AN; please refer to the trigger warnings at the start of this book before reading this chapter.

Within Bailey's barn was the little blond wolf. They spoke in soft voices, music whispering beneath. Maybe they were fighting. Maybe they were fucking.

Matt didn't care anymore.

He shoved the barn door open to the sight of the blond, sitting halfway up the steps to the loft. Bailey stood atop the stairs, drying his hair out with a gray T-shirt.

"You," Matt said to the wolf. "Get out."

The blond furrowed curiously at him, but he didn't leave. He stood and Matt pushed past him as he bounded up the steps, took a fistful of Bailey's muscle shirt and shoved him back toward the barn windows.

Bailey ripped his hand away. "I don't know what the fuck your problem is, but you ask before you touch, porch honkey."

"Shut the hell up." Matt shoved heavy camcorder to Bailey's chest. "You knew about this, didn't you?"

"The hell are you talking about?"

"That's the camera Jess used to film us the other night. She forgot it when she took her shit and left."

"So?" Bailey said, tossing the camcorder on his naked mattress. "Problem solved."

"It's not fucking solved," Matt said, giving him a second shove toward those stained windows. "I've turned this thing on five times and I can hear it running from across the room. If I could hear it, you could hear it. You knew it was there, didn't you?" Another shove and Bailey was pressed back against the window panes. He caught Matt by the wrist this time and curled over him, tall and dark and lowering.

"Touch me one more time and I'll break your wrist, do you fucking comprende?"

Matt fought away from his grip. "You knew it was there. Didn't you? You knew it was there and you didn't say anything."

"It's not my problem," Bailey said slow and toxic.

Hurt scraped at Matt's throat. He swallowed, found Bailey's eyes in the dark light of the barn. Just like the eyes of the crow that'd landed on his shoulder. Just as black as those eyes. "She didn't have to know about it. I was going to end things with her—I did end things with her."

"Then what are you bitching about?" asked Bailey. "We fucked, she found out. It's done."

"It's not done—"

"You two had sex?" asked the blond, slinking his way up the steps. He leaned back against the railing and folded his arms over his chest. "That wasn't part of the plan, Bailey."

Those crow eyes flicked to the wolf and Bailey's narrow gaze deepened. A muscle twinged in his jaw. "Gabe."

"What plan?" Matt asked, fighting for Bailey's gaze. They stood so close, he had to tilt his head to match it. Had to keep his hands stiff by his sides because he knew Bailey's threat held promise. "What plan, Bailey?"

"He doesn't know a bit about it, does he?" the wolf asked.

"Gabe!" Bailey snarled.

Matt moved back a step and the air that opened between them was frigid. "What is he talking about?"

"Getting rid of the girlfriend was...what? Plan C?" Gabe said. "Get him alone, truly alone so there wouldn't be a human witness when—"

"Shut your fucking mouth, Gabe!" Bailey shouted. When his eyes fell back to Matt, there was something different in them—something like the Bailey he thought he was starting to know. "It's not like that."

Gabe sighed deeply and summoned the words once again. "So there wouldn't be a human witness when Gannon sent his boys to get you."

Matt's heart beat in his ears. His wrists stung, the blood in his veins gone to ice. "You're a rogue," Matt said. His hands curled to fists by his sides. "You're—"

"A double agent," said Gabe. "He was supposed to lead you to the den in Westport—since, y'know. You didn't get the message when a few of Gannon's boys beat the shit out of you. They were all waiting for you, but you never showed. If that didn't piss Ricco off enough, you two went along and burned Blackhole down, and now someone's gotten himself into a heap of shit."

Bailey's molten gaze flared, sent its sparks across the room toward the tiny wolf.

"May as well tell him." The blond shrugged. "Fucked your mission. Not like you can stay here."

There was a crack in Matt's ribs—several of them, like he'd been pulled apart for his meat—left hollow and gutted. "You knew," he said. "You knew they were going to jump me that day, didn't you? You've been lying this whole time?" Matt burned—every bit of him. Sparks skittered into his chest, lighting everything they touched afire. He wanted to hurt. Not Bailey, but something—anything. Himself, maybe.

When Bailey only stared at him with that struggling gaze, Matt served him another daring shove. "Fuck you."

"You think I had a fucking option?" Bailey snarled.

"Fine, so what if you didn't?" said Matt. "What if you led me into that den in Westport? What were they gonna do to me?"

Bailey's eyes traveled his face and he swallowed—a visible knot in his throat. "I wasn't going to—"

"But did you tell 'em you would?" asked Matt. "Did you tell them you'd lead me to them? Did you agree to hand me over to Gannon and those other bastards?" His jaw tensed and feathered, but Bailey didn't answer. And the silence tore Matt apart, bone by bone.

His tired eyes stung, tears hot and angry.

"Jesus Christ." He ran his hands up his hair. Gripped at it. "I thought there had to be something to you—I thought you were just fucked up. That I could help. But I was wrong. This is the real you, ain't it? A coward, a liar, a backstabber." Matt laughed—something in him ached to laugh, but still he did. "This is why no one ever wants you, huh?"

There it was. That crack. The bullet that breached the armor pelt of Bailey Walters.

Hurt flashed over his face—a deep, unexpected hurt. But as quickly as it had appeared, it changed shape. Molded and twisted to a furious, gnarled mask. He grabbed Matt by the collar of his shirt—fist so tight around the fabric, it choked him.

"Don't act like you know a fucking thing about me," Bailey said, walking him back. Further and further until his heels hit the edge of the stairs. "I've never had a fucking choice!"

Matt scrabbled for balance on the ledge, clutching the wrist at his throat. "And what happens when they come?" Matt said, taut and choked. He was teetering over the ledge now. If Bailey were to let go now, he'd go tumbling down the steps. "Now that Jess is gone, what are those fucks gonna do? Do I get a choice in that?"

"You know about the plan now," Gabe said—his tone terribly cool in comparison. "You're not worth risking men to Quentin's sentinels."

Bailey slung Matt, not down the stairs, but back against the loft floor. He landed hard on his shoulder, waking the aching parts of him that had just started to heal over. The pain knocked tears into his eyes and he cringed on the ground, seeking Bailey's shape through the bleary haze.

"I thought I could help you," he said, face scuffed against the rough floorboards. "Guess this is what you meant, huh? Pretending we're friends."

That dark shape turned away from him—nothing but a spill of shifting shadows on a muddy, dingy canvas. "We could never be friends," he heard Bailey say, his bleary silhouette melting out of sight. "And there's no helping me."

By the next morning, Bailey was gone.

He left several things behind—took only what would fit in his backpack. Ran off with the blond in the old SUV parked by the street. Matt thought maybe he'd come back for the rest, but days passed.

Bailey wasn't coming back.

That look on his face haunted Matt. More than the sting of Jess's hand, more than the image on her laptop. Recalling that night that felt like an astral projection—an out of body experience. A night that never happened to Matt. Just the shell of him in a universe that didn't exist anymore.

This is why no one ever wants you, huh?

Every night, those words clawed their way back into him like he was hearing himself say them for the first time.

This is why no one ever wants you.

On the third night, Matt dusted off the paperwork Quentin had given him. He sat in bed and read in the light of his lamp. Bailey was twelve by the time he received his second set of foster parents. He looked well-behaved in his photo, hands folded in his lap, a close-lipped smile and a poor haircut, somewhat reminiscent of a bowl cut. Just as the first page, this one had been marked with a large rubber stamp that read TERMINATED, but unlike the first, a CPS report had been stapled to the back. In fine, cursive scrawl had been written:

Child shows the following signs of physical abuse:

- Bruising on the right eye

- Bruising on the lower back

- Bruising on the left arm in the shape of a hand

- Fractured finger

- Bruising on the left temple

- Weight loss (-6.48 lbs since the time of placement)

Child shows the following signs of mental abuse:

- Timid reactions to loud noises

- Lack of verbal communication

By thirteen, Bailey was placed in his third foster home. He'd grown several inches taller, hair trimmed to a buz. He didn't smile in this photo. Matt's stomach dropped when he felt the second page attached.

Child claims to have suffered sexual abuse under the care of Robert and Veronica Billings. Removed from care following a medical analysis.

Child shows the following signs of physical abuse:

- Welts on the back of both legs

- Bruising around the right wrist

- Lacerations on the outer mouth

- Scarring on the inner mouth

- Bruising on shins

Child shows the following signs of mental abuse:

- Timid reactions to loud noises

- Lack of verbal communication

- Difficulty concentrating

- Refusal to make eye contact

- Low, or no appetite

By fourteen, the luster was gone from Bailey's eyes. They were empty and heavy and dark beneath. Matt couldn't stand the photos any longer. He turned instead through the police reports, growing sicker with every one.

Domestic dispute at fourteen.

Three months at St. Terrance.

New Foster.

Physical abuse at fourteen.

Six months at St. Terrance.

New Foster.

Sexual abuse at fifteen. Arrested under a drug substance involvement.

Eight months at St. Terrance.

New Foster.

Sexual abuse at sixteen.

Ten months at St. Terrance.

Then finally, emancipated and removed from the system.

Within every home he lived, Bailey's status was terminated after no longer than three months. Pages upon pages listed in fine detail the terrible things they'd done to him. The fosters who faced charges for child pornography, child abuse, neglect, statutory rape. The images of his battered skin—the fingerprints, the bloody lips. Matt forced himself to endure every page and photograph. Every one, until nausea boiled up and anger shook in his fingers. Until he wanted to vomit and cry and hurt the world for all the terrible things it bred.

Then Matt stepped out onto the porch of the guest house and set the pages on fire. He wanted every fiber to hurt beneath the flames. He wanted to kill the words and the photos and every name on every page.

Bailey's history was gone to smoke in seconds, stolen away by the universe. But every time Matt shut his eyes, saw the slim, bruised limbs. The dead eyes.

And when finally he fell asleep, Matt dreamed of him. He dreamed of Bailey, standing in a sheet of dark night, stabbing a hole into his stomach with a pocket knife. Stars leaked from him in swirls of purple green milky way. Matt dreamed that he plugged the hole with his hands, but the stars fell through his fingers. They soaked his arms in freckles of fuschia and gold, and Matt cried because he couldn't stop the stars from bleeding.

But then Bailey said, "Don't touch me." So Matt took his hand away. And the stars spilled. They spilled and they spilled and there was nothing Matt could do. He couldn't stop the stars.

Matt woke to the sting of tears. They soaked his pillow and ran wet down his face, and he couldn't breath. He couldn't fucking breathe. He sat up in bed and gripped at his hair, cried and pulled at it until several strands came loose.

The world is a hungry thing, he heard Raven say. A crow tapped at Matt's window. Tears running down his cheeks, he found its beady black eyes. It swallows us whole if we can't outrun it. It chews us up and it spits us out until there's nothing left but sinewy bones. But that's the thing, kid. You stay still and the world is gonna get you.

Matt pushed his blankets aside and stepped out of bed, shoved up the filmy window pane. The crows rushed in, wings batting, papers scattering around the room, billowing his sheer curtains and spitting black feathers in the air. They landed on Matt's shoulders, two at first. Then three. And when he held out his arms, more rushed through his cracked window, hard, sharp feet hopping up the tender skin of his forearms.

Their heads twisted and twitched and they watched him with their black soulful eyes, like they were waiting for something. Waiting for him.

He felt Raven behind him—the strange nothing that he was—and he whispered in Matt's ear, Don't you dare stay still.