Abigail woke from the sound of a loud crash that shook her apartment. It sent a jolt through her body and she sprung off of the bed, heart thundering in her chest. Specks of black and navy played in front of her eyes as they adjusted to the darkness and her skin pricked at the bad feeling in her gut. This time it wasn't her paranoia.

Derek found me.

That was impossible. She made sure of it. Another thump shook the apartment.

She reached for the baseball bat beside her nightstand and, cautiously, she crept for the door, ears on high alert. A low moan came from the kitchen and a lump formed in her throat. Hayden and Ember.

"God dammit!"

It was Hayden.

"Hayden?" Abigail whispered. When she stepped into the living room, a sob bubbled from her throat and the baseball bat slipped from her fingers. "Hayden! Oh my God!"

Hayden staggered clumsily across the living room, holding onto everything and anything to stay upright. There were two gashes near his temple, a split lip, and his raw knuckles were turning blue. "They took her! They fucking found us and took Ember!" he roared, colliding with a side table and sending a blue vase to the ground with an explosion.

"No," she whispered in disbelief. "No! It's impossible!"

Hayden dropped to his knees, clutching his side. "It's true," he whispered. "She's gone."

She rushed over to Hayden, pulling the tall boy off of the ground. "How?"

"I don't know," he hissed, his voice as distraught as he looked. "I don't fucking know." He spit the blood onto the carpet.

Abigail rushed to the kitchen to get everything she could to stop the bleeding. She was on auto drive, thoughts racing with who to call, what to do, and how she would skin Derek alive when she saw him.

I need to get help. Chase and Jensen aren't supposed to be here until tomorrow. We can't handle them on our own.

Too many people she'd cared about were hurt because of him.

"No! Stop—just—don't touch me," Hayden snapped when Abigail approached him with the first aid supplies.

His stormy eyes bore holes into her, a stricken sense of fear pinching Abigail's skin, and she took a step back. He looked deadly. But beneath the ice, Abigail saw grief on his face. There sat an upset seventeen-year-old boy on the brink of finally breaking. She couldn't help but marvel at how quickly he'd changed. How clearly his emotions shone through. For the four years Abigail had known Hayden Cross, he always had his emotions in check.

"You need to get cleaned up," she protested miserably. Hayden studied the blood on his hands, mumbling incoherently.

"I'm sick of being cleaned up," his broad shoulders shuddered. "I just want to find those assholes and break their jaws." Hayden jumped to his feet and stormed for the door. Abigail's eyes widened in alarm and she raced to the front door, blocking his way with her arms out.

"What are you doing?" Hayden asked venomously. Abigail looked up at him, eyes narrowing at the boy's recklessness. It was a trait both he and Ember shared annoyingly enough.

"Do you want to die?" she demanded. Hayden rolled his eyes as she continued. "One, you don't know where they could be. Two, you're not going around the city alone. I won't let you. In case you've forgotten, this is Brooklyn. There are other people you need to worry about besides the The Punishers. And three, you're freaking outnumbered by a lot! Derek won't hesitate to shoot you in the forehead. Now calm the fuck down and clean yourself up!"

He didn't say anything.

"Don't worry," Abigail assured him calmly. "Tomorrow morning we'll have help and then you can personally beat the shit out of whomever you want to."

"Oh, trust me. I will."

Abigail shivered at the finality and promise in his words.

A sudden knock on the door made Abigail jump and her eyes locked with Hayden's as the two stared at each other, frozen in place. Hayden's eyes flickered from the door to the baseball bat on the ground and Abigail nodded.

In the matter of seconds, Abigail rushed forward and swung the door open. But before Hayden could take a swing at the intruder, a hand shot out and snatched the bat right out of his grasp. Another rammed into his chest and sent him flying back. There was a blur of motion and Hayden crashed to the ground.

"Calm down!" someone roared. "It's us! Abigail!"

She froze at the familiar voice and looked up, heart swelling at the sight of her friend. "Mathew," she breathed with relief. Matthew Cross, Hayden's father. As if this soap opera couldn't get anymore dramatic. "I'm so happy you're here."

The tall, grey-eyed man looked down at the college student he'd befriended in the hunt for Derek Rodriguez. "And looks like I'm right on time," he said gruffly. "What's going on here?"

"Derek attacked us. He—he has Ember."

Mathew's eyebrows pulled together and he pulled at the officer's badge hooked to his belt. "This isn't good."

"No, it's not," Hayden got up from the ground, joints cracking in protest. He studied the tall, built man and narrowed his eyes. "You're late."

Mathew regarded his son with steady eyes. We had to stop somewhere and pick a few people up. They can help us. I think you know some quite well."

Hayden clenched his jaw. "Yeah, they're my friends—" He fell silent when another figure emerged from the shadows of the dark hallway. The dark-haired man stepped cautiously through the door to stand next to Mathew, cocky and disgusting like every other time he'd seen him.

Hayden stiffened, eyes bugging out of his head, and Abigail bit her lip in anticipation of his reaction. Hayden was going to flip out. She knew that for a fact.

"Hello, Hayden Cross," said the man.

Hayden whirled around, staring daggers at both Abigail and Mathew. Her suspicion was right. He was pissed. No, murderous.

"He's one of the reasons why we're in this fucking mess!" Hayden's hands curled into fists and he snarled, ready to beat the man into a pulp. "What the fuck is Jason doing here? What the fuck is the man who attacked Ember doing here?"

* * *

I wake up to a massive, skull splitting migraine. The pain is nauseating and excruciating. There is a very real chance that my head might actually explode.

But since my captors aren't mindless, evil thugs who do whatever they want at the cost of other people's lives, they decided to be generous and ease the intensity of my headache with a cocktail of narcotics that make my blood burn.

I'd rather be dead than face that kind of addiction.

My eyes begin burning from the intense stream of white sunlight that hits me through a crack in one of the blacked out windows. The whole space is fairly dark, with damp walls and what looks to be mold on the chipped cement floors. Judging by all the metal beams, high ceilings, and the shushing of water lapping against wood, we're in some kind of warehouse on the water. My aching body is pinned to a metal chair with itchy, thick rope. It scrapes my skin with each small movement. My reflection in the glossy metal doors shows that I have two black eyes I don't remember receiving. I don't even want to know the state of my abdomen.

"Wow, a warehouse, tied to a chair," I say to the person in charge of guarding me.

It's very flattering actually: two guards on constant watch of a girl whose feet don't even touch the ground because her chair is too high. How do they expect me to escape? My current guard is someone I've met before from the cabin in the woods: Keith. AKA Pervert #1. Andy, Pervert #2, left on the arm of a blonde a few minutes ago.

I cock my head to the side. "You guys just bleed originality, don't you? I'm so impressed. What other clichés do you have with you? Matching outfits? Ear pieces? A shark tank? Oh, no. Let me guess! A monitoring lair where your leader sits and watches everyone with his stupid cat! I mean, yeah, clichés are inevitable but I swear I've seen all of these things in quite a few Tom Cruise movies."

I don't get a response. The tall, twenty-something glares at me with his arms crossed over his chest. I roll my eyes, shifting in my chair. Keith is sporting the same camouflage attire from last time.

"Come on, at least say something," I urge. "Just because you're a minion doesn't mean you have to play the part of mute and mindless."

The corner of his mouth twitches and I bite back a smirk.

"Will you shut your mouth?" he drawls sounding agitated. I've been talking non-stop for God knows how long..

I purse my lips together. "Oh, I'm sorry. Am I bothering you?"

There is a loud clicking sound and Keith stalks toward me with something big in his arms. It's a gun. A very hefty, very scary shotgun. I stare at the barrel, my throat going paper dry.

"Her name's Delilah. Ain't she pretty?"

I lick my lips. "Beautiful."

Keith looks at his shotgun like it's made of gold and diamonds and wipes a cloth across the trigger.

"Sure is," he beams, eyes turning to give me a once-over. "She's the prettiest thing in the room by far." Keith's expression is arrogant and proud. I furrow my eyebrows.

Why the fuck does he look so---oh. I get it. WOW.

I laugh, scooting around in my chair, and flinch at a fresh cut on my arm scraping against the coarse rope. "Was that supposed to be insulting or something? Because being compared to a hunk of junk in regards to looks is an insult in itself. Sorry, you tried."

Keith's face flushes and he snarls, bringing his gun up and resting the barrel on my shoulder. I hold down a whimper, eyes flickering to the cool metal on my shoulder. I know I shouldn't be irritating a guy with a gun. But if Derek—or Nate—wanted me dead (or worse) that would have happened by now, right?

And I suppose, my death is probably inevitable. It's not like he'd let me go after this is all over. He knows my level of resistance. If I'm going down, there is no way it's going to be easy.

"I suggest you stop your incessant yacking or I'll make you," Keith threatens in a low growl. I tear my eyes away from the gun and look at him with a deadly cold stare.

"Incessant, huh? Gold star for using high school vocabulary." This time I don't hide my smirk. A vein pulses in Keith's neck and he scratches his collar, hooking the shotgun into the side of his jeans and pulling another gun-like object from his back pocket. I wonder how many firearms he has on him. I wonder which way I have to make him squirm in order for him to shoot himself in the ass.

He introduces me to a boxy handgun with a cylindrical silencer attached to the front. "This is Megan. You see, she has quite the temper—even worse than mine. And right now, she does not like the way you're talking."

I sallow the lump in my throat, rolling my eyes and saying in the most bored tone I can muster, "Megan? Honestly, do you name every piece of shit you own?"

Keith growls and grabs me roughly by the shoulders, tipping the chair forward onto its front legs. Our faces are close. Way too close. Pulse racing, I push back on the rope, trying my hardest to ignore the burning of the scratchy material further embedding in my skin. Keith's eyes are a putrid greenish brown color. He brings the gun to my throat.

"You've been talking non-stop for two hours! Shut up!" Keith commands, pushing the weapon into my skin. I open my mouth to speak when Keith hisses, bringing his hand up and jabbing the butt of the gun against my cheek. He brings it to my temple and when I squeeze my eyes shut, I can hear him cocking the gun. This is it.

"Keith! What do you think you're doing?"

My fear quickly turns to disdain. Keith shoves me away and my chair barely stops from tipping over. We look at the lean figure stalking the dark shadows of the warehouse.

"Nate," Keith murmurs.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Nate demands.

"I—I don't know. I'm sorry, sir," he apologizes.

Nate snorts, cracking his knuckles. "You're so stupid, Keith. Get your damn temper figured out or get out of here and go shoot a deer or something. Make yourself look useful!"

Genuine worry and fear crosses Keith's face and he feverishly nods, tripping over himself. Giving me one last glare, he hurries out of the room. I don't want him to go. Nate and I will be the only ones left in the room. And all the scenarios in my head aren't going too well.

The sound of dripping water echoes through the room. It's the only sound aside from my labored breathing. Nate acknowledges me with steely eyes and I can't find myself to look back. Pathetic, I know.

"How are you feeling?" His voice isn't harsh. It's gentle and sounds like the Nate I know. When my eyes finally move to his face, the little lines of concern beside his eyes strike me.

"Why do you care?" I snap. "Why are you doing this?"

Just because he looks concerned doesn't mean he is. It's another act. He's good at that. He doesn't really care.

"Because I do consider you a friend," he offers in a clipped voice. "Sometimes I wasn't pretending. It's a shame."

"Wow, you're doing a really shitty job of showing it," I hiss. "If you were my friend you'd let me go. You wouldn't have my mother shot."

Nate shrugs.

"Why are you doing this?" I ask again. "You're an amazing athlete. You have good grades and you're financially stable with amazing parents. What made you want to enter a world like this?"

Nate pulls a chair and sits across from me. He pushes long locks of feathery golden hair out of his face and I'm hit with a memory of the two of us in the courtyard at school. It was after a Psychology test that he had failed. I spent a good two classes trying to cheer him up. Now I wish I hadn't. He should have suffered.

"I'm doing this because I have to, Ember. I know you'll never understand. I'm doing this because I want to. It's because Derek is the only person that can help me get what I want," he studies calluses on his hands. " Why do people get into this stuff in the first place? They like the danger and the high and the thrills of it all. You get to make your own rules and you don't have to sit and listen to bullshit. You do something about it. People treat you like royalty. It's an amazing feeling."

I glare at him. "That has to be the worst explanation I've ever heard in my life."

"It's the truth." Nate stands up and circles my chair. "Just because you have money and your parents are together does not mean your life isn't messed up. I'll admit that I made some bad choices. But the fact is that I don't care. I need it and Derek can give it to me."

"He's not giving you anything. You're taking what's his."

"Technicalities," he smiles. "Great empires are not built by one royal family."

"Royal family?" I gawk. "Jesus, man. Get a grip!"

He stops in front of my chair, towering menacingly. This time I make eye contact with a hateful stare.

"That won't make me upset," he smirks. "Sorry."

He lifts a hand and I brace myself for impact. But instead of hitting me, he brushes his fingertips down the side of my face in a nausea-inducing caress. His fingers flutter across my skin to my lips. Nate stares at my mouth and I move my head away, an awful feeling washing over me.

"Cross doesn't know what he's missing," he murmurs in a husky voice. My skin prickles and I swallow the bile in my throat.

"Don't. Touch. Me."

Nate clicks his tongue, "Calm down. I'm not going to do anything, trust me. Now tell me, Ember. What is your relationship status with Hayden Cross these days? The last time I checked we were chucking water balloons full of salad dressing at him and now you're in New York City together. I have to say that was fast. Looks like you're no better than any of them."

"No better than who?" I challenge.

"Sluts."

I turn my head sideways and stare at Nate with narrowed eyes. "That's where you're wrong, Nate. We're nothing. All I'm doing is helping him take you down because of what you did to my mom."

"Come on," he reasons. "I doubt that's the only reason. Do you think Hayden really needed your help to do this? I seriously doubt it. It's not like you have any special worth or capability that would be an asset to this crazy plan." Nate's eyebrows knit together in confusion. "And your mom...you don't make any sense, Em. What would we ever do to your mom? I don't understand Derek's sudden fascination with you, but it is what it is. Why would we go after when you're the prize?"

I frown. "Don't act like you don't know. Derek was there. Hayden was there. Thanks to you and your stupid rage for power, my mother almost died. Derek shot her."

Remembering the horrific day, Nate snaps his fingers. He looks at me with the goofiest grin on his face. I purse my lips. There is nothing good that could come of this. I don't know if I'm ready to hear what's going to come out of his mouth. Did he shoot her?

"You think Derek shot her?" he asks with a laugh.

"I know he did. A woman saw him shoot my mom," I argue. "But here I'm thinking it might have been you, you son of a bitch."

Nate wipes a tear from the corner of his eye. "Hayden and his bastard father thought they could get the best of us. They thought they could disrespect everything we've worked for and are working toward to bring The Punishers back to their rightful place. They got busted and it turned into a firefight. I know exactly whose line of fire your mom crossed, Ember. It wasn't mine or Derek's or Keith's."

"What are you trying to say?" I demand. It's becoming harder to breathe. Every emotion comes rushing back.

"What I'm saying is that we didn't shoot your mom," Nate pauses. "Hayden did."

It's like a slap in the face.

I heave in a breath, suddenly forgetting how to breathe. All that races through my mind is that he is lying. Hayden would never do that. The feeling is worse than ever before. It's worse than the anguish I felt hearing about my mother's injury or the betrayal seeing Nate step out of the shadows. It's the feeling of my heart breaking into millions of pieces. The sharp sting in my chest brings tears to my eyes.

"No, it's not true."

"Oh, but it is, Ember. I have the proof right here."

He pushes his phone into my line of sight. I stare at the grainy video, seeing everything and nothing at all, the sound of the gunshot ringing through my ears.

* * *