Scarlett Romero has spent her entire life as an ordinary citizen; going to school, getting a job and definitely not killing people in the middle of the woods on a Friday night.
Until one Friday night, she does.
All she can remember is acting out of...
You're in too deep this time, You know that, right? I know, I know.
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Chapter Eight "There's a Reason I Was Never on the Debate Team"
Scarlett's POV:
We walk down the ninth-floor hall in silence after that. I dwell on Alexander's words, picking at the skin beside my fingernails. I don't know what it takes to survive here. From what I've seen, bloodshed is second nature and ethics are loose guidelines.
I look up at Alexander, eyes trailing from stained, broad shoulders to the hands hanging uselessly by his sides. If he's had to change himself to survive at Citadel, then is the Alexander I'm getting to know real? Or am I simply acquainting myself with his mask? His façade?
An uncomfortable feeling settles in my gut; what does this mean for me? Am I going to bend into the monster the prison sees me as? If I don't... is my refusable going to cost me my life?
I swallow hard. I need to find a grey zone, a mixture of ruthlessness and understanding that keeps my morals standing, and heart beating. Starting with understanding Alexander's time here.
I psych myself up to ask him something, anything, about this place. How long has he been here? Has he always played executioner? What did he do to get himself locked in his own Goddamn floor?
I don't get the chance.
"Stop!"
Someone shouts down the hall and I turn my head, frowning. They interrupted me before I even said something! Quinn races towards us, but Alexander doesn't stop, obviously recognising who it is. She doesn't wear a helmet, her hair a mess and face dotted with sweat. Her nostrils flare and lips curl, eyes narrowed to slits.
She grips her gun tight in her hand, so tight her fingers are white. I freeze on the spot, her anger stunning me for a moment. Tolkien said if things went wrong with Alexander and I, it was Quinn's fault. And things have gone wrong.
Very wrong.
She wouldn't hurt me, right? Not even this prison is that barbaric. I mean, it's not like Tolkien attempting to murder me is comforting in terms of where they stand on ethics, but a girl's gotta hope.
My pause gives her everything she needs, and Quinn holds my bicep, her muscles contracting as she pulls me towards her. She's shorter than me, but what she lacks in physical intimidation she makes up for in spite and adrenaline.
The cold barrel of her gun presses into my temple and the beating of my heart halts.
Alexander whirls around, his shoulders hunched and teeth bared in a growl. Quinn takes a step back, and I go with her. She's scared, but being pissed off has given her a level of confidence she wouldn't usually have.
