Then … the first explosion sounded.
It ricocheted around the world like a ring of Saturn.
Both Arthur and I cried out at the pain ringing in our ears. He stumbled backward as the windows of the Clubhouse suddenly detonated outward, raining in an almighty storm of glittering shards.
“Boom!” Grasshopper laughed, clapping his hands as Arthur staggered toward his brothers.
“Perfect night for fireworks, huh, Kill?” Mo winked, his face alight with erupting fire.
Another explosion followed, thumping through the night sky like a battle drum. The pressure of it sent shock waves pulsing around us.
Larger and larger.
Hungrier and hungrier.
Dagger Rose was completely engulfed.
The bigger the flames became, the more entranced I was.
Fire had hurt me. Fire had almost killed me.
But I couldn’t hate or fear it.
That was the thing with flames. It was neither friend nor foe. It had no feelings or agendas. One moment it was a necessity of life: a giver of both heat and safety; then, without warning, it could become the greatest of enemies.
I’d crawled through its painful embrace.
I wore its mark upon my skin.
I was part flame, part human.
And in a way, I understood it. Appreciated its singular purpose with no favorites between wicked and right.
We stood silently, each wrapped up in the symphony of explosions rocking the night around us. And as I watched my old home become consumed by fiery teeth, I felt a purging.
A release.
I hoped Arthur felt it, too. I hoped he’d finally begun the journey to moving past the hatred and finding salvation.
My amnesia still toyed with my memories, but I knew enough of my birthright that our enemies should quake in terror at the formidable force Arthur and I would create.
This was just the beginning.
This was the start of our reign.
Holding out my arms, I hung in Arthur’s embrace, giving myself once again to the fire.
Only this time, I didn’t burn.
I glowed.
Chapter Eight
Kill
I could solve any equation.
I could find any sequence or pattern.
But I was completely idiotic when it came to understanding Cleo Price.
She said she wanted me as her friend. Yet when I did my utmost to remain in the parameters of friendship, she demanded more from me. And when I told her I wanted to give her more but she was too young, she no longer wanted to be my friend.
What did she want from me? And more importantly, what did I want from her? —Kill, age sixteen
Holding her in my arms was sheer fucking torture.
Watching our old home disappear into smoke was a triumphant honor.
I was both happy and sad. Relieved and terrified.
Cleo was safe. Dagger Rose was destroyed. But my father was still out there … plotting my demise as I plotted his.
These cat-and-mouse games had to stop.
I thought of all the times I could’ve dispatched him. I could’ve slaughtered him the moment I was released from jail. But where was the glory in that? Where was the joy in delivering an easy death to a man who deserved agony instead?
I wanted to make him pay.
So, I’d worked tirelessly on plans and elaborate conquests, concocting ideas to bring him to his knees.
I wanted him suffering.
I wanted him to beg me to chop off his head with my rightful vengeance.
That pleasure belonged to me. I was owed that.
So why did I feel as if I’d failed Cleo all over again?
Why had she paid another fucking price in my quest for perfect revenge?
Because something deeper than revenge now rules you.
Cleo eclipsed everything. She was my Sagittarius, my soul mate, my best friend. Not only had I failed her once and persecuted us to eight years apart, but she’d also been harmed twice at my father’s hand. She’d suffered more than she ever should and it was all because of me and my need to settle the score.
I wanted to forget about my goal—to halt the guillotine hovering over both our futures—because if I didn’t, if I continued chasing death, then I didn’t deserve her.
And I want so fucking much to deserve her.
While I’d been busy preparing for Rubix’s death, he’d been busy preparing mine.
Twin graves.
Twin murders.
And if he won, he would take Cleo.
That can’t fucking happen.
This wasn’t about my need for perfection anymore.
This was about ending it so Cleo was safe.
There was no time for pleasure or precision.
War was no longer coming.
It was here.
Chapter Nine
Cleo
Mom had taught me how to apply lipstick and mascara.
She said makeup could be used in all forms of warfare. She said I could use it against Arthur. To make him fall, make him stumble. She said I had all the power. But I didn’t agree. No matter what weapon I chose, I couldn’t break through his walls. I couldn’t get him to admit the truth. He hid behind secrets—trying to protect me with silence. He didn’t understand that he hurt me more by ignoring what was between us, rather than facing it and giving me a chance. —Cleo, diary entry, age thirteen