Wretched (Never After Series)
Wretched: Chapter 4

“Want some?” Zeke asks, dropping in the chair across from me, the stench of his fried chicken and gravy swirling in the air.

I scrunch my nose, glancing up from my small black notebook, shaking my head.

He laughs. “I forgot you were doing that whole vegan thing.”

“It’s not a thing,” I snap.

“Then what is it?” His auburn brow arches as he shovels half the chicken leg into his mouth.

“It’s me not wanting to have a hand in the slaughter of animals just for temporary enjoyment. It’s selfish.”

He chuckles again, smacking his lips dramatically and groaning as he takes his next bite.

Rolling my eyes, I glance back to the paper and focus on the words, tipping my pen in the corner of my mouth and nibbling on the hard plastic. Disgust crawls up my throat as I bring the ink down and draw harsh lines through the letters until my hand stings from the pressure, and everything I’ve written is scratched out and obsolete.

Absolute shit.

“Yum, what smells so good?” Dorothy’s voice soars through the air. It’s light and airy, and it grates against my ears, the same way it does every time she speaks. I look up through my lashes, tracking her as she walks into the kitchen and smiles wide as she steps up next to Zeke.

“It’s animal flesh.” Zeke winks at me.

I scoff.

She giggles. “Sounds delicious.”

“Does it? Your sister thinks I’m disgusting for eating it.”

“I couldn’t care less about what you choose to do with your life, Ezekiel.” I snap my notebook closed, pulling it up to my chest.

“Well, Evie isn’t exactly known for her good taste,” Dorothy says, sparing me a small glance. “No offense.”

I narrow my eyes, taking in her perfectly pressed baby-blue checked pantsuit and bright-red lips. She’s always put together, but today, she looks just a little extra, and while not having her in the house is a blessing, I also don’t like the idea of her going out on the town and plastering her face everywhere in public.

She either fails to realize that she constantly puts us at risk or she simply doesn’t care, and our father loves her too much to rein her in, allowing his guilt over Nessa to bleed into his affection for Dorothy while she slips effortlessly into the role as “Daddy’s favorite.”

But that’s perfectly fine with me. I don’t want to be anyone’s favorite. I just want to be left the hell alone.

“You ready to go?” Zeke asks her.

“Yep,” she replies. “Dad already gave me the rundown.”

My head tilts, curiosity spinning webs through my middle. I’ve never seen Zeke and Dorothy go anywhere together, much less run an errand for our dad. “Where are you going?”

For just a slight second, confusion mars Dorothy’s features, brows drawing inward and eyes moving back and forth, like my question unlocked an invisible puzzle for her to piece together. But that’s all it lasts for—a moment. As quick as the look came, it vanishes, her eyes clearing as a smile spreads across her face. “There’s some guy Zeke wants to bring on. Dad asked me to go with, make sure he checks out.”

Zeke’s shoulders stiffen. “I’d know if he wasn’t good for it. You think I’m lyin’? Fuck outta here with that shit.”

She laughs. “I don’t think anything, Zeke, just saying what Dad said.” She cocks her head as she looks at me again. “Didn’t he tell you?”

My chest pinches from her words because no, he didn’t tell me. And while I don’t need to know everything that goes on, it still stings when he keeps me in the background, blind from omission and bound by blood.

Especially when he tells me in private how important I am.

But I get why he didn’t. I wouldn’t be on board with bringing on anyone new right now. Not when it feels like we’re being attacked by an invisible enemy from all sides. Between the Cantanellis from Chicago making backroom deals with the mayor of our town, and the idiot drug dealers who think it’s a good idea to skim off the top, it’s not a good time.

Zeke’s eyes flick to me. “He didn’t tell you ‘cause there’s nothin’ to tell. Not yet, anyway.”

I nod, my fingers playing with the edges of the notebook paper.

He stands up, cracking his neck. “I’m gonna go start the car. We leave in five minutes.”

Dorothy smiles at him, her eyes following as he walks through the arched hallway and disappears before she spins to face me. “He’s just trying to make you feel better… you know that, right?”

“Feel better for what?”

She shrugs, lifting one of her hands and picking at her nail beds. “Because Dad’s showing me the ropes.”

I lift my brows. “Have fun with that.”

Her grin drops. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means… have fun with that,” I repeat. “I’m sure I’ll get pulled in when it’s time to clean up your mess.”

Her eyes flicker toward my small notebook. “Whatever, Evie. You have fun sitting here being pissed off at the world and writing your stupid little love spells. Maybe if you tried a bit harder to be normal, Dad would pay you some attention instead of hiding you in corners and only bringing you out at night.”

I grit my teeth, my fingers tightening around the edges of the paper. “It’s poetry.”

She smirks. “Sure.”

“Dorothy, we need to go,” Zeke says, walking back into the room and glancing at me. “Want me to pick up anything on the way back?”

I smile wide. “A new sister would be nice.”

Dorothy scoffs. “Why? You couldn’t even keep your old one.”

My grin drops, and my fingers move from my notebook to the edge of the island, grief blazing in the center of my gut like acid. Closing my eyes, I count back from ten, letting Nessa’s memory coach me into a sense of calm that I don’t truly feel. Otherwise, I’ll be inclined to act on those pesky impulses again, and that won’t do me any favors.

“Dorothy,” Zeke snaps. “Shut the fuck up and get in the car.”

“But I—”

“Now.”

She pouts and leaves with one last look over her shoulder.

The silence presses in, feeling heavier with every second, but still, I keep my eyes squeezed so tight my head starts to ache.

Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven…

“She didn’t mean it,” Zeke finally whispers.

I pry my lids apart, peering over at him. “She did. But it’s fine.”

Closing my notebook, I push to stand, fury pulsing through my veins. Moving out from behind the large kitchen island, I press past Zeke, walking so quickly my legs burn. I don’t stop until I’m at the front entrance, the black-and-white checkered marble gleaming beneath the crystal chandelier, a large princess staircase splitting either side. My feet stomp as I make my way up the steps, and I focus on counting while I head toward my room.

Anything to keep my mind off the simmering feelings bubbling beneath the surface of my skin.

Little splashes of muted sunshine splay across the glossy wood floor and I purposely step around them as I walk down the hall. This house is too big. Too bright, with all the abstract paintings hanging on the walls and the light peeking in through the windowpanes.

Pushing open the door to my room, I rush toward the end table and slip my notebook into the drawer before heading to the vanity and sighing as I look at myself in the mirror.

My face looks drawn. Tired. I reach my fingers up and press them underneath my eyes, the dark circles making the muddy brown of my irises look like pits of black. I push firmly until pressure bleats across my sockets and I drag my nails down my cheeks, the rings that adorn each of my fingers clacking when they touch.

Get it together.

Reaching for the oversized scrunchie on the table, I throw my dyed-black hair into a messy bun and grab a hoodie, heading out of my room and back downstairs to make sure Zeke and Dorothy are really gone.

They are.

Zeke doesn’t technically live here, but most of his time is spent at the estate. My father prefers to keep his inner circle as close as possible, which is why it doesn’t extend far beyond his actual family and a few of his closest associates. Fortunately, the mansion is over ten thousand square feet, one of the nicest properties in Kinland and has plenty of room for me to disappear entirely without much fanfare.

Me and people don’t really get along.

I walk down the small hallway off the back of the main kitchen and leave the house through a side door, making sure to pull my hoodie tighter and keep to the edges of the premises, out of the line of sight of the numerous security cameras installed.

Eventually, I make it to the trees protecting the property and head into the thick of them, fallen leaves crunching beneath my feet. I’ve never been much for summer—something about the cool weather and the smell of autumn brings a type of peace that I sink into, and as the September breeze whips across my face, making my nose tingle and my ears burn, a sense of contentment warms the center of my chest. For the first time since talking to my sister, the anger fades away, focus dropping into its place as I hit the clearing in the trees. I make my way to the small cottage sitting in the center, walking down the faded and chipped yellow brick pathway, half overrun with vegetation and weeds, until I reach the wooden porch. Reaching into my pocket, the metal prongs of a key dig into my fingers and I pull it out, unlocking the front door and moving inside.

There’s a tiny living room with a green velvet couch, a small oak coffee table that rarely gets used, and just off to the side is a kitchenette with a white stove and a mini-fridge.

It’s nothing special. But it’s mine.

I walk straight by it all, heading to the back bedroom and flinging open the door to the walk-in closet.

With a deep breath, I push apart the racks of clothing and sink to my knees, brushing my hand over the small indent in the drywall. It’s faint, made specifically to blend in with the scuffed-up paint. You’d hardly notice it’s there unless you knew where to look.

My fingers fit beneath the small notch and pull, allowing the hidden door to unlatch and swing open, revealing the dark room and concrete steps that lead deep underground. My knees crack when I stand, sending a dull throb of pain through my leg, and I wince as I walk into the blackened space, pulling on the string light before spinning around and closing up the secret entrance behind me.

I make my way down the steps and along the narrow concrete hallway. Goose bumps prickle along the back of my neck and scatter across my arms. I quicken my pace, the sounds of each step ricocheting off the walls and bouncing back into my ears.

There’s a certain chill that happens when you’re beneath sea level and surrounded by cement. The kind that soaks into your bones and sends a shiver ghosting up your spine, and no matter how many times I make this trek, I never quite get used to it.

Finally, I hit the end of the hall, stopping in front of a large steel door with an illuminated screen to its left. Lifting up my fingers, I press my hand to it, watching as it scans my prints and triggers the lock to unlatch.

I pull the door open, hundreds of metal halide lights shining so brightly they make my eyes flinch. There’s a faint click of the lock reengaging behind me, but I’m already allowing my gaze to focus on what’s in front of me.

Satisfaction settles deep in my chest as I make my way down the long rows of garden beds, heading toward the center of the room where the digital thermostat sits, then leaning over to look at the numbers.

Seventy-five degrees Fahrenheit. Perfect.

I note the time. Two hours until it adjusts to thirty degrees, just after the sun drops beneath the horizon.

These plants are a temperamental breed.

This isn’t the only thermostat I’ll need to check. This underground area spans across two acres and is separated into smaller rooms for easier containment. Smiling to myself, I imagine what Nessa would think about the enhancements our father made to the cottage she gifted me.

Warmth spreads through my limbs and I shrug out of my hoodie before placing my hands on my hips and soaking in the sight. Out of all the places I’ve been in my life, right here is where I truly feel at home. Maybe it’s because this is the only time I’m not constantly looking over my shoulder as I sink into my favorite pastime.

Solitude.

And botany, of course, although that isn’t really a passion as much as it’s a means to an end.

My eyes flicker to the thousands of pods growing beautifully, almost ready for lancing.

Another day… maybe two.

See, what Dorothy doesn’t realize—what nobody else knows—is while our father may be the face of the family business, he’s not the brains.

He needs me for that.

So she may have his attention and get showered in his love, but she doesn’t truly have his favor.

I do.

And it starts right here, in my greenhouse full of poppies.