#akm

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.