Iris Giorgianni is no ordinary girl. She's living a double life: a neglected daughter at home, but a fighter on the streets. As the leader of The Sangue - one of the most wanted and well-known gangs in London - Iris has a reputation to uphold. Only...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"We love the things we love for what they are."
- Robert Frost
HER HAND was clasped with his, barely clinging on to those cold, clammy fingers. As they lay on the damp ground, their backs pressing against each other, they could do nothing but wait.
Slowly, Iris could feel the weight of death pulling them both in and out of consciousness. It was a disorientating feeling, numbing your insides and blurring your mind. She had lost track of how many times Sniper had kicked and punched her; how many cries she had yelled, for her voice had now gone hoarse and the pain had amounted to so much that she could barely move.
Sniper had left the room momentarily, although she couldn't figure out how long it had been exactly since his presence was consuming them, his dark figure watching, ready, eager to pounce. He had wanted them to die a slow, painful death. One shot to the head was too quick. Adam Harris hadn't savoured this moment for years only to kill her straight away. So instead he took short breaks to gain more strength, returning with just as much ferocity and anger as before.
As soon as the door shut, she had crawled over to Hunter, attempting to console him with reassurance – the love of another person that he had been deprived of. She barely felt a reaction from him, apart from the occasional twitch of his fingers and the soft whimpers that gurgled out of his throat. Every so often she would press her hand against his wrist to feel for a pulse, letting out a cry of relief when it was there, still there, but hanging on desperately.
What had she done?
How had this happened? An innocent boy, already experienced in the art of grief, mixed up within the mess that was her life and her mistakes only.
Iris slowly moved herself around, leaning her weight on one elbow so she could look at Hunter properly. Two trembling fingers reached out to brush some hair that had fallen into his face.
He had been able to fall asleep after she promised she wouldn't let Sniper touch him, whispering a song that his mother used to hum around the house to slowly ease him into it. He looked so peaceful. If you let yourself forget about his blood-soaked shirt and the pale and sweating of his skin, he was nothing but as he used to be.
She looked away in fear that she would cry again. Sniper had seen enough of her tears. Too many, in fact, and now she was sick of it.
Sick of lying, limp and useless, sick of feeling as if everything was her fault. Despite the pain drumming and hammering itself in every part of her body, she suddenly understood what it was really like to care.
Shakily, she moved, finding herself able to stand on two feet.
Before she fought to rid her mind of despair and neglect.
Now, she would fight for the chance to live a better life. And to give someone else a chance.
To give hope, all those times it had been taken from her.
