Page 108 of Fiery Little Thing
So I’m left grinding my teeth as I swing my leg over when Kohen hoists me up the wall, hissing under my breath when my hand slips out from under me.
Kohen catches my waist before I tumble down. “I’ve got you,” he whispers.
Both of my hands tremble in my attempts to pull the rest of my body onto the ledge. Adrenaline won’t change the state of my knuckle, but it’s doing a good job of numbing the ache that cuts through the inside of my thigh when it scrapes against the edge of the fence.
Panting, I take the three gas canisters from Kohen and balance them on the wall. I offer Kohen my good arm to help him up. He rightfully ignores it, hauling himself up the side of the fences with more grace than a feline. He drops to the other side without so much as a thud. One by one, he lowers the canisters onto the ground, then holds his arm out to help me down to limit the pressure of the fall, because my ankle still gives me grief intermittently. And tonight, of all nights, is not a time for grieving.
I pull my leg over and jump into his arms. Neither of us hesitatefrom the second I hit the ground, weaving between the trees planted on the outskirts of the manor, careful not to make a sound. My harsh breaths come out in a cloud in front of me as my heart pounds in my ears. Every snap of a twig and rustling of leaves seem as if they’ve been amplified through a microphone, and it might as well be a siren to alert everyone to our presence.
None of my grandfather’s help will be on the property since everyone has been sent home for Thanksgiving—at least that was the excuse he made. The truth is that he’s cutting down costs where he can. Meaning he’s all alone in the redbrick mansion to drown under the mountain of paperwork and debt caused by the man beside me. Once the first glimpse of sunlight blooms across the sky, staff will trickle in to start working so the neighbors think it’s business as usual.
The Whitlock Investment and Osman Pharmaceutical transaction has blown up in their faces, leaving good ol’ Grandpa short of $120 million. Whitlock Investment has lost almost triple that.
No interest on his investments. No return. Half a billion dollars just… gone.
All the while his big-dog lawyers make him bleed more money. It brings me more joy than anyone will ever realize to know that my grandfather has spent the last few months of his life swimming in stress.
We stick to the outskirts, hidden within the safety of the trees, as we sneak deeper into the property. Kohen and I have staked out this area a couple times before. I thought the familiarity would dispel my worry and replace it with misguided arrogance, but it doesn’t. My gut twists as we break past the line of trees and head into open space. It’s as if I’ve never been here before from the rush of uncertainty thatfloods my veins.
My grandfather is right behind those walls. What will he say once he sees me? Will he be surprised, or scared, or will he not give a shit? Will he beg me to spare his life or run like a coward?
Cameras are stationed around the redbrick house, flashing a green light that makes me falter as we move through the courtyard. I have to reassure myself that the cameras mean nothing when the mainframe gets torched. His security team won’t arrive for a few more hours. And either way, we’re dressed well enough to conceal our identity.
A shiver runs down my spine when I spot the indoor swimming pool. We avoid all windows and sprint to the kitchen door. Some lights are on inside, but not a soul is in sight.
I would give anything for a hit of coke or weed or fucking anything I can get my hands on, just to ease the pain beneath my chest. I thought fighting the cravings would be easier after seven months, but still, every morning, I wake up itching for the euphoria that comes from delirium. I’d be fucking unstoppable if I just had the slightest bump.
But I can’t. Not anymore. I’ve come too far to fall back into the same habits. I have a mission—a goal—and that’s what matters now. I can get my kicks from making those who wronged me suffer.
It felt satisfying killing Boris. It was empowering to hear that Dr. Van der Merwe lost his practicing license following an “anonymous” tip. And I can only imagine what it will feel like to get rid of the man who caused it all—my grandfather.
My ankle tweaks from running, but I push forward, breathing hard through my nose as cold sweat builds beneath the mask. It gets harder to breathe with each passing second, and my vision blurs withthe rush of energy that zaps through me when I kneel in front of the back door. I blink the haze back, attempting to push all thoughts out of my mind to focus on the task at hand.
Emotions are a weakness that leave room for error. I’ll never forgive myself if I fuck this up because I couldn’t keep my feelings in check. The counselor back at school always said a little anxiety is a good thing; having a lot is where the problem lies. I’m trying so hard to find the balance, but steadying my racing heart doesn’t come any easier.
The thin lockpick sits awkwardly in my right hand as I grip it, my gloved fingers making my hold lighter than I would have liked. My middle finger sticks out above the rest, and the little muscles in my hand strain to compensate for the lack of support. I’ve had to practice picking locks every single goddamn day for this very reason. Kohen could’ve been the one to do this, but instead he’s spent the past six months whispering words of encouragement every time frustration took hold because of another failed attempt. But he never once offered to learn because he knows I need to prove to myself that I’m not limited by the confines of my flesh, and that I’m not defined by my wounds. Each time I improve my skills, I’m reminded that I don’t need to be perfect to be powerful.
The lock clicks open in under ten seconds—it would be faster if I had a better hold on the tools.
In the name of practice, we’ve broken into a few people's homes over the past six months, so it’s easy enough to fall into our roles without needing to say a word. I push the door open and Kohen slips in first, gun in hand, leaving the canisters where they are. I stay on my haunches for a moment to take one more solidifying breath before slipping in behind him.
The kitchen is shrouded in darkness; even so I can tell it’s spotless.Lifeless.The only light in the room comes from the dim hallway. I only vaguely remember the layout of the interior from when I was a child. We navigate through the halls, following the light leading from the foyer. Our feet pad softly along the wooden floor as we keep our heads on a swivel for any sign of movement.
There’s not a single sound coming from inside the house other than my thundering pulse, but I know my grandfather is here. I can feel it in my bones.
My breathing shudders as I look left and right, drinking in every inch of the place. The manor hasn’t changed much as far as I can remember. The walls are still pristinely white, the staircase is still grand, and the crystal chandelier is still bright. Great, big antique vases and flowers line the corners of the otherwise barren entrance hall. Baroque- and Impressionism-style paintings decorate the walls instead of portraits or family photos.
I think it’s smarter for us to split up—it’s an argument Kohen and I have had before, but each time he wins because I can’t curl my hand into a fist if something goes wrong, my ankle ends up bruised and swollen every time I use it wrong, and frankly, I’d rather have Kohen by my side. So we stick together and move through the foyer toward the east wing.
The sight of the poster beds, goose down pillows, and tables that aren’t being balanced on folded food boxes makes my anger push through the anxiety that’s clogging my throat, turning the room into various shades of red.
This is how he’s fucking lived while I questioned when my next meal would be. In the middle of fucking winter, I had a goddamn T-shirt in place of glass for my window. I didn’t have a lock on myfront door, and only a broken latch in the bathroom. My mattress was as old as I was, and a couple planks on my bed frame were being held together by duct tape and a miracle. My grandfather sent me fifty dollars a week to live off. He’d hold food hostage. He waited two years before fixing the leak in my bedroom. At one point, I didn’t have a working fridge for seven months.
All while my grandparents have been here with heated floors and thousands of dollars’ worth of art onevery single wall. He has a crystal fucking chandelier, an indoor swimming pool, a golf course, and a ten-car garage. The assholes have three water fountains for Christ’s sake.
My grip tightens around my gun, and I relish in the ache that pierces through my knuckle.
Fuck the Whitlocks.
