Page 28 of Lone Wolf

“No, but there are other things that you could talk to me about. How’s therapy going, for example? How are you fitting in with?—”

“I’m sorry, I need to go to bed. We were out very late.” I walk away without a backward glance, ignoring the hurt I know is on her face.

I wish the woman would stop bothering me. She might have been my mother in another life, but whatever it was between us was irretrievably broken by Grandmother. When I was first reunited with her, I had a foolish hope that perhaps things would go back to the way they had been.

I see now that will never be. I don’t know how to be someone’s daughter. I only know how to be a weapon. And weapons don’t need mothers.

As I arrive back at my room, my feet slow in the corridor, because leaning against the wall outside is Sunny Santiago, looking fierce but almost as tired as I am.

“What do you want?” I ask her as I unlock the door. She pushes in after me, and for a second I consider physically removing her from the room—but why bother? She’ll storm out again on her own in a few minutes, I’m sure of it.

“You and me, we need to talk.” Her voice has none of the playful edge it had in the training room. She stands with her hands onher hips, her posture loose but ready—a street fighter’s stance, not a trained soldier’s.

And she’s looking for a battle.

“There’s really nothing to talk about.” I move to the window, putting some distance between us.

Sunny stares at me, and I can see the fury in her eyes. “You know what? You’re just a coward.”

I laugh. “One thing I’m not, Santiago, is a coward. I’ve killed men twice my size without breaking a sweat.” It’s not a boast, just a fact.

“Yeah, you can kill a man without blinking, but God forbid you admit you have feelings.”

The accusation hits too close to what Katy said. A strange panic rises in me—the feeling of losing control, of something cracking open inside me that I’ve spent years keeping sealed shut. “We were blowing off steam—you said it yourself. It meant nothing.”

The strange thing is, each harsh word feels like a lie at the moment it leaves my lips, but I have to push Sunny away. I don’t know what it is about her, but there’s something about her that makes me want to lose control.

And that would be fatal.

She stares at me a moment more, then raises both her fists. For a moment, I think she’ll strike me—and I brace myself not to defend, but to receive whatever she wants to give.

But then she just flips me a double bird.

“Fuck you,” she says. She swivels, wrenches open the door, and slams it behind her.

I sink onto the edge of my bed, suddenly exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with all the activity of the night. I’m thinking of Katy, of her taunts.

You don’t have a mind of your own. You’re still just doing what you’re trained to do.

A weapon pretending to be a woman.

But if that’s true—if I’m nothing beyond what I was made to be—then what is this feeling that Sunny stirs in me? This chaos, this heat, this…wanting.

I have no answer. So I do what I always do: I control what I can. I fold my clothes. I check the locks. I turn out the overheads, pull down the light-blocking blinds.

But despite my fatigue, sleep doesn’t come easily. And when it does, I dream not of blood and fighting, but of warmth and laughter and hands that touch without intending to harm.

CHAPTER 11

Sunny

The rose bushdoesn’t stand a chance against my frustration. I hack at another branch, sending petals flying in a crimson shower. And it’s therapeutic, this destruction. Almost as satisfying as punching something would be.

Almost.

My knuckles throb beneath the gardening gloves—bruised from a previous training session. I flex my fingers, embracing the ache. At least pain is honest. Unlike certain Ice Queens who can’t decide if they want to kiss me or kill me.

It meant nothing.Ariadne’s words echo in my head as I snip another branch with more force than necessary.

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