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 Twelve "The Day I Set Someone on Fire"
Scarlett's POV:
Alexander can't meet my eyes. He swallows hard, gaze flickering from the floor to the pillared roof to the curve of the cul-de-sac opening. I raise a brow, stalking toward him and settling close to his chest.
"I'm right, aren't I?" I ask rhetorically. We both know this is a supernatural prison, but only one of us knows what I am. I wait for him to catch my stare before saying, "You know what I am. You've known the entire time."
Alexander nods and I rub a hand down my face. Part of me doesn't want to believe him. It wants me to run back to my room and bury myself under the blanket, until this is all over and I can convince myself I'm dreaming.
But I remember in the gym, and when Quinn had her gun pressed into my head. I remember the way the room heated up, how the foreign whispers took over all my senses and my hands tingled, like little sparks were dancing on my palms. I remember the fire.
"How did Tolkien know?" I gnaw on my bottom lip, trying to ignore the almost painful tightening in my chest. "Why was I sent here in the first place, if I thought I was human? How did Tolkien and the judge who gave my sentence know I'm not human?"
Alexander finally looks at me. He doesn't exactly look pleased, opal eyes hard and mouth turned in the smallest of frowns. I glare at him when he doesn't answer, crossing my arms and gritting my teeth.
He groans and grumbles a hoarse, "Your interrogation on first day here. Tolkien brought out by Quinn, showed video of what you did to get here. That's how he knew and that's how judge knew where send you."
A small whine builds in the back of my throat, but I don't let it escape. I purse my lips, clamping down on the sound and clicking my tongue instead. What did I do that was so bad, it warranted Tolkien trying to have me killed?
"So, whatever I am," I utter slowly, the pieces coming together too fast for my mouth to catch, "it scared the prison Governor so much he decided to get you to kill me? Am I that horrible of a being?"
Alexander flinches, as he usually does when I mention my death and the role he was intended to play in it. I watch him, choosing to say nothing about the slow lengthening of his nails as Alexander tries to get himself under control.
"Not horrible," Alexander hisses a little, jaw clenched tight and nose flaring. "You powerful, and Tolkien and prison scared of anything that can undermine their authority. They scared of you; you not horrible."
Reassurance burns in my stomach, warming me from the inside out. I'm not a horrible being, Citadel prison just doesn't know how to handle me. That's why Tolkien tried to have me killed and that's why he was so unsure about letting me stay with Alexander; the two of us together, the most powerful of inmates, sharing a cell.
