The Devil who raised me

d windows, painting five golden stripes a

ch one like a lifeline-five perfect lines o

times since waking, my fingers brushing the bone handle, its weight a qui

t I'm not locked in that closet anymor

It's not the angry, bone-rattling banging of th

ing in its precision. My pulse qui

f I have a choice in t

hand, his movements fluid and deliberate

makes my mouth water despite myself. Pancakes. Actual pancakes, golden and

d to fight the other girls for, my

on my lap with a flourish. His voice is low, teasing, but his pale blue eyes-sharp as

fect, like something out of a dream. My stomach twists, half with hunger, ha

in that's equal parts charm and danger. "Everything's a test, little ghost,

ng ease. The syrup glistens, catching the sunlight, and when I take a caut

thin broth, clenches in protest. I chew slowly, forcing m

t softening the sharp angles of his scarred features. "

it, I lean forward and vomit onto his polished black shoes. Th

for anger, for the kind of punishment I'd have earned

ing through the room like distant thunder. "Well," he say

t pocket-crisp white linen, monogramm

f me. His touch is gentle as he wipes my chin, his fingers lingering near th

nt, his eyes darken, not with anger but wit

I can protest. His hand on my shoulder is firm but not cruel, guiding me out

eat, gun oil, and polished steel. Weapons line the walls, their blades and

ing machete-each one meticulously a

lood and effort, and in the center stands a wooden dum

look like they could gut a man in a single stroke, but a simple chef's blade,

your hands

s handle in my grip, and it's heavier than I expected, the metal cold ag

re for stabbing." His breath tickles my ear as he adjusts m

ek, deadly thing-flies from his hand and embed

the pieces tumbling to the floor with a soft thud. The

mouth dry.

uth twitches, almost

lips from my fingers, clattering to the c

The third? It sails past the dummy entirely, embedding itself in the wall

coat blending into the shadows. "You're thinking too h

" I mutter, glaring at the dummy

ting through his eyebrow. "That's the spirit," he says, pushing off the wall. "But first-" He moves

'm hyper-aware of his presence-the faint scent of gunpowder and cologne, the quiet streng

UN

he dummy's forehead, the

smug but not unkind. "See? Even y

rand of hair out of m

says, but there's a spark of approval in

our throws punctuated by his quiet instr

iliar weight of the knives, but my throws improve.

s, brings sandwiches-simple ones, with soft bread and

his favorite dagger off the wall with a poorly aimed throw. It

young to know better. For a moment, I let myself imagine this could be my life-

door bur

one hand clutching his side. "Boss-the Italians-they're-"

nrecognizable. The warmth in his eyes vanishes, replaced by a pr

ehind him, he tosses one last instruction over his sh

ple halves lie on the floor, their flesh browning in the air. The d

weight feels different now-less foreign, more like an extension o

nt. But Asher's world, this house of blood and steel, is my world now. And if

perfect but determined, and bur

it and th