"If I ever die, don't you dare mourn me, Raven... 'cause I sure as fuck wouldn't mourn you."
That voice. His voice.
Robin.
It plays in my head every goddamn morning the second I open my eyes. Like a curse stitched to my soul. That sentence, that final bite of his bitterness, is a permanent wound I wake up to.
They say time dulls pain.
Whoever "they" are — they're full of shit.
Pain doesn't fade. It just hides better. Waits behind songs, smells, names. Then it cracks your ribs open like a crowbar and settles in again.
I glance at the watch ticking quietly on my wrist: 5:02 a.m.
Another sleepless night.
The house we're in is one of Father's old safehouses, buried deep in the bones of Terry-Green Creek — a cold, rusted-out little town outside Colorado. Population barely 230,000, and somehow it still feels like too many people. Too many eyes. Too many ghosts.
Why Robin chose this place to vanish to... that's one of the many things I'll never understand.
I lie still under the blankets, staring up at the cracked ceiling. My brain's crawling. Wolfe gave us the order. That much we know. But who gave him the push? Who told him my brother had to die?
And why?
Robin never told anyone who he was. He didn't walk around bragging about the Black family name. So why kill him? Why beat him beyond recognition and leave his body in the gutter like he meant nothing?
Nothing fucking adds up.
A shrill buzz cuts through the silence. My phone. I don't check the screen.
"Yeah?" I answer.
"Coffee's ready."
Click.
Typical Phoenix. Emotionless and straight to the point. He's the only person I know who can speak in bullet points.
I roll my eyes and peel the covers back. The room's cold. Always is. My silk robe doesn't do shit to stop the chill, but I put it on anyway. I head to the bathroom, brush my teeth, splash water on my face, and pull my hair into a low, sharp ponytail.
By the time I make it down the stairs, the scent of eggs and strong black coffee is already thick in the air. I pause in the doorway, watching him.
Phoenix stands at the kitchen island in a black vest and dark joggers, back to me. He moves quietly, efficiently — like every motion is calculated. Two plates. Two cups. Everything set out like a ritual.
He looks up when I step in, and his eyes study me for just a second longer than necessary.
I take the stool across from him and reach for my coffee first. It's exactly how I like it — hot, black, bitter. No sugar.
One of the few comforts I allow myself.
Phoenix finally slides the plate across to me. His voice is low, calm.
"Eat. We're heading to the docks today."
I dig into the eggs, chewing mechanically. "Why the docks?"
"There's someone I want to see. We're meeting Jim Barents."
My fork pauses mid-air. My brow arches.
"Care to tell me why we're meeting the walking shit stain that is Jim Barents?"
Phoenix leans against the counter and sips his coffee like it's no big deal. "He called last night. Said he has something. Information. Claims it's about Robin."
My stomach churns. "You trust him?"
"I don't trust anyone. But something in his voice... I think he's got something we need. Wolfe's intel was vague. This could fill in some blanks."
Or make things worse.
I keep eating in silence, but my thoughts are already spiraling.
Jim Barents isn't just another low-life drug dealer.
He's the head of a rival assassin family. Dangerous, brutal, filthy rich. And he's known for dealing in girls.
If Robin got anywhere near that world...
I shove the plate away.
Phoenix watches. He knows I'm spiraling — he doesn't comment. Instead, he pushes off the counter and heads toward the door.
"Be ready in twenty."
He disappears without waiting for a reply
The docks reek of salt, diesel, and death. It's been four hours.
Four hours of freezing wind slicing across my face while Phoenix stands statue-still beside me, arms crossed, eyes locked on the horizon like the answers to all of this might crawl out of the ocean.
But all we've gotten is silence and seagulls.
"Where the fuck is he?" I mutter, shifting in place, trying to feel my toes again.
Phoenix doesn't look at me. "He'll show. Just stay sharp."
The words are simple. The tone is not. Phoenix's voice is too even. Too calm. That means he's seething underneath.
Right on cue, the sound of tires crunching gravel breaks the silence.
A rusted-out black car rolls up slow, like it knows it's not welcome here. The windows are blacked out. No plates. Typical.
The door creaks open.
Jim Barents climbs out with the grace of a drunk troll. He's a bloated mess of sweat, grease, and stale smoke. His gut hangs over his joggers like an overflowing trash bag. The stench of cheap sex and bourbon hits me from ten feet away.
Phoenix straightens. I stay exactly where I am, letting my disgust show.
"Phoenix," Jim says, grinning like we're old poker buddies.
Then his eyes slide to me. "Raven. Been a long time. You look... meaner."
"You look worse," I reply flatly.
Phoenix doesn't waste time.
"What've you got?"
Jim's greasy fingers dig into the folds of his jacket and pull out a file. He hands it over without ceremony.
I snatch it from him and flip it open immediately. Photos. Notes. A list of names.
Robin's name.
"He came to me," Jim starts. "About a year ago. Asked questions about the girls. The shipments. Drugs. Wanted to join up. I told him no. Told him it wasn't a world he could walk into clean."
I don't even blink. "You're lying."
Jim frowns. "I'm not. Kid was nosing around. My under-man said he saw him at the Kingston warehouse, asking too many questions. Maybe he got curious. Maybe he got greedy."
My eyes lock on a page with a name scribbled in messy ink: Regina Akins.
"Robin wasn't a fucking addict," I snap. "He hated drugs. Always did."
Jim just looks sad. The kind of sad that doesn't mean anything.
"Except he was, sweetheart," he says softly. "The boy was using. Heavy. Meth, from what I heard. Look, I ain't saying he deserved what happened. I'm saying he was drowning, and you didn't see it."
The words hit harder than I expect.
I take a step forward, rage climbing fast, but Phoenix's voice slices through the tension like a blade.
"Raven. Get in the car."
I whip around to him, stunned. "What? No—"
"Now."
The authority in his voice is sharp. Final. Not even I can ignore it.
I clench my jaw and storm off. File still in my hands. Fury boiling just under the skin.
The car groans as I throw myself into the driver's seat and slam the door. I grip the steering wheel, trying to breathe through the rage.
He wasn't using. He hated it. He told me he did.
But did I even know him?
Every day that passes, I realize I knew less and less about my little brother.
And every truth we uncover seems to make him smaller. Less innocent. Less angelic.
More human. More flawed.
I look back through the windshield at Phoenix. He's talking to Jim, jaw tight, hands twitching slightly—one of the few tells he still has.
I half-hope he shoots the bastard. Jim's a walking cancer.
He traffics girls like meat. He laughs while he does it.
So why the hell would Robin go to him?
Unless Robin wasn't the person I believed he was.
My head throbs.
The sound of rain starts tapping the windshield, soft at first, then harder. The sky matches my mood—gray, angry, broken.
I lean back in the seat and shut my eyes.
But my mind? It drags me backward. Into another memory I didn't ask for...
"If I ever die, don't you dare mourn me, Raven... 'cause I sure as fuck wouldn't mourn you."
That voice. His voice.
Robin.
It plays in my head every goddamn morning the second I open my eyes. Like a curse stitched to my soul. That sentence, that final bite of his bitterness, is a permanent wound I wake up to.
They say time dulls pain.
Whoever "they" are — they're full of shit.
Pain doesn't fade. It just hides better. Waits behind songs, smells, names. Then it cracks your ribs open like a crowbar and settles in again.
I glance at the watch ticking quietly on my wrist: 5:02 a.m.
Another sleepless night.
The house we're in is one of Father's old safehouses, buried deep in the bones of Terry-Green Creek — a cold, rusted-out little town outside Colorado. Population barely 230,000, and somehow it still feels like too many people. Too many eyes. Too many ghosts.
Why Robin chose this place to vanish to... that's one of the many things I'll never understand.
I lie still under the blankets, staring up at the cracked ceiling. My brain's crawling. Wolfe gave us the order. That much we know. But who gave him the push? Who told him my brother had to die?
And why?
Robin never told anyone who he was. He didn't walk around bragging about the Black family name. So why kill him? Why beat him beyond recognition and leave his body in the gutter like he meant nothing?
Nothing fucking adds up.
A shrill buzz cuts through the silence. My phone. I don't check the screen.
"Yeah?" I answer.
"Coffee's ready."
Click.
Typical Phoenix. Emotionless and straight to the point. He's the only person I know who can speak in bullet points.
I roll my eyes and peel the covers back. The room's cold. Always is. My silk robe doesn't do shit to stop the chill, but I put it on anyway. I head to the bathroom, brush my teeth, splash water on my face, and pull my hair into a low, sharp ponytail.
By the time I make it down the stairs, the scent of eggs and strong black coffee is already thick in the air. I pause in the doorway, watching him.
Phoenix stands at the kitchen island in a black vest and dark joggers, back to me. He moves quietly, efficiently — like every motion is calculated. Two plates. Two cups. Everything set out like a ritual.
He looks up when I step in, and his eyes study me for just a second longer than necessary.
I take the stool across from him and reach for my coffee first. It's exactly how I like it — hot, black, bitter. No sugar.
One of the few comforts I allow myself.
Phoenix finally slides the plate across to me. His voice is low, calm.
"Eat. We're heading to the docks today."
I dig into the eggs, chewing mechanically. "Why the docks?"
"There's someone I want to see. We're meeting Jim Barents."
My fork pauses mid-air. My brow arches.
"Care to tell me why we're meeting the walking shit stain that is Jim Barents?"
Phoenix leans against the counter and sips his coffee like it's no big deal. "He called last night. Said he has something. Information. Claims it's about Robin."
My stomach churns. "You trust him?"
"I don't trust anyone. But something in his voice... I think he's got something we need. Wolfe's intel was vague. This could fill in some blanks."
Or make things worse.
I keep eating in silence, but my thoughts are already spiraling.
Jim Barents isn't just another low-life drug dealer.
He's the head of a rival assassin family. Dangerous, brutal, filthy rich. And he's known for dealing in girls.
If Robin got anywhere near that world...
I shove the plate away.
Phoenix watches. He knows I'm spiraling — he doesn't comment. Instead, he pushes off the counter and heads toward the door.
"Be ready in twenty."
He disappears without waiting for a reply
The docks reek of salt, diesel, and death. It's been four hours.
Four hours of freezing wind slicing across my face while Phoenix stands statue-still beside me, arms crossed, eyes locked on the horizon like the answers to all of this might crawl out of the ocean.
But all we've gotten is silence and seagulls.
"Where the fuck is he?" I mutter, shifting in place, trying to feel my toes again.
Phoenix doesn't look at me. "He'll show. Just stay sharp."
The words are simple. The tone is not. Phoenix's voice is too even. Too calm. That means he's seething underneath.
Right on cue, the sound of tires crunching gravel breaks the silence.
A rusted-out black car rolls up slow, like it knows it's not welcome here. The windows are blacked out. No plates. Typical.
The door creaks open.
Jim Barents climbs out with the grace of a drunk troll. He's a bloated mess of sweat, grease, and stale smoke. His gut hangs over his joggers like an overflowing trash bag. The stench of cheap sex and bourbon hits me from ten feet away.
Phoenix straightens. I stay exactly where I am, letting my disgust show.
"Phoenix," Jim says, grinning like we're old poker buddies.
Then his eyes slide to me. "Raven. Been a long time. You look... meaner."
"You look worse," I reply flatly.
Phoenix doesn't waste time.
"What've you got?"
Jim's greasy fingers dig into the folds of his jacket and pull out a file. He hands it over without ceremony.
I snatch it from him and flip it open immediately. Photos. Notes. A list of names.
Robin's name.
"He came to me," Jim starts. "About a year ago. Asked questions about the girls. The shipments. Drugs. Wanted to join up. I told him no. Told him it wasn't a world he could walk into clean."
I don't even blink. "You're lying."
Jim frowns. "I'm not. Kid was nosing around. My under-man said he saw him at the Kingston warehouse, asking too many questions. Maybe he got curious. Maybe he got greedy."
My eyes lock on a page with a name scribbled in messy ink: Regina Akins.
"Robin wasn't a fucking addict," I snap. "He hated drugs. Always did."
Jim just looks sad. The kind of sad that doesn't mean anything.
"Except he was, sweetheart," he says softly. "The boy was using. Heavy. Meth, from what I heard. Look, I ain't saying he deserved what happened. I'm saying he was drowning, and you didn't see it."
The words hit harder than I expect.
I take a step forward, rage climbing fast, but Phoenix's voice slices through the tension like a blade.
"Raven. Get in the car."
I whip around to him, stunned. "What? No—"
"Now."
The authority in his voice is sharp. Final. Not even I can ignore it.
I clench my jaw and storm off. File still in my hands. Fury boiling just under the skin.
The car groans as I throw myself into the driver's seat and slam the door. I grip the steering wheel, trying to breathe through the rage.
He wasn't using. He hated it. He told me he did.
But did I even know him?
Every day that passes, I realize I knew less and less about my little brother.
And every truth we uncover seems to make him smaller. Less innocent. Less angelic.
More human. More flawed.
I look back through the windshield at Phoenix. He's talking to Jim, jaw tight, hands twitching slightly—one of the few tells he still has.
I half-hope he shoots the bastard. Jim's a walking cancer.
He traffics girls like meat. He laughs while he does it.
So why the hell would Robin go to him?
Unless Robin wasn't the person I believed he was.
My head throbs.
The sound of rain starts tapping the windshield, soft at first, then harder. The sky matches my mood—gray, angry, broken.
I lean back in the seat and shut my eyes.
But my mind? It drags me backward. Into another memory I didn't ask for...
The rain was heavier that night—thicker somehow, like it knew what was about to happen.
My boots sank into the muddy earth with each step. My jacket clung to me like a second skin, soaked and cold. I remember the sting of it, but not as much as I remember the rage.
"No, you never did, Phoenix!" I was screaming before I even reached him, fists clenched, my voice cracked raw. "You should've told me what he was planning! I would've stopped him—I would've protected you!"
Phoenix turned slowly. His face was pale, unreadable.
"I didn't have a fucking choice, Raven!" he roared, stepping toward me. "You think I wanted this? You think I didn't try to find another way? You weren't there! You didn't see what I saw!"
"Bullshit!" I shoved him hard. He didn't move, but he flinched. Just barely. "You left me down there, Phoenix. You left me. I wouldn't have done that to you."
His breathing turned ragged. Anger and pain warred in his expression.
"You think that doesn't kill me every day?" he snapped. "You think I sleep? I hear your screams, Raven. I hear them in my head every night. I hear his name in yours."
"Then why didn't you stop it?!"
I was shaking. My voice cracked around every word.
"You could've ended him that night—our father—you could've killed him and saved us both, but you didn't. You stood there and let him destroy me. Would you kill me too, Phoenix? If he asked you to? Would you slit my throat like you did his?"
It hung there. That question.
A landmine between us.
Phoenix's eyes didn't leave mine, but something broke in them. A fracture that hadn't been there before. He turned his face to the sky, the rain running down like tears he wouldn't show.
"If anything ever happened to Sparrow, or Crow, or Dove," he said, voice low, "it would hurt. I'd grieve. But I'd move on. Because I'd still have you."
He looked back down at me.
"But if I lost you, Raven..." His voice trembled. "There'd be no coming back. I'd burn the world down. I'd put a gun in my mouth and pull the trigger with a smile. There is nothing on this earth that could make me kill you."
He stepped forward.
"We've survived hell together. You think I've forgotten the nights you crept into the basement after he made me clean my own blood? You think I forgot how you stitched me up while you bled yourself?"
Tears spilled down my cheeks. I didn't want them to, but they came anyway.
"Then why weren't you there for me?" I whispered. "Why didn't you save me from him? Why didn't you kill him for what he did to me?"
Phoenix's face shattered.
"Because I was a coward," he said. "Because I chose survival. Because I let you pay the price I should've. And if I could take it back, Raven, if I could trade my life for yours—I'd do it without hesitation."
I broke then. My knees hit the ground. The rain pounded harder.
"I loved him," I sobbed. "I loved Ryan, and you took him from me."
I collapsed into him as his arms wrapped around me. I buried my face in his chest and let it all out—the grief, the guilt, the fury, the despair.
"It hurts, Phoenix. It hurts so fucking much."
"I know," he whispered, his voice cracking. "Let it hurt. Let me hold it for you, just for a while. Let me take it, little shadow."
His hand cradled the back of my head as I fell apart in his arms.
⸻
.
The door slams.
I jolt upright as Phoenix drops into the passenger seat, water dripping from his hair. His face is thunder. A storm just waiting to break.
"Drive," he growls.
I hand him the file. He doesn't say anything as I start the engine and peel out of the docks, the tires skidding slightly on the wet gravel.
For the next twenty minutes, neither of us speaks. He flips through the file slowly, reading every line like it's a death sentence.
Then—
"Pull over."
His voice is low, cold. I obey, stopping at the edge of an empty road.
He stares through the windshield, jaw clenched.
"What the fuck was he doing, Raven?"
I glance at him. His hands are fists on his thighs. Rage trembles just beneath his skin.
"After everything we did to keep him safe... he goes to Barents? He gets involved with them?"
His voice breaks. He slams his fist into the dashboard, hard enough to make the glove box pop open.
"Jim said he tried to sell him a girl. Regina Akins."
I say nothing. What is there to say?
Phoenix turns to me, pain etched into every line of his face.
"We don't tell the others. Not yet. Not until we have proof. I need time to figure out what the hell Robin was doing."
I nod. But my chest feels tight. Robin's image—bright, innocent, gentle—keeps crumbling.
"Let's go home, Raven."