Chapter 35: THIRTY-FIVE

J A D E

The walk back to Markov's house was long and cold. The sun had set, and the chill night air bit at my exposed skin. I didn't have a car, so I had to walk the entire way. I didn't care. The anger burning inside me was a shield against the cold, against the fear.

I let myself in with the key I still had, the heavy door swinging open with a groan. The house was empty, silent. I stood in the foyer, my heart pounding, my resolve wavering for a moment. What was I doing? I should be at Tristin's, safe.

But safety was an illusion. I was never safe. Not with Mason. Not with Markov. And I wouldn't be safe until I knew the truth.

I walked to the library, my footsteps echoing in the cavernous house. The door had more locks now, he was that determined to keep me out. He had underestimated my determination.

I found a crowbar in the garage, the weight of it cold and solid in my hands. It only took a few powerful swings to splinter the door frame. The lock gave way with a groan, and the door swung open, revealing the darkness within.

I stepped inside, the air stale and heavy. I didn't need to turn on the light. I knew what was on these walls. But this time, I wasn't going to look away. This time, I was going to see.

I walked along the wall, my fingers tracing the rough, textured paper of the photographs. The drawn monsters that lurkedin the darkness of my own mind were nothing compared to the real thing.

It was my second time of being inside here and I still didn’t know what was the meaning behind these paintings. Whatwere they of? What did they mean? And why did Markov have them?

I reached the end of the wall, and that's when I saw it. A small, leather bound book, tucked away on a shelf in the corner. It was hidden, but not well. Like it was meant to be found by someone who was really looking.

I picked it up, the leather smooth and worn under my fingers. It was a journal. The handwriting was elegant and sharp. It was Markov’s. I opened it to the first page, and my blood ran cold.

The curse is a living thing. It breathes with me. It feeds on my anger, my rage. She, Saffra, is the one who did this to me. She is the one who turned me into this... monster.

I sank to the floor, the journal clutched in my hands. I read on, my eyes devouring the words, my mind reeling from the revelations. It was all there. The story of a young man, a lycan, with a power that was feared. The story of a witch who saw that power not as a gift, but as a prize. The story of a betrayal, a curse, and a lifetime of struggle.

He was cursed to be a monster, a lycan that couldn't control its rage. A beast that would kill without mercy. He was a prisoner in his own body, and Saffra was the one who held the key.

I slapped a hand over my mouth, as realization dawned on me. I just realized what I had just seen and read. The paintings, the monster that has always been talked about, the monster who killed my parents, the monster who chased me in the woods while I ran from Mason and Dane, the monster who killed the rogues, the monster who saved me from Mason... It was him.

Markov.

He was the monster.

The journal slipped from my grasp, hitting the floor with a soft thud. I stared at the wall, at the pictures of the lycan. I had been living with a cold hearted and ruthless monster who disguised as a man. I was in love with a monster. I had let him touch me, claim me. The thought sent a jolt of pure terror through me. What would he have done if the beast had taken over?

The anger was gone, replaced by a cold, creeping fear. I had been so blind. So desperate for a hero that I had created one out of a nightmare. He wasn't my savior. He was my captor. Just like Mason.

A bitter laugh escaped my lips. I had traded one cage for another, thinking the second one was gilded. Mason's cage was made of iron bars and brute force. Markov's was made of secrets and lies, built with the very bricks of this house. And I had been a willing prisoner.

I scrambled to my feet, my heart hammering against my ribs. I had to get out. I had to leave. Now.

I ran from the room, not even bothering to close the splintered door. I grabbed my phone from the kitchen counter, my fingers shaking so badly I could barely dial.

"Tristin," I sobbed into the phone the moment he answered. "I need you to come get me. Please."

"Jade? What's wrong? Where are you?"

"I'm at the house. I know, Tristin. I know everything." My voice cracked on a sob. "Please. Just come get me."

"We'll be right there. Just stay on the phone with me. Are you safe?"

"I don't know," I whispered, my eyes darting around the empty house. I expected him to walk in any minute. "I don't think I am."

M A R K O V

I drove like the hounds of hell were on my heels, because they were. Saffra's words echoed in my mind, a venomous mantra. I will extinguish her light. The image of her laying a single, perfect finger on Jade was enough to make me want to tear the world apart.

I pulled into the driveway, the tires skidding on the gravel. The house was dark and silent. A cold dread washed over me, a premonition of disaster. I burst through the front door, my heart pounding in my chest.

The first thing I noticed was the familiar jasmine and rain scent, but it was faint. Fading. The second thing I noticed was the splintered door to the library.

My blood ran cold. She had been in there. She had seen. She had found the journal.

She was here.

I ran to the library, my worst fears confirmed. The journal lay on the floor, open to the page detailing my curse. The bookshelf where it had been hidden was disturbed, her scent still clinging to the leather.

"Jade!" I roared, my voice echoing through the house.

One of the bedroom’s door was locked, the sound of her sobs muffled behind it. I didn't hesitate. I kicked it in, the wood splintering around the lock.

She was there, huddled in a corner, her phone pressed to her ear. She looked up at me, her eyes wide with terror.

"Please," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Don't hurt me."