The Price Of Gold

08. we are all liars

viii
OPHELIA ARCHIBALD

There was a story I used to read as a child.

It was about a monster.

Not the kind with claws or fangs, but one that looked human, sounded human, acted human—until it didn't. It lived deep in the woods, where the trees grew too tall and blocked out the light. It would wait there, silent and still, until someone wandered too far from home and found a home in the monster.

The monster didn't hunt with teeth or strength. It didn't need to. It would take you in its arms, hold you like you mattered, make you believe you were safe—until it wasn't holding you anymore. Until you were caught in its grasp.

I hated that story.

I hated it because it ruined the image of monster in my mind. I thought monsters killed you. They physically harm you. But this was worse, this monster made you trust it before it killed you.

There have been so many monsters in my life.

They've worn faces I trusted, faces I loved, faces I hated.

Monsters come in the shape of people—parents who walk out of the picture before you can even understand what they're leaving behind, strangers in masks who take what isn't theirs, men with kind smiles that twist into something cruel the moment you're alone.

One monster worse than the last.

But I never thought I'd see one in him.

Alastair. My brother.

I don't know what was more terrifying—that he killed so easily, or that he did it for me. As if my life was something worth killing for, spilling blood for. He didn't even flinch. Not once. He walked through it like it was nothing, like he'd done it before, like he'd do it again.

And now, every time I'll look at him, I see the monster in the woods.

I thought I knew him.

But now I wonder if I ever did.

The way he handled those men—so ruthless, it's like there was a part of him I never knew existed. I saw it tonight. A side of him that could crush anything in his path, that could destroy without hesitation. I keep replaying it in my mind, those moments when he tore them apart, shot them down like they were nothing more than obstacles to him.

And what scares me the most is how calm he was. No anger, no hesitation.

What if one day, I become an obstacle?

The thought burns through me. If I ever said the wrong thing, stepped out of line, or went against him in a way he couldn't forgive—what would stop him from turning that coldness on me? What if I make one mistake, and he decides I'm not worth protecting anymore?

I can still feel the press of his hand on my arm earlier when he pulled me toward the car and then carried in me inside. That same hand held a gun only moments before. That same hand that almost killed those people and left them bleeding in the dirt.

If he wanted to, he could crush me.

Easily. Effortlessly.

I can't stop thinking about it.

And I can't stop trembling.

I thought Alastair was supposed to be the one who kept me safe.

He would hurt for me.

He wouldn't hurt me, would he?

But I can't trust that now. Not after tonight. Not after seeing what he's capable of. He killed those men as if it were a reflex, as if he has done that for years.