Page 21 of Sincerely, Secretary of Doom

“These iron pills are different than regular iron supplements, Violet Miller.”Dr. Wendal had said her full name when he handed Violet the first bottle.“Don’t ever trade these out for regular supplements. Only take the ones I give you.”

Violet. Because Violet had been wearing avioletdress at the time when Zorah showed up.

Miller. Because that was Zorah’s last name.

In a heartbeat, the girl without a name had become Violet Miller, the niece of a brilliant student who’d lost her sister several years ago and had still earned herself a scholarship for medical school during the heartbreak. Zorah took the spotlight only long enough to explain that Violet was the daughter of that beloved sister, and to threaten the reporters not to come after Violet again. The story had fizzled out after that. There was nothing exciting about Violet anymore after all the questions were answered.

Zorah had admitted to Violet the next day that she wasn’t really her aunt. That she’d never known Violet before she saw her on TV. But she knew what it was like to feel lost and to have to make a way through the world on her own. As an orphan who was raised by her older sister, Zorah had always had to fight for her success a little harder than everybody else. She expected it would be the same for Violet, but Violet’s childhood fame had the opposite effect. When Violet enrolled in high school, everyone wanted to eat lunch with her, give her things, and get her autograph. It seemed her lost memories had given her a life.

At least, it had until the boss at The Sprinkled Scoop decided she wasn’t worth his time. It was the first true, real rejection Violet had felt in the parts of her life she could remember. And it shouldn’t have hurt so much, but it dragged her back to that month when she was a lost, confused girl waiting for someone who loved her to appear and claim her.

Even in the years with Zorah that followed, no one ever came for Violet.

That simple fact was how Violet realized how unloved she must have been, for not a single person to show up and claim her.

It was the driving force behind why she wanted to be the one to make up the stories, to decide the narrative, to figure out who people really were. It was the reason Violet had chased the memory-thief so hard when the first police report had arrived at The Sprinkled Scoop six months ago, claiming someone had woken up in the park with no memories of the day before, yet their brain showed no signs of physical trauma or anything else that would lead the doctors to believe it was really a case of amnesia.

Violet followed Zorah off the bus. They got off a stop early because Zorah said she needed to run into the convenience store for makeup. Violet waited outside the storefront, tapping a finger against her laptop as people passed by. After a minute, Zorah stumbled back out with four full bags hanging off her arms.

Violet raised a brow. “What in the world did you buy? Christmas presents for the whole world?” Violet reached to take half the bags, but she stopped when she saw a shadow move behind the bus shelter across the road. It was bright daylight, andhot, but a person was there wearing a long black coat with a hood up. He leaned back against the poster-covered shelter wall, eating an ice cream cone in the shadow of his hood. His posture seemed way too comfortable after he’d kidnapped Violet at the police station the way he had. Even after all that, here he was, harassing her again.

Violet set her jaw.

She shoved the bags—and her laptop—toward Zorah. “I’ll meet you at home, Zor. I have something to deal with.”

Zorah said something in objection that Violet ignored. Violet took a quick look both ways before crossing the street, thinking only of informing the no-good vampire that she was going to expose him to the whole world by the end of the day if he didn’t leave her alone. But when she set her glare back on the bus shelter, the guy in the coat was gone. She slowed her steps as she came around to the back, eyeing the posters he’d been leaning on. There were a few scattered pedestrians down the sidewalk, and some dark storefronts with rental signs in the windows. She tried to peer into the darkness past the store windows, her nerves getting the best of her. She wondered if she shouldn’t have marched over here.

She turned around and jumped, slapping a hand over her chest in surprise to find him there. She opened her mouth to speak, but he grabbed her shoulder and shoved her backward into the shelter wall—the air escaping her lungs. She pulled at his cold sleeve, her other hand diving into the pocket of her business jacket and clawing for her pen. She tore it out and shoved the pointed end against his pale throat. She almost shouted at him, but she stared at that throat instead.

Pale skin. No tattoos.

Her gaze dragged up to a face that wasn’t the Master of Doom’s.

Lush, metallic-red hair filled his hood, and deep brown eyes with sparkling patches of silver took her in, in a way that made her feel small and very breakable. Her blood heated in her veins. A gold chain necklace fell from the collar of his coat with a bunch of tiny white and red feather-like charms.

He smiled; a slow curve of his lips that was alarmingly beautiful and a little too broad. “Oh dear,” he whispered, his voice fluttering over Violet like a song. “You seem to be all alone.”

Violet felt like she was being pulled toward him by a magnetic force she could only resist by digging her heels into the ground. When she looked into his eyes, a silent voice seemed to call her forward, fluttering her hair with a cool breeze and tickling the insides of her ears. She shook the feeling away.

“W…” She swallowed so she could speak from her dry throat. “Who are you?”

He leaned his tall frame forward to look her right in the eyes like a grownup addressing a child. “His scent is all over you. Either he did that on purpose so I’d come, or you’re an accident waiting to be snatched up. Either way, it’s tantalizing,” he said, ignoring her question.

Violet felt her grip on the pen waver at his throat as he pushed himself closer, unbothered by the stabbing sensation, seeming to invite it. The pen’s tip dug in so hard, Violet panicked and released her hold. The pen tumbled to the ground, bouncing off her high heel and rolling over the asphalt. She looked around to yell for help, but their side of the street had become empty.

The redhead pulled a deep red gem from his pocket and rolled it over his fingers. “Let’s have a little chat,” he invited.

The sky shifted from bright to dim, and Violet found herself in a sudden shadow. She blinked, more startled by the sudden appearance of clouds overhead than the guy speaking to her. The air felt like it had changed in a split second, too—it had been rushing a moment ago, and now it wasn’t.

Violet’s stare fell back to him as she realized he must have asked her a question. But she couldn’t remember him speaking. “I’m going to call the police,” she threatened.

The guy’s smile broadened. He glanced down at her mouth, and Violet shivered, but she went on anyway.

“You’re going to be arrested—”

Before she could stop him, the guy’s lips came against hers, sparking a wild thrashing in her chest. Violet released a muffled sound, but his sound was louder. The guy’s strained, guttural grunt filled the alley as he ripped himself back. His fingers flashed to his lips, his silvery eyes wild. A fresh-looking pink burn mark covered his mouth, and he glared at her. Violet felt a ripple in the air; a strange, cold breeze that fluttered her hair again and stroked her skin like a limb tracing her throat, ready to cut her open with a long, pointed nail. It wasn’t something a human could do, and her heart faltered.

How many of these inhuman beings existed?

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