But things have changed recently.

Maybe it’s because Ben’s a legal adult and I’m fifteen, still a kid to him. Or it could be because he’s leaving, and now he’s pushing me away to avoid missing me. I know I’m going to lose my mind without him around.

The one person who can keep me safe will be gone in the morning. That leaves everything on my shoulders. At least I still have that knife.

“So, now what?” I ask. “Are you done being mad at me?”

He blows out a breath, looking up at the ceiling. “I’ve never been able to stay mad at you for very long. You know that.”

“Yeah, but this is different. Either Frank will get the hint that I’m not messing around with him, or he’ll be more pissed off than before. Regardless, I won’t leave the girls alone. I need you to understand that.”

Ben flicks his gaze to me. “I do understand. I just hate the idea of not being here when you need me.”

“You act like we’re never going to see each other again.” I make a serious face. “Don’t make me stab you. I’m pretty good at it.”

“Lilah…”

“I’m going to get a job and save up for a cellphone, and then we’ll text and call all the time. You just watch.” I lightly punch him in the shoulder. “Then, I’m going to study my ass off to get into that fancy college too. I mean, there has to be a scholarship for people who are smart but poor as fuck, right?”

My foster brother rolls his eyes at me. “How do you think I got in?”

“See?”

“True.”

“What’s that place called again? South Harbor Institute of Technology?” I grin at him, showing my teeth. “I hope so ’cause the acronym is ‘shit.’”

His lips twitch. “You know that’s not the name. It’s called South Harbor University.”

I hang my head. “Yeah, well, Boston is two hours away, which isn’t walkable.”

Ben lifts his arm to run his fingers down my cheek.

I go completely still. It’s not that he’s never touched me before. When he taught me how to throw a punch there was definitely some contact, but that was platonic.

This is… intimate.

“Lilah, I’ll come see you every chance I get, okay?”

I nod and he drops his arm. “I better go check on the girls,” I say. “Are you good? Do you need another ice pack? And by ‘ice pack,’ I mean frozen corn this time.”

He shakes his head with a thin smile. “I’m fine. It’s just some bruising. You should see the other guy.”

I wink at him. “Right? I hope you sleep okay. If you need anything, let me know.”

“Thank you,” he says, his voice threaded with emotion. “I mean it.”

“Always. You’d do the same for me.”

“Always.”

After getting to my feet, I head toward the door, keeping my steps even. Nerves skitter along my arms and legs, and it takes everything I have not to run once I’m in the hallway. It’s not just because of my need to check on the girls again. There’s something heavy in the atmosphere. When you’re under a constant threat of danger, you learn to trust your instincts more.

And people less.

The house—that’s more of a two-story shack—takes on a life of its own at night. The warped floorboards groan as I make my way down the narrow hallway to the girls’ room. I strain to pick up on any unusual sounds that could indicate Frank’s intent on revenge, but there’s nothing except my light footsteps and the hum of distant traffic.

I grab the doorknob and slowly twist it. Opening the door a crack, I peer inside, my gaze landing on the single twin mattress that takes up most of the tiny room. Emily and Sandra are curled up together like a pair of kittens. Their adorable faces are at ease despite the monsters lurking in the night.

Specifically, the one downstairs.

Relief loosens the tightness in my chest at finding them peacefully asleep. Neither of them have shared whatever horrors they experienced before coming to live with me in this foster home, but at eleven and nine years old, they carry a worldliness about them that breaks my heart. Even so, they’ve blossomed under my and Ben’s protection and love.

“I’ll keep you safe,” I whisper, more to myself than them. It’s a promise that I’ve dedicated my life to. In the next three years, I might end up sacrificing it, but I’m okay with the idea of dying for the girls.

I’ve never had anyone besides Ben willing to do that for me, and I’ve made my peace with it. Getting lucky enough to have him as my foster brother almost makes all the bad things in my life worth it. He’s replaced years of abandonment with a platonic love.

I’ve given up on the dream of a romantic one.

After picking up a doll bed, one of the girls’ few toys, I close the door and head toward my room. The knife that I stabbed Frank with lies on my nightstand. Even in the darkness, I can make out the red stain coating the blade. I wonder if it’s had enough time to dry…

The sight of it turns my stomach. But not with regret. Never.

I draw in a deep breath and release it slowly before picking up the weapon and wiping it off. There’s another cutting knife taped under my bed frame, but it’s not as long or as sharp. I brought the other one with me from the previous home I stayed in. No, that’s not right. It was a house, not a home.

I’ve never had one of those.

The closest I’ve gotten was finding Ben and the girls, but I know deep down that’s not the true definition. A home is where you feel loved and safe.

I creep back toward the stairwell with my items, the hilt of the worn blade fitting comfortably in my palm. My forehead wrinkles with concentration as I carefully count the stairs and place the doll bed on the sixth one from the top, far left when facing the stairwell.

Task complete, I climb back up to the landing and drop to the floor into a sitting position with my back against the wall. I’ve appointed myself as my found-family’s guardian for tonight. And every night.

If Frank comes up to the second floor, he’ll regret it.

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Chapter 3DELILAH

The seconds crawl by, slowly turning into minutes that become hours. My muscles relax, but not enough for me to fall into a deep sleep. Years of vigilance have sharpened my senses to the point I wonder if I’ll ever sleep peacefully again.

I guess I’ll rest when I’m dead.

As if conjured by my thoughts, a dark energy permeates the atmosphere like a cold wind, making my skin prickle and my eyes fly open. I shift into a crouch while my heart gallops in my chest, urging me to run with every beat. I grip my knife more tightly instead.

If it’s flight or fight, I choose violence.

Cloaked in darkness, the intruder makes their way up the stairs, coming closer with every second. Their movement carries an air of stealth and purpose that’s too focused and refined to be Frank. It’s not that I can hear or see this person clearly from my position. I can feel them.

Their presence is confirmed the instant their shadow slides up the wall and when they step on the stair with the toy. A loud creak breaks the silence like a mirror being struck with a hammer. The noise is my signal to act.

Hesitation could get me killed.

My instincts have me lunging forward with my knife raised. The blade sinks into flesh before my eyes fully take in the figure directly in front of me. A masculine grunt sweeps past my ears as I jerk back my arm, ready to strike again.

The assailant moves with lightning speed. He blocks my attack by grabbing my wrist, the sudden jolt sending a tremor through my body. Before I can regroup, he squeezes my wrist, his fingers digging into my skin with a merciless pressure. The knife falls from my hand to hit the carpet with a thud. It’s the clang foretelling my impending death.

The tenor of his voice eclipses all other sound—low, smooth, and tinged with a quiet amusement that confuses me.