Saving The Gangsta

s e v en t e e n

t a y l o r

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Monsters don't get saved. They get put down by the monsters you should really be afraid of.

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Who is she?

I didn't teach her to fight like that. I didn't teach her disarm techniques. I didn't teach her how to project her voice in a way that would make all men fear her.

Yet she did it as though it was natural to her.

It didn't escape my notice how the topic of traitors made her uncomfortable. Especially regarding the Royals. I was surprised she wasn't already aware of most of the theories.

The death of King Tobias Kensley and his wife Isabella has sparked discussions for many years. The disappearance of their children, Ingrid Freya and Tristan Lukas, even more so.

She can't be a traitor.

Rebecca didn't trust her, and I trust Rebecca, but Lexi trusts her and Lexi was brought up on the streets.

She was brought up to know who can and can't be trusted.

"Taylor," I snap out of my thoughts, nodding my head at Scarlett. "Bex wants to see you, as soon as."

"Thanks, Scar." I say without thinking.

"Long live the King." She bows, grinning ear from ear. It had been something we tended to joke around for the past 2 years, to a point where I stopped calling it her completely.

It didn't help that she shared a name with that of our sworn enemies either.

I go to the roof, where I somehow knew Becca would be. She hadn't wanted me to go on a date with Astrid, so I expected her to scold me in the first place, but after the incident with Cole Caldwell and his bitches, I expected a lot worse.

It's safe to say her words were completely unexpected.

"The Scars are dead."

I notice her attire then.

She has her dark hair tied back into a high ponytail, and clothes that cling to her lean, athletic build. But unlike all other occurrences, her clothes are completely white.

I know a lot about Becca. From her favorite color to her most cherished wish.

Her favorite books when we were in the Orphanage were The Mortal Instruments. She loved the symbolism, it even sparked her interest in latin.

And she chose her clothes carefully because of it.

She told me once that different colors meant different things. Black for hunting or fighting. Gold for brides.

White for mourning.

"What?"

"People were saying shit at the Ring last night, I sent Jayce this morning and he said it looked like a massacre had taken place."

"Who?" I questioned. We were their biggest rivals. Who else would have the soldiers to take them out?

"I don't know." She replies honestly, "But they've been taking out other gangs, not as large scale but still gangs. I think we're next."

"We'll stop them. They won't take us, you know that." I tell her without hesitation.

Anybody can have the joy of killing us but they won't ever have the satisfaction of seeing our fear.