Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 100493 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100493 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Crossing the rest of the way, I slide the door open and pause for a moment.
Warmth settles around me as I take in the new construction of my house.
Jord is bent over the back of a chair, laughing so hard his face is red as Luce glares at him with a butter knife pointed. Punk glares at the figure near the front door. I already know who it is; Asher rarely comes without his twin. Khloe leans against the island with a glass of wine, grinning, probably the source of whatever disaster is unfolding between Jord and Luce.
And then Asher lifts his head from the far end of the table, finding me instantly.
Nonna brought this warmth to every house, every holiday. She may be gone, but she's alive wherever we exist. I know that now and I'll know it forever.
It took me a while to see it, but it's clear now. Emeric's death was never going to be as simple as a bullet. It was never about how bloody the butcher's slaughterhouse was when he took his last breath.
Emeric's death was always about irrelevance. He spent his life trying to become immortal through his creation, and in the end, he’s less than a ghost, less than a blood stain.
He simply doesn't exist. He’s a discarded script, a line of code that got overwritten, and a father to no one.
Emeric may have conditioned us to follow his command, but it's Nonna's love that always guided us home.
EPILOGUE
ASHER
TWO YEARS LATER
All the hope in the world couldn’t have her keeping to her word. I mean, shit, I’m not mad. Sitting here watching as she goes through maneuvers with the students is somewhat healing.
She’s fucking great at it. More than great.
“It’s kind of terrifying how good she is.”
Sinead leans against the railing of the patio with the expression of someone who has already placed three bets on how many bones Ivy breaks before lunch.
Below us, a dozen young Dubois stand in two rows across the frost-bitten lawn. They range from fourteen to eighteen. Every one of them wears black training clothes and the rigid posture the old house carved into its children. Ivy has spent two years teaching them how to loosen their shoulders, breathe through panic, and keep their hands from becoming weapons every time someone raises their voice.
It’s going well.
One boy drops his gaze when Ivy approaches. She hooks two fingers beneath his chin and lifts his face toward hers.
“Look at me when you’re afraid.”
His throat works. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Again.”
“I look at you when I’m afraid.”
“Good. Fear gives you information. It doesn’t get to make your decisions.”
She moves between them, barefoot in the thin grass, her long dark hair braided over one shoulder. Sunlight falls across her skin, bringing out the green in her eyes. She wears a black tank top and tight black pants tucked into combat boots, with her sheath clipped around her thigh.
She points toward the stone table in the center of the courtyard.
“Book One.”
The children answer together.
“Psychological Warfare.”
“Book Two.”
“Corps de Violence.”
“Book Three.”
“Advanced Manipulation.”
“Book Four.”
“Emergency Protocols for Emotional Contamination.”
Ivy nods once.
“Regulation comes before every book. If you lose control of your body, someone else gets to use it. If you lose control of your thoughts, they don’t even need to touch you.”
The kids barely blink.
Sinead glances at me. “Terrifying.”
I shrug. “Foreplay.”
Ivy turns toward the greenhouse she’s brought back to life, and Camille shuffles out of the shade at the end of a leash.
At the sight of the leash, I push off the pillar and head down the steps, stopping at the bottom when Ivy fists Camille’s hair.
Camille’s eyes find mine but no one is home. The shadows from the greenhouse harden her features, and her hair is about two years overdue for a cut. This is Ivy’s first time bringing her aboveground.
“Everyone say hi, Camille!” Ivy sing-songs.
The students stare. They all know who Camille is because she tutored them under Aléia, Emeric, and Alderic.
Ivy’s grip tightens, and Camille’s head jerks back, her throat exposed. My pulse stays even, unbothered.
“Camille was a puppet in the game, sure, but she is less than innocent.”
Camille keeps her eyes on me. I hold her gaze until Ivy jerks her head forward by the hair, forcing her attention back where it belongs. Possessive monster that she is.
Ivy’s green eyes slide off me and land on her. “You don’t get to look at him.”
I lean back against the pillar at the foot of the steps, hiding my chuckle behind my hand.
Ivy takes Camille's right hand and turns it palm up, her fingers finding the ulnar side of the wrist.
“Between tendon and bone,” Ivy says, clipping each word. “Control the pressure, angle, and timing.”
Her thumb sinks into the nerve, and she pops the wrist a fraction, demonstrating the break in structure. Camille sucks air through her teeth, her whole body locking under Ivy’s grip on her hair.