of it. 

I give up and bite the frayed cuticle off. It bleeds, leaving a wound, and this only aggravates me more. 

The pretty princess is a tough nut to crack. 

I’ve been trying to rile her up for the past hour, but the fucking ice block only replies to my questions with passive, useless answers. 

“What’s it like in New York?”

“Crowded.”

“Did you meet anyone interesting there?”

“My friends.”

“Studying to be a doctor? How nerdy of you.”

“That’s the stereotype, yes.”

ChatGPT has more personality than this bitch.

At this point, I don’t care about figuring out what she is to Vaughn; I just want to make her emote. 

I push through a bunch of clothes on the rack. The metal hangers scrape against each other. “You know, it was pretty bold to leave your phone with Vaughn. Aren’t you afraid he’ll find some weird stuff there?”

Her lips twitch. “And why should I care?”

“Maybe I’ll go through it, too. I’m sure he won’t deny me.”

She hangs back the brown coat in her hand then inspects a white blouse beside it. Her movements are cold. Calm…Too calm. 

“I’m sure he won’t. You’re his girlfriend afterall.”

I’m not Vaughn’s girlfriend, but I don’t correct Ice King over here because finally, some heat enters her words. 

I smirk. “So, you have nothing to hide? Nothing to be ashamed of?”

“No, I don’t. Much to your disappointment."

“Much to my disappointment?” I mock. “Please. You’re not interesting enough for me to care.”

“Then why are you asking so much? What are you trying to prove?”

I pause. She finally picks her gaze from the white blouse to peer at me. Grinding my teeth, I whirl around and look through the rack, violently slamming each piece of clothing against each other. 

This righteous, psycho-analytical bitch is even worse than Jeremy’s nun girlfriend.

“Let me tell you, Maya,” she starts, “because you want something to be wrong with me. You want me to actually be a terrible person hiding my true, awful nature, so you can feel better about yourself.”

I want to shut her out, but I’m still standing in front of an ugly, bright orange dress listening to her babbling. 

“So your anger and loneliness can be justified.”

Who does she think she is? My therapist? Fuck her. I want to slap her. To curse and tell her she can go fuck herself. But, my throat closes up, and I swallow down and grind my teeth until my jaw aches. Realising I don’t have to continue listening to her, I turn and walk away.

“I am angry, Maya.” 

There’s a shift in her tone, making my feet stop. I know that tone. It’s the same defeated tone I use when I’ve bitched, been mean, cruel, and it did nothing. Fixed nothing. It’s the tone I use when I realise whatever’s wrong with me—whatever makes me push people away—will always be wrong, and I just have to accept it. 

“I’m always angry,” she admits quietly. Shamefully. “I’m always lonely, and I think I’ll always feel lonely. But, the biggest ‘Fuck you’ I could give the men who tried to harm me is live, and live well. I wanted to become better not just for myself, but for everyone around me.”

She puts a hand on my shoulder. Her skin is cold, but her next words are warm. “There’s no right way to survive trauma. We just have to live with whatever’s wrong with us after.”

I still hate her, but she may be more interesting than the other Elite bitches.

We’re all in a cafe fashioned like a dollhouse, with pale pink walls and delicate golden frames. The teacups and mugs look like something from a little girl’s bedroom, and each table has tiny vases with a single daisy in them. Shopping bags of designer brands line at our feet, and under the white marble table. 

Sipping my green tea, I tune out Lidya’s excited chatter about something or another. I love her, but the girl is like a bunny on steroids. When we were younger, she was my go to for anything because of how adventurous she is. Oh, we had so much fun causing the worst kind of trouble. Usually, it involved pranking or annoying Vaughn.

Speaking of which, he’s now the topic of conversation, and Ice King is trying to hide her intrigue by swallowing her tea. 

“ —he made me this pink Birkin out of Legos. It looks amazing in my room.” She passes her phone around to show us the Lego bag Vaughn built for her. Killian’s girlfriend—I know her name, it’s just too convoluted to remember every time— marvels at the picture, while the other King present smiles at it. A small, secretive smile. Like she’s seen this picture before, but is playing us all. 

“He seems really sweet,” she mumbles. 

 Lidya rolls her eyes. “It’s to make up for the fact he’s a monster the other half of the time.”

Alicia nods, but says nothing else. Nika, after swallowing a bite of her croissant, says “I’ve only ever known Vaughn to be sweet.” 

She turns to King with a grin. “His mother, Aunt Sasha, raised him right. Even my father likes him, and he doesn’t like anybody.”

Munching on a macaroon, Mia tilts her head towards Lidya and asks, “hey, what did you do about that theory of yours? About his secret girlfriend?”

Alicia stiffens, her teacup stuck halfway to her mouth. Her eyes seem to be calculating things mid-air. This is the most emotion I’ve seen on her face all day. 

Finally, she looks at me with her brows furrowed. I wink at the same time Lidya groans, “she exists! I know she does.”

“Liddy, there’s no way he could hide her for, like, a year now.” Nika challenges. Lidya points a finger at her. “It’s Vaughn. Tell me he can’t if he really wants to.”

We all stay quiet. Truth is, Vaughn is unstoppable once his mind is set on something. I guess it’s why Lego building works for him. I guess it’s why a lot of things work for him. He never gives up on anything, especially when it’s challenging to him. He becomes monstrous in his focus.

“Secret…girlfriend?” King mumbles, gaze flickering to me. Lidya rambles on, unaware Alicia’s eyes are on me the whole time. “Yeah, yeah. It seems weird, but it’s the only thing explaining his change.”

“How so?”

Lidya twirls one of her curls while thinking. “He’s…softer, now. I don’t know how to explain it. It’s like his focus shifted to something—someone—and is completely stuck there. He’s always on his phone, texting someone readily, when he’s never done that. He sometimes comes to family dinner with his ice skates wet, and a weird, content smile on his face. It freaks me out. And there’s this pen.”

“What pen?” Nika asks. 

Lidya purses her lips, digging a fork into her waffles. “He has this black pen that he never uses, just takes out to admire. If he bought it for himself, he would’ve used it. The fact he’s keeping it safe makes me believe it was a gift from her.”

“Oh.” 

We all turn to Alicia, whose face is unreadable as she claims, “your theory sounds plausible, Lidya.”

Lidya slams both hands on the table, rattling the silverware and tiny vase. A couple of people turn to look at her outburst. “Thank you! Finally, someone believes me.”

“I’m starting to believe you, too,” other girl King says, “and I don’t even know him.” 

Then your input is unnecessary, so shut up. 

“Maybe Vaughn’s girlfriend is from here” I muse, staring at Alicia. She stares back and, credit where credit is due, her poker face is scary good. By now, she probably figured out that I was lying to her. Or maybe she thinks I meant me.

Lidya takes my question another way. “From Brighton? Impossible. When would they even meet?”

“At the initiation.” Nika proposes.

King chokes on her tea. Other King and Mia pat her back as she coughs and wipes her mouth with a napkin. She asks between gulps of air, “what does Vaughn have to do with the initiation?” 

I sip my tea to hide my smirk. Got you, Ice King. So, whatever her business is with Vaughn, it has to do with the initiation. 

“Don’t you know, King.” I say, “Vaughn comes to the initiation because he’s a part of it. He’s White mask.”

Alicia’s entire face shuts down. It’s kinda…terrifying, actually. Like she forced every part of her face to relax so she could hide what she's feeling. 

“Guys, there’s no way she’s here.” Lidya shakes her hand, dismissing the idea. “If Vaughn is anything like Uncle Kirill, there’s no way he’s separating from the girl he loves. He would’ve followed her here, no matter what.”

Mia and Annika nod at Lidya, while I bask in the glow of cracking a King. 

After another half hour of talking, we all decided to head home. Two very interesting things happened before that though:

One: Kings invited us to Ava Nash’s bachelorette party. I was going to refuse; I don’t need their pity invite and lame party. But, that wasn’t the interesting part. It was when Lidya said, “can I bring a plus-one?”

Alicia nodded. “Sure, may I ask who it is?”

My friend cleared her throat, stalling for an answer. Mia, Annika and I glanced at each other, trying to glean if any of us knew who else Lidya might know in the UK.

After a second more, Lidya confessed. “Sofia Conti.”

My heart began to beat faster. “Sofia Conti…the rockstar? That Sofia Conti?”

Lidya nodded, and I nearly screamed in the middle of the posh mall, with its even posher patrons. 

Oh my God. My friend is friends with my favourite rockstar. Oh my God. There’s absolutely no way we’re missing that party. 

Two: Alicia King stopped by a shop and stared at a mannequin. Specifically, at the silver chain belt hanging off the mannequin's plastic waist. Her eyes shifted to another mannequin, with a golden chain belt this time. 

I saw gears shifting in her head before she said, “could I have a minute, please? I just need to get something real quick.”

She came out ten minutes later with a bag sounding like a coin jar, and I knew then she got those belts. Those chain belts.

This King is definitely not as innocent as she’d like everyone to believe. Not even close. 

That night, I corner Vaughn’s bodyguard, Ivan, in the kitchen. 

“Did Vaughn invite Alicia King to the initiation?”

“Yes,” he says between sips of his energy drink. 

Blinking rapidly, I gape at him. I prepared a list of clues, reasons and lead-up questions, and this nonchalant fucker just made them all useless. 

Ivan closes the fridge’s door and moves around me. Grabbing his arm, I turn him to face me. He raises a brow, but stays still. 

“Why?”

“Ask him.”

“I’m asking you.”

He smirks. “And I don’t want to answer you. Also, my arm, please.”

After releasing him, I wipe the hand that was touching him on my pants. He snorts, but continues gulping his drink.

“Is she his secret girlfriend?”

Ivan sets his drink down on the kitchen island. “I see someone’s been spending a lot of time with Ms. Morozova.”

“You talk too much. Just be useful and answer me.”

His lips twist in annoyance. I notice his gaze flicker to the door behind me, before he straightens, and a slow smirk spreads on his face. 

“What’ll you give me if I do?” He taunts, voice dropping an octave. 

I slap him. My palm stings, and I hear myself growling, “I have a boyfriend, motherfucker.”

“I know.” He grins, and I’m about to slap him again at the fucking audacity, when arms encircle me from behind. Strong, warm arms I’d know anywhere. 

“Easy, moya zvezda.” Ilay soothes. “Ivan’s annoying but not threatening.”

The man in question rubs his cheek, then fucking winks at me. I struggle against Ilay’s hold, intent on punching the guy this time. “You didn’t hear what he said to me. He—”

“I heard, and I know he didn’t mean anything by it because he has a girlfriend himself.”

What? So this asshole just wanted to rile me up. 

Meeting my glare with a bored look, Ivan gulps his drink and walks out. At the door, he pauses and jerks his chin at us. “Loyal, that one. Good pick, Blondie.”

I don’t know which one of us he means, and I don’t really care anymore about anything that fucker has to say.  

“Want to explain why you were even talking to him?” Ilay asks against my head. I turn around in his hold. Now, my temple is to his lips and he places a small kiss there. 

“I was asking him questions about Vaughn. And like you, he’s loyal to his master and wouldn’t answer me.”

After a few seconds of silence, he says, “you’re really close to Vaughn. Aren’t you?” There’s some tension in his tone.

I back away to peer up at him. “Why? Jealous?”

Ilay doesn’t say anything, but from his look alone, I can tell he is. 

“Aww,” I coo, stroking his face. “Don’t worry, baby. I’ve known Vaughn since we were kids. Trust me, we’re not each other’s types.”

“But he does care about you.”

He does, in his own way. His way involves beating my boyfriend to make sure he’s worthy of me, but it also involves listening to me whenever I need him to. It involved him never ignoring my calls, no matter how busy he is, and building me up when I returned to New York after I felt like I lost everyone. He was always there for me. 

Maybe that’s why I pushed so hard to figure out who King is to him. Maybe, I want to make sure she’s worthy of him, too. Or maybe I was just feeling bitchy.

It doesn’t matter, what matters now is cheering up my lowkey jealous boyfriend. “He can care, doesn’t mean I’m his. I’m yours, Ilya Levitsky.”

His lips claim mine in a hard kiss, stealing my breath. I sigh into it, and he uses the chance to push his tongue into my mouth. I moan softly, grabbing at his black shirt to pull him closer. He cradles my face and twists my head to deepen the kiss.

Kissing him always feels like a gift. A prize I’m never sure I deserve, but I have anyway and I’m too selfish to ever let go. 

Panting, we pull away only to lean our foreheads against each other, not wanting to separate yet.

“You came back to me when I thought I’d have to let you go.” I whisper, “do you know what that means?”

“It means I was always meant to be yours, moya zvezda.”

“Yes. You’re meant to be mine.”