Chapter 2: Paige
The streets of Alderstone are different at night—darker, sharper, alive with a pulse that beats beneath the surface. I walk quickly, my heels clicking against the cracked pavement, the city lights casting strange shadows that stretch long and thin. I should’ve called for a car, but tonight I needed the distance, a little space to breathe.
But I can still feel Jacob’s gaze pressing into my back, the lingering reminder that I’m never truly alone. He’s following me from a distance, a silent shadow trained to blend into the night. I hate that he’s there, but part of me is grateful too; at least I’m not completely alone on these streets.
Lost in thought, I don’t notice the man until he steps directly into my path, his smile a little too wide, his gaze lingering too long. “Hey there, gorgeous,” he purrs, taking a step toward me, his voice slick and lazy.
My heart skips a beat, fear flashing hot through me, but I bury it, force my face into the cool, unbothered mask I’ve learned to wear. “Piss off,” I say, voice flat, hoping he’ll take the hint and back off.
He doesn’t. Instead, he laughs, a low, unsettling sound, and moves even closer. “Aw, don’t be like that. Just thought I’d keep you company. Pretty girl like you shouldn’t be walking these streets alone.”
I take a step back, my skin prickling as I feel the air shift around us. “I’m not interested,” I say, forcing strength into my voice, though every nerve in my body is telling me to run.
But he doesn’t seem to care. He takes another step, too close now, his voice a murmur meant to be charming but dripping with something darker. “Come on, just a few drinks, maybe a little more… What are you so scared of?”
Fear claws at me, but I keep my expression blank, refusing to let him see it. “I said no,” I snap, trying to inject a bite into my words that I don’t quite feel. “Go home. Before you regret it.”
He sneers, reaching for my arm, and I pull back, heart pounding as I mentally calculate the distance to Jacob, the steps I’d need to take to run.
But then, out of nowhere, the air splits with a deafening crack. A gunshot.
The man drops, clutching his leg, screaming in agony as he rolls on the ground, hands slick with blood that’s already spreading across the pavement. I stand there, frozen, the adrenaline crashing through me so hard it makes my knees weak.
I spin around, and there’s Jacob, gun still drawn, his expression as calm as if he’s just swatted a fly.
“What the hell, Jacob?” I shout, my voice shaking as I storm toward him. “You didn’t have to shoot him! He was just talking to me!”
Jacob doesn’t even flinch. He slips his gun back into its holster, his face a mask of indifference. “Orders are orders, Miss Taylor,” he says, like that’s supposed to be enough. “No one approaches you. No one touches you.”
I swallow hard, disgust twisting in my stomach as the man’s groans echo in the background. I know how things work in the Crimson Circle, how they think violence solves everything, but this…this is too much. It’s sick. “He wasn’t going to hurt me,” I hiss, but Jacob’s gaze doesn’t waver. I realize then that he doesn’t care. None of them do.
I turn on my heel, leaving the man writhing on the ground, ignoring Jacob’s steady footsteps behind me as I hurry home, my stomach a twisted mess of anger, shame, and something darker I can’t even name. What’s wrong with this world? What’s wrong with us?
When I finally reach the house, I feel drained, like I’ve been hollowed out. The lights are dim, and the place feels colder than usual, the shadows looming larger. I find my father in his study, going over some paperwork, calm and controlled, as if nothing in the world could ever touch him.
“Your guards are unhinged,” I snap, barely able to keep the anger out of my voice. “Jacob just shot a man in the street—for approaching me.”
My father doesn’t look up, his expression unchanging as he signs something on the paper in front of him. “Can’t risk having our translator be harmed,” he says, his tone so casual it feels like a slap.
I feel the words pierce me, sharp and unforgiving. Not his daughter. Not Paige. Just the Crimson Circle’s translator.
A tool. An asset.
He’s never been my father, not really. Fathers don’t raise their daughters to be pawns, to sit in rooms full of killers and shield themselves with false smiles. Fathers don’t treat their daughters like they’re property.
I stand there for a moment, numb, letting his words sink in, and then I turn away, forcing myself not to look back. It hurts too much.
The bathroom is silent, the soft click of the door echoing as I shut it behind me. I turn the lock, leaning against the cold wood for a moment, letting the stillness wrap around me. My skin feels tight, almost itchy with the weight of the night—the tension, the gunshot, my father’s dismissive words. It clings to me like a second skin, and all I want is to wash it away.
I strip off my clothes and step into the shower, twisting the knob until the water rushes down in a steady, hot stream. As it touches my skin, heat blooms across my shoulders, soothing the tension knotted in my muscles. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding, tipping my head back, letting the water cascade over me, washing away everything—the grime, the smoke, the scent of stale leather seats and fear.
Reaching for my shampoo, I squeeze a dollop into my hand, breathing in the soft, floral scent as I work it through my hair. The familiar smell of lavender and chamomile fills the air, calming, almost like a lullaby. I close my eyes, imagining, just for a second, that this is all there is. No gangs, no guards, no guns. Just the smell of lavender, the gentle rhythm of water, and me—a girl, twenty years old, living a simple life. A normal life.
I lather the shampoo, letting it build into a rich, fragrant foam, my fingers massaging my scalp as the scent settles around me like a protective shield, as if it could keep the darkness of Alderstone at bay. I rinse it out slowly, feeling the weight of the day sliding down the drain, the memories fading with the bubbles.
The soap is next—vanilla and honey, warm and sweet, wrapping around me like a blanket. I smooth it over my skin, savoring the silky lather, the feeling of being clean, really clean, as if I could scrub away all the things I’ve seen, all the things I’ve had to say. I let my hands linger, tracing over my arms, my shoulders, wishing that this moment could stretch on forever.
For a few precious minutes, I’m just Paige. Not the Crimson Circle’s translator, not my father’s tool. Just a girl, wrapped in lavender and honey and steam, letting herself feel something close to peace.
But eventually, the water cools, and reality starts seeping back in. I take a deep breath, letting the last remnants of warmth soak into my skin, and then turn off the shower. As I step out, I watch the steam rise, disappearing into the air, just like this fleeting feeling of normalcy.
I wrap myself in a towel, hugging it tight, savoring these last few moments of quiet before I have to step back into the world outside this bathroom.