Scarlett Romero has spent her entire life as an ordinary citizen; going to school, getting a job and definitely not killing people in the middle of the woods on a Friday night.
Until one Friday night, she does.
All she can remember is acting out of...
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Chapter Thirty-Two "Paint it Red"
Scarlett's POV:
We run. Alexander fully shifts, sprinting on all fours with Kylie and Monica clinging to his back. I'm next to Alexander, using the elements to keep up with his inhuman pace. The air pushes me forwards and the earth is like a spring under my feet, and we're going so fast the bushland around me blurs.
It took us an hour to get out this far, and at this rate, we're going to get back in half that time. But where that should spark hope in me... I know it's pointless to think everything is going to be fine when we return.
It feels like when you've had too much to drink, and you convince yourself you're going to be fine the next morning. But you know you're wrong, and you're going to wake up hungover no matter how much you refuse to believe it.
Still, I push myself to go faster. If there's a chance, any chance at all that Natalia and Mason are okay and we were worrying for nothing, I'm going to take it. If they're not... my heart shrinks in my chest.
The passing minutes feel like they tick over in slow motion, taunting me with their tick, tick, tick, in the back of my head, like a broken clock flashing the same time over and over again.
Then we reach the edge of the farmland, and I wish we had taken longer to get here. Alexander and I skid to a stop just before the trees break. Kylie almost topples over Alexander's head, but neither of them seem to care.
There's a stretch of broken trees on the other side of the land, tyre marks leading from the wreckage. Dozens of footprints head towards the house, slowly fading in the rain-soaked ground. Monica slides off Alexander's back, dropping to the floor with a choked sob. She's already crying, tears and rain a cocktail staining her cheeks.
She runs towards the house, Kylie not far behind. Alexander and I aren't as quick to follow, and I refuse to believe it's because of the selfish need to run away bubbling in my blood. I tell myself someone needs to protect us against any stragglers from Citadel, lying in wait for us to get back.
It's all quiet as we get to the house, a dense type of quiet, like when you think you hear someone in the house at night, and you're frozen in bed, torn between checking to see if someone's there and cowering away in the hopes you're wrong.
Monica and Kylie haven't gone inside yet, stuck on the steps of the porch. The entire house looks on the verge of collapsing; the front door is broken, only its top half left attached to the frame; window shutters are hanging from their clasps; and the walls are riddled with little holes I try extremely hard to convince myself aren't bullet holes.
But I know I'm wrong, and something in me dies.
At least it was quick, I think. I don't dare say anything out loud, refusing to meet the eyes burning in the back of my head. I'm the first one to walk inside, steps slow and heavy. The inside of the house is worse than the outside.
