Wattys Shortlist 2022 -
When she isn't looking, they call her the Princess of the Ghouls, but they haven't seen the assassination order on her secret identity: viper.
Stuck in Lake Darling, ruled by her father's gang, Vi has one objective... run awa...
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I sit on the floor in the bathroom, staring at the little bag of white powder in my hands weakly. Craig orchestrates Zina's supply, which means he's working dirty deals with the people that run this place. Is he using Akimitsu's trading routes to courier his black market merchandise? Or is he also supplying Barden compound with the goods it needs? Thai said my father is in bed with the army.
We had a deal! Was his deal that if he were to supply Barden, they would leave me in the city?
Whatever supply route he's using, these drugs are the confirmation that I was dreading... it's the hard evidence that I never wanted to see.
He sold us out. He sold his own people to a breeding farm.
Why am I surprised? He scared Tokyo into enlistment, he domineered my life until the moment I broke. Then he strung me up in a cage.
I inhale.
Craig Warrendale let my mother leak mad poison into his skin and blood, into the smell of his clothes and the colour of his eyes. He bred terror into the hearts of his men, so they'd fear the Manics, whilst he fixed rotten deals with the real enemy. My father was too devoutly hypocritical to even admit that the mother of his children was infected.
A knock on the door breaks me from my slumber and I start scrambling to collect myself from the floor. Reid enters before I can get all the way up, and his eyes fix on the quick motion of my hands as I stuff the white baggie in my pocket.
I clear my throat, using my arm to press myself away from the wall.
Since the first night, he's been rude, like me. It suits me though because I like being estranged. It's a signal that he knows where we stand. Opposing.
Better than complicating this mess and doing what the doctors want.
"Sorry, I'm done." The attitude in my voice is unwarranted, but still, I take my phone from the counter harshly.
"I figured," His deep voice is gravel and tired. His white tank top is slashed with grease and dirt, implying a gruelling day of manual labour. His muscular arms are just as dirty, but beneath the muck sits a patchwork of tattoos. An angel mid-fall down his bicep, an Egyptian hieroglyph on the outter portion of his wrist.
I don' reply, keeping my eyes away from his as I approach the doorway he's occupying. He twists to let my pass, but just when the air between us tightens, he grabs my wrist. I stiffen, but his eyes don't meet mine, instead he inspects the pale veins at the crook of my elbow.
My jaw slackens, rage pinching me at the insinuation of his action. He thinks I'm some closet-junkie bitch? Like my mum. Dad fed her the drugs to keep her Mania at bay.
