Page 51 of Lone Wolf

I think of Sunny—her relentless optimism, her determination to see the good in everything. The way she looks at me like I’m something more than I see in myself. “It’s complicated,” I say at last.

Scarlett actually laughs at that. “You’re telling me. Try falling for the woman who saved your life after you tried to kill each other—multiple times. Nowthat’scomplicated.”

I can’t help the small smile that tugs at my lips. “You and Lyssa do have a unique relationship.”

“That’s one word for it.” Scarlett’s expression grows serious again. “I won’t pretend it’s been easy here for me. Some days the past is so heavy I can barely breathe. But I’ve learned therecan be joy in between the hard moments. Pride in becoming something more than what was done to us.”

Her words stir something in me—not hope, exactly, but perhaps a distant relation to it.

“I’m not sure I know how to be anything else,” I admit quietly.

“Neither did I, at first,” Scarlett says. “But you’ll figure it out, one day at a time. Sometimes one minute at a time.” She stands, signaling the end of our conversation. “Just…think about it, okay? About giving the therapy a real chance.”

I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

Scarlett hesitates at the door. “For what it’s worth, Iamsorry. For what I did to you that day at Grandmother’s house.”

“I’m sorry too,” I say, the words foreign on my tongue. “For Adam.”

She nods, a complicated mix of emotions crossing her face as she looks down for a moment, then up again. “I’ll see you in therapy, then.”

I watch her leave, still marveling at the transformation. This calm, measured woman bears little resemblance to the fury-driven wreck who showed up at Grandmother’s doorstep, hell-bent on vengeance. It’s hard to believe we’re the same people who once circled each other like wolves, waiting for the kill.

If she can change so dramatically…

Maybe I can, too.

I return to the heavy bag, but my rhythm is way off. My thoughts keep drifting to Sunny—her laughing eyes, the warmth of her skin, the way she sees through all my defenses like they’re madeof glass. I’ve been so confused, so worried that I’ll only bring her pain in the end. But what if Scarlett is right? And what if Sunny is, too?

What if there’s something other than just darkness inside me?

I deliver one final punch to the bag, my decision crystallizing with the impact. I don’t know if I’m capable of the kind of transformation Scarlett has undergone. I don’t know if I deserve the way Sunny looks at me. But I want to find out.

The ghosts of my past aren’t going anywhere. It’s time I stopped letting them decide my future. I’ll do this group therapy, really do it. Open the fuck up. And then…

Then we’ll see what happens.

I stand in the grounds of Elysium, my body tense as I watch Dr. Khatri arrange four chairs in a small circle beneath the shade of a towering elm. The therapy session hasn’t even started yet, and I’m already thinking about escape routes.

“This is ridiculous,” I mutter.

Scarlett, who arrived moments before me, crosses her arms. “Outdoor therapy is actually backed by scientific research. Something about nature reducing stress hormones. I agreed with Dr. Khatri that it might help.”

“I’m sure it works wonders for suburban housewives with anxiety,” I snap. “Less effective for brainwashed assassins.”

Scarlett’s mouth quirks up slightly. “I guess we’ll find out. We figured Katy doesn’t have much more chance of escaping fromthe grounds than she does from her cell. Not with the two of us right here—not to mention the rest of the Syndicate.”

She has a point. “And Khatri?” I ask skeptically. “If she grabs her?—”

Dr. Khatri, who has apparently been eavesdropping, looks up with a smile. “I am well versed in self-defense, Sarah. In fact, I was trained in it by Lyssa herself.”

“It’s Ariadne,” I say automatically, and then I hesitate. Is it? Am I still Ariadne? “I guess Sarah is also fine,” I add grudgingly.

Dr. Khatri just nods. “Well, now we’re just waiting for—ah, here she is.”

Two guards escort Katy across the lawn, each holding one of her arms. She’s not restrained, another seeming concession to the “healing environment.” Katy’s face is blank, her movements mechanical, but her eyes are alert, constantly scanning.

I recognize that look. I’ve worn it myself.

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