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Silence settled between us, thick and suffocating.
She cleared her throat, shaking off whatever emotion she was feeling. “Come on,” she said. “There’s still more to see.”
Clarice walked ahead of me, her steps light, almost effortless, as if she was floating instead of moving. She was tall, slender, and beautiful in a way that didn’t seem real. Her blonde hair swayed with each step, catching the light when she passed under the windows. She moved with quiet confidence, not a single motion wasted, her long fingers brushing against walls and doorknobs as she led me deeper into the facility. She seemed completely at ease, completely at home.
I wasn’t.
I watched every move she made. The way she turned corners without hesitation. The way her fingers trailed over things, like she knew every inch of this place. The way she glanced back at me with a small, almost teasing smile when she realized I was taking my time. She was oblivious to my stares, to the thoughts clawing at my mind.
Clarice used to be Vaughn’s wife. She had his child. She had shared a life with the man who had destroyed mine.
I swallowed hard, my stomach twisting.
He had chased me relentlessly for thirteen years, hunting me down like an animal, making sure I had nothing left, no one left. Now, he has my brother. And here I was, walking behind the woman who had once belonged to him.
Clarice kept talking, explaining how things worked here, pointing out different parts of the facility.
“This is the infirmary,” she said, pushing open a door to a white, sterile-looking room filled with beds, medical supplies, and cabinets lined with bottles of pills and bandages. The air smelled like antiseptic and something floral, probably from the small vases of flowers sitting on the window ledges. “Sophia runs this place. She’s the best we have when it comes to fixing up injuries. Well, not the best but she’s learning to be.”
I barely heard her. My mind was stuck on the past, stuck on Vaughn. On everything I had lost.
Clarice moved again, graceful as ever, walking through another hallway lined with large glass windows. The ocean stretched out beyond them, waves crashing against the cliffs below. The view was breathtaking, but I couldn’t enjoy it.
“This is where we train,” Clarice said, guiding me into a massive room with high ceilings and padded floors. The space was alive with movement, filled with women I hadn’t seen before. Up until now, I’d only met the ones in the kitchen, but it was clear there were more—many more. And judging by the way they moved, still in training, the ones I’d met seemed to be the very top. In the center of the room, a group of women sparred with an intensity that made my breath catch. Their movements were quick, precise, each punch and kick landing with purpose. There was no hesitation, no wasted energy. Along one wall, heavy punching bags hung from thick metal chains, swinging slightly from previous use. A row of shelves held an array of weights, resistance bands, and other training gear, everything neatly arranged. The far side of the room was lined with a long mirror, reflecting every motion—the sharp pivots, the way muscles tensed and flexed, the sweat glistening on their skin.
The air was thick with the rhythmic sound of fists meeting pads, the steady breathing of fighters staying focused. It smelled of leather, chalk, and the faint metallic scent of blood. This wasn’t just a training space. It was a battlefield in its own right
I remember having to train as a child, how intense it used to be, how every session felt like a test of survival rather than just a lesson. My muscles would burn, my lungs would scream for air, but stopping was never an option. I had to push through it, past the pain, past the exhaustion.
I remember the cold mornings, waking up before the sun, the floor beneath me hard and unwelcoming as I crawled out of bed. The chill would cling to my skin, making every stretch feel tighter, every movement stiffer. But I learned to ignore it. I had to. Training began with endurance—laps around the property until my legs felt like lead, push-ups until my arms trembled, sit-ups until my stomach ached. I was small, but that didn’t matter. Weakness was never tolerated.
Fighting came next. My hands wrapped in old bandages, knuckles already bruised from the day before. I was taught how to block, how to strike, how to move without hesitation. One wrong step, one second too slow, and I would find myself flat on my back, breath knocked from my lungs, my trainer standing over me, unimpressed.
Pain was just another part of it. Bruises lined my arms and ribs, my fingers were often swollen from gripping too hard, and my legs carried faint scars from missteps and mistakes. But I never cried. I wasn’t allowed to. I had to bite it back, swallow it down. Tears didn’t change anything.
I remember Vaughn watching sometimes, behind my father, everytime he was in the mansion, his sharp eyes following my every move. A child training to fight was entertainment to him. He’d smirk when I fell, tilt his head when I hesitated, nod approvingly when I finally got something right. But his approval never felt like a victory. It felt like a warning. Like he was preparing me for something I didn’t yet understand.
“Everyone here trains every day,” she continued. “We all have different strengths, but we learn everything—combat, weapons, strategy. We can’t afford to be weak.”
I nodded, barely seeing the room anymore. I was still watching her, watching the way she moved, the way she carried herself. She was so at ease here.
I told myself to breathe. To calm down. This wasn’t Vaughn. This was his wife—a woman who had also suffered because of him. A woman who had endured her own horrors at his hands. She wasn’t my enemy. I repeated the words in my head, but my pulse was still pounding behind my ears, my fingers still curling into fists.
I forced my hands open, pressing my palms against my sides, grounding myself in the present. This wasn’t the time to let my emotions get the best of me. I needed to know more. I needed to understand.
“What was he like?” I asked, my voice steady despite the storm brewing inside me. “Before you knew what he really was?”
Clarice stopped walking. She turned smoothly, every movement precise, controlled, like she had mastered the art of never seeming caught off guard. But it wasn’t just that. There was something else.
Her eyes lit up, bright, almost too bright. Too much. A strange flicker of something in her expression that made my brow furrow.
I expected hesitation. I expected bitterness. Maybe even disgust. But instead, she looked…almost fond.
My brows pulled tighter. Something was fucking off.
I could feel it in my gut, in the way my skin prickled like it was trying to warn me. Maybe it was the trust issues Sophia had pointed out, or maybe it was just my survival instincts kicking in. The past few days had been the worst of my entire fucking life, all because of one man. One bastard.
Her husband.
I glanced at her again. She looked younger than me. Twenty-six? Twenty-five? Maybe even twenty-four? At most, twenty-six. But Vaughn had to be pushing late forties by now. Which meant I’d known him long before she did.
He had worked with my father. With Dominic’s father. Then he fucking slaughtered them when I was sixteen.
Surely, he hadn’t married Clarice back then. That would’ve been underage marriage, which even for a sick fuck like him seemed too far.
Then again, maybe it wasn’t. Maybe he would do something like that. Groom some young, naive girl into believing he was a man worth loving. Make her think he was her savior before sinking his claws into her and twisting her into something he could control.
That sick bastard was capable of anything.
I studied her closer, watching the way she blinked too much, like she was trying to keep herself from reacting. Then, just as the silence stretched too long, she exhaled sharply and turned away.
“We should get back,” she said, brushing off my question like it was nothing. “We need to start making plans with the others.”
She didn’t wait for me to respond. She stepped out of the training room, moving with the same grace as before, her long blonde hair swaying behind her. I followed, my gaze drifting to the hallway ahead—the one we hadn’t taken.
It was long, stretching deeper into the building, fading into darkness.
And then—
A shadow.
Just for a second, in the corner of my eye, something moved.
My head snapped in that direction, my breath hitching.
Nothing. Just the empty hall.
I swallowed hard. Maybe I was hallucinating. I did that sometimes. My mind played tricks on me, made me see things that weren’t there. It had been happening for years, ever since—
No.
I saw something.
I was sure of it.
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