Page 149 of Beautiful Exile

“Come out, come out, wherever you are. I just want to play a game.”

Every fiber of muscle and sinew in me woundso tight it felt like they would all snap with the barest touch. Because Ididknow that voice.

My mind whirled as I yanked open the door to the hall closet. Linens on one side, cleaning supplies on the other. I frantically searched for something, anything to defend myself with. But nothing except maybe the mop would help.

“Time’s up, Sherry baby,” the voice called. “It’s too boring if you don’t play.”

The footsteps picked up speed, running up the last few stairs. I had no choice. I slipped into the closet and closed the door behind me. I’d thought it was dark before, but I was wrong. Out of the closet, there was at least some light from the moon—enough to make out my surroundings. But in here, there was nothing but blackness, the faintest glow emanating from the seam of the door.

My heart hammered against my ribs, each inhale twisting and tripping as each tried to get to the next one. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to force my breathing to slow. It was no use. And if I wasn’t careful, I’d end up passing out by the time this asshole got to me.

So, I did the only thing I could think of. I focused on Linc.

Somewhere along the way, he’d become my grounding force. More than just a feeling of safety but something that helped me step into my strength.

I pictured his face in my mind. His dark brown hair and hazel eyes. The scruff I loved tracing with my fingers. The way those eyes saw right to the heart of me and reminded me exactly who I was.

“What’s the matter, Sheridan? Don’t want to join Mommy and Daddy in the great beyond?”

My eyes flew open, my breaths no longer short pants but deep, pissed-off inhales. The more she spoke, the more I was certain. And the betrayal felt like a knife to the gut.

Farah.

But it didn’t make sense. She was maybe a handful of years older than I was. She certainly couldn’t have been involved in what’d happened to my parents all those years ago. But she knew exactly who I was. And she wasn’t here for a slumber party.

My mind reeled, thinking about the day a few months ago when she’d shown up at The Collective. She’d told me a story about being an artist looking for fresh inspiration. Her self-deprecating demeanor and brash jokes had lowered my walls. And it wasn’t long before I invited her in.

Only now, I could see those conversations in a different light. The way she’d slip in the occasional question about my past. How she talked about losing her mother in an attempt to learn more about how I’d ended up with the Colsons. I’d just never realized why.

The footsteps changed tone, from shoes on hardwood to carpet. Muted. Only punctuated by the occasional clack as she searched room after room.

I braced, my hands searching for something—anything—that might help me. I stilled, my gaze locking on the faint shadow of a spray bottle. I lifted it, trying to bring the label into the faint moonlight coming in from the seam in the door.Warning: keep out of eyes.

Perfect.

I gripped the cleaning spray, my fingers tightening around the trigger. The footsteps slowed. Not right in front of the closet but close.

A sigh sounded. “This is growing old, Sheridan.”

I shuddered at the name. Because it didn’t belong to me anymore. I was Arden in every way that mattered. And more than that, I was a Colson.

“Hmmmm,” Farah said dramatically. So like the woman I’d grown to know but different. Because there was a coldness beneath it that I’d never heard before.

“Where could the scared little artist be hiding? I wonder…”

The door to the closet flew open, and I didn’t wait. I sprayed the cleaning solution like there was no tomorrow. Farah jerked back, a strangled sound leaving her throat. “You bitch!”

There was no time to waste. I kicked out, my foot connecting with Farah’s stomach. Like I was, she was still in her dress from the event, but she’d changed her footwear. Gone were the spiky stilettos; in their place were combat boots. It gave her an edge over my bare feet, and she didn’t waste it.

Farah struck out, her fist glancing off my jaw in a stunning punch that she followed with a hook to my ribs. I doubled over, the pain stealing my breath. She moved in, quick as lightning, but I knew if she got ahold of me, that would be the end.

I forced myself upright, using the force of the movement to fuel my uppercut. My fist connected with Farah’s diaphragm, and she wheezed out a curse. I didn’t miss the moment of opportunity. My knee came up and connected with her chin.

Farah doubled over, but it was almost as if she were immune to the pain. She simply kept moving. Her leg snaked out, sweeping mine out from under me and sending me slamming into the floor. The force of it stunned my entire system, a mix of pain and shock flooding me.

It was only a matter of seconds before I got my bearings, but it was too late. Farah straddled me, her entire weight pinning me down as she pressed a knife to my throat. “I wouldn’t if I were you.”

My chest heaved as I struggled to suck in air without pressing my neck into the blade—its sharp edges glinting in the moonlight. Farah’s dark hair was pulled up into a tight knot now, and there was pure glee in her blue gaze.

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