TWISTED ꜜ LOUIS PARTRIDGE

⟾ 12 | THE EMBERS

Y/N 💥

Monday, 10:45pm

_

I'M SCARED.

I think I always have been, but used my anger to pretend I was anything but. The few people who had the chance to know me saw this brash, arrogant woman—quick with a retort, always looking for a fight—but inside I knew I lay in the shadows of my own fear.

And I thought I could escape from it.

For a split moment, I thought I found a light—a person—who could drag me out of the hellhole I grew up in.

But I was wrong.

So here I was, trapped in a cell that reminded me of my past. He put me here. The man I let myself get tricked by. I was clinging onto the scraps of light shining through the metal bars, because of him, and I was back to being kept prisoner of my life.

I knew it was going too quickly.

There was no way we could go from hating each other to snogging in a week. I should have been more aware of that, I shouldn't have let myself get carried away. But for someone who's lived a life absent of love, you can't expect them to know what it is. They don't know how it feels. They've never felt it before.

They don't know if someone actually means it.

And clearly he didn't.

I left the dagger as a reminder. He could take my freedom away, but he'd never be able to take away the imprint I left on him. That scar would forever line his face, just like I hoped his guilt would. It didn't matter if it was his job, and it didn't matter if we were two opposites on the social chain—if you trick someone into opening their heart, I hope you drown in your own karma.

I was alone.

And I wish I could say I was used to it, but that's not something someone ever can get used to.

I'd been waiting in this cell for hours now, clothed in dirty grey uniforms given to me by a watch-officer, and my body aching from a fight gone by. Maybe I should take it as a compliment. He—who's name I don't even want to think—called twelve agents on me.

Maybe he thought I was that dangerous.

But no matter how dangerous I am, when you're outnumbered, you'll lose. He fooled me into thinking he was the one who trusted me, which made me want to trust him. To think that we were just playing a game, and we didn't mean any of it.

I wasn't going to kill him.

I wasn't like my Parents.

If he really was a good Agent, he would have known it from the start. The Oxford Street bombing? No casualties. The fires? No injuries. My family were known to kill, but I wanted to be everything away from them. I was no killer. I was simply a woman who loved destruction.

"Ash," a voice said, "not so confident now, are we?"

I snapped my head towards the door, my heartbeat quickening at the familiar voice. It wasn't who I thought it was—he hadn't bothered to visit since the time he walked away in the trailer park—but I didn't like who it really was either.

William Franklyn-Miller quickly shut the door behind him, eyes narrowed and lips pressed together in a thin line. He was wearing his pinstripe suit again, the one I had seen him wearing that day I blew up the clothing store, tailored to fit his slim build perfectly.