Avery slid into the back of the limousine. The door clicked shut, sealing her in.

She exhaled. It was a long, shuddering breath that seemed to empty her lungs completely. Her shoulders dropped three inches.

Charles was watching her in the mirror. He handed her a bottle of water without a word.

"It's done?" he asked.

"It's done," she confirmed. She unscrewed the cap and took a long drink. The water was cool, soothing her throat.

She touched her neck. It throbbed.

Charles saw the red finger marks on her skin. His hands tightened on the steering wheel until the leather creaked.

"I should kill him," Charles muttered. It wasn't a figure of speech.

"No need," Avery said, her voice raspy. "He's already dead inside. He just doesn't know it yet."

She leaned her head back against the seat. "Take me to the estate one last time, Charles."

Charles hesitated. "Are you sure? After..."

"Get Onyx," she said. "Only Onyx. I want my cat. I'm not setting foot in that house ever again. You go in. Get the carrier. Bring him out."

"And then?"

"Then take my things to the 5th Avenue apartment."

"The penthouse?"

"No," Avery said. "The other one. The one I bought three years ago under the shell company. The one nobody knows about."

Charles nodded. He put the car in gear.

Two hours later, Avery walked into the apartment on 5th Avenue. It was modern, stark, and cold. The furniture was covered in white dust sheets.

She walked in alone. Charles had dropped off her bags but had to return the car to the company garage.

The silence was heavy. It pressed against her ears.

Avery kicked off her heels. She walked to the kitchen and found a bottle of whiskey she had stored in the cupboard years ago. She poured a glass, her hands steady now.

She walked to the floor-to-ceiling window. New York City glittered below her, a sea of lights and indifference.

She took a sip. The burn was grounding.

Suddenly, a wave of loneliness crashed over her. It wasn't the longing for Augustus-God, no. It was the sheer, crushing weight of being alone in the universe. She had won. She was free. And she had absolutely no one to share it with.

She remembered her mother, dying in a hospital bed paid for by charity, while her stepfather, Jiles Thomas, bought a new yacht.

Avery touched her glass to the cold windowpane.

"Step one complete, Mom," she whispered.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out. It was a notification from her offshore bank.

First Tranche Received: $200,000,000.00. Subject: Asset Liquidation Protocol.

She stared at the numbers. It was enough money to buy countries. It was freedom. It was power.

She smiled, but her lips felt stiff. The smile didn't reach her eyes.

She finished the whiskey in one gulp. Exhaustion, heavy and narcotic, pulled at her eyelids.

She walked to the bedroom, pulled the dust sheet off the bed, and collapsed onto the mattress fully clothed.

She slept fitfully, dreaming of storms and silver needles.

Sunlight sliced through the gaps in the blinds, hitting Avery squarely in the face. She groaned, rolling over, burying her face in the pillow. For a moment, she felt a profound sense of peace. She was safe. No one knew where she was.

Then, she smelled it.

Bacon.

Crispy, salty, hickory-smoked bacon.

Confusion fogged her brain. She lived alone. She hadn't hired staff yet.

She sat up, clutching the sheets to her chest. Her heart hammered against her ribs.

In the corner of the bedroom, sitting in a velvet armchair he must have uncovered, was Brandon Garrison.

He was wearing a black t-shirt that stretched tight across his chest and grey sweatpants. He looked infuriatingly casual. He was holding a plate of eggs and bacon, watching her sleep with the intensity of a scientist observing a specimen.

Avery's breath caught in her throat, a sharp, silent gasp. She didn't scream. She scrambled back against the headboard, her hand closing around the heavy base of the bedside lamp, gripping it like a weapon.

"How did you get in?!" she demanded, her voice a low, dangerous hiss.

Brandon didn't flinch. He held up a white plastic card. "Cloned key card. Security here is a joke. You really need to upgrade."

"Get out!" Avery said, her knuckles white on the lamp. "I'm divorced! I'm not your aunt anymore!"

Brandon smiled. "Exactly. Which means you're free game now."

He stood up and walked toward the bed.

Avery pressed herself against the wall, her breath coming in short, controlled pants. "I'm calling the police."

"Go ahead," Brandon said, stopping at the edge of the mattress. "Tell them your nephew broke in to make you breakfast."

He tossed her phone onto the duvet. It bounced near her knee.

"Eat," he commanded. The tone was domestic, but the look in his eyes was predatory.

"I'm not hungry," Avery spat.

"You need protein," he said. He leaned over, placing his hands on the mattress on either side of her legs. The mattress dipped under his weight. "I heard what you did to Augustus."

Avery froze.

"The needle," Brandon whispered, his eyes gleaming with admiration. He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "The pen my lawyer left on the table? It was a microphone. I heard every word. Poking holes in the condoms? That was… brilliant. Twisted. Evil. Brilliant."

Avery's grip on the lamp loosened slightly. Of course. He had bugged the room. "How did you know where to find me?"

Brandon tapped his temple. "I see everything, Avery. The tracker I put in your coat is military-grade."

He leaned closer. "I'm the only one who knows what you really are. You're a monster, Avery. Just like me."

"I am nothing like you," she hissed.

"We belong together," he said, his voice dropping to a rough growl. "You know it."

Avery lashed out. She kicked him squarely in the chest.

Brandon stumbled back, laughing. He looked delighted by the violence.

"Eat the eggs," he said, turning toward the door. "They'll get cold."

He walked out, leaving the bedroom door wide open.

Avery ate the eggs.

She hated herself for it, but not because they were good. She ate because her body was a machine, and this was fuel. After the adrenaline of the past twenty-four hours, she was running on empty. She carefully inspected a piece of bacon, then a forkful of egg, looking for any discoloration, any sign of tampering. Finding none, she ate methodically, angrily, stabbing the fork into the plate. This was a tactical retreat, not a surrender.

She looked at the empty chair where Brandon had sat. The indentation of his body was still visible on the velvet cushion.

Her mind drifted, pulled back by the gravity of a memory she tried to suppress.

Ten years ago.

The rain was torrential, turning the boarding school grounds into a mud pit. A sixteen-year-old Avery was running behind the gymnasium, looking for a place to hide from her step-siblings.

She found Brandon instead.

He was fourteen. Small for his age, scrawny, with hair that was too long. He was on the ground, curled into a ball, being kicked by three senior boys.

They were hurting him bad. Blood was mixing with the mud.

Avery didn't run for a teacher. She didn't scream.

She saw a field hockey stick lying in the grass. It was heavy, solid wood.

She picked it up.

She walked up behind the ringleader-a boy named Trent-and swung the stick with everything she had. It connected with the back of his knees with a sickening crack.

Trent screamed and went down. The other boys turned, seeing a girl with wild eyes holding a weapon. They scrambled, terrified by the sheer ferocity in her face.

Avery dropped the stick. Her hands were shaking.

Brandon looked up. His face was a mask of bruises. One eye was swollen shut.

He didn't say thank you.

He crawled over to her. He grabbed her hand. His fingers were coated in his own blood. He smeared it across her palm.

"You saved me," he rasped, his voice broken.

"Now I belong to you."

Avery tried to pull her hand away. "You're bleeding. Go to the nurse."

Brandon just stared at her, unblinking. Imprinting.

Avery shuddered, snapping back to the present. That was the day the "Mad Dog" was born. He had grown six inches that summer and came back a nightmare. But he never touched her. He only watched.

Her phone buzzed.

Text from Unknown: Did you eat?

Text from Unknown: Was it good?

Text from Unknown: I'm watching you.

Avery blocked the number.

She stood up and walked to her laptop. She needed to focus. She had business to do. She typed "Clarke Shepard" into the search bar.

The doorbell rang.

Avery walked to the door and looked through the peephole. A delivery man.

She opened the door. He handed her a small box.

Inside was a brand new iPhone.

There was a note taped to the screen.

Don't block me.

Avery stared at the phone. He was rich, resourceful, and completely insane.