If someone had asked me a few days ago if I ever imagined that I would find myself back in the heart of Orland, I would have knocked all of their teeth out, partially because no one in Utah should have known where I came from and partially because I have a pension towards senseless acts of violence.

Even while hiding in Salt Lake City, I could feel it humming under my skin, the rage and its need to destroy whatever it could get its hands on.

It's a side effect that they didn't expect when they decided to do what they did to me; they didn't expect the rage. They didn't expect all of the pleasant emotions to be stripped away, leaving me with nothing but wrath and endless anger. Or maybe they did and didn't care? Perhaps they knew that when the anger took over, it would be the only thing I could feel. Maybe they knew the monster I would become.

Ultimately, it was one of the main reasons I broke out of the prison they threw me into. Not only had I grown tired of being caged like an animal, but I was also growing weary of killing everyone who so much as pissed me off in the least bit. The more blood I got on my hands, the more I could feel my humanity slipping away from me, and I knew that it wouldn't be much longer before I was more creature than human.

I refused to let them win like that, but sometimes, I wonder if they won before I ever began to fight back. I wonder if this is what they planned all along.

At least while on the run, I could use hiding to distract from the unquenchable urge to destroy things. At first, I thought it was a sign that my feelings were returning, but I was dead wrong. No matter what I did or how hard I tried, I remained the same hollowed-out shell of a person I once was.

I step out of the town car and scowl, wiping the beads of sweat from my brow. Jeremiah refused to let me take anything besides what I had already packed, and being prepared to flee to an even colder location, my only change of clothes were thick sweaters and even thicker pants. My body had never adjusted to the frigid temperatures in Utah, but it sure as hell wasn't prepared to be thrust back into the Florida heat without warning.

My gaze travels up the moldy green building, and I wonder why they never bothered to fix this place in the two years since I last visited. The inside is undoubtedly as lavish as ever, but the outside is a god-awful eyesore.

The DSA doesn't want the rest of the world to know how well its employees live.

"Miss Blythe," Chief Tyval greets me when I enter his office, letting the back slide from my shoulder onto the hardwood floor. "Always a pleasure to see you. Peter informed me that, other than a minor setback in Arkansas, your behavior during the trip back was more pleasant than expected."

I grin, thinking back to the look on the cashier's face when I lept across the counter during our layover in Little Rock. "She put ketchup on my burger; I fucking hate ketchup. You can blame my less-than-stellar behavior on Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum over there. They refused to let me eat before we boarded, and you, of all people, know how I get if I don't eat when I should."

I plop down onto the leather chair in front of him, resting my muddied boots on the finely polished wood desk and earning myself one hell of a glare from the man in charge.

One might think the Chief, with his bright brown eyes, flawless pale skin, and salt and peppered hair, might be in his late forties, but the man is well past three hundred years old. The Fae age, but not like we do.

Peter knocks my feet off the table, jutting his head towards the Chief as he does. "Might want to sign that contract before you go running off at the mouth, you disrespectful little brat. Until those papers are on file, you are still technically a fugitive of the law. It would be a shame if you accidentally ended up back in your old cell at Kimera, wouldn't it? Not with freedom within reaching distance."

"So scary." I roll my eyes. "Remind me again how long I was there before I managed to escape. Three months? Four at the most? There isn't a cell in this realm that can keep me if I don't want to be kept."

"Maybe next time we will make an exception and send you elsewhere?" Peter clamps a massive hand down on my shoulder. "Perhaps one of those lovely little crystal-lined cells in New York would be more your style?"

I glare down at where his hand rests, counting down the seconds before I break every finger on it.

The Chief clears his throat and Peter removes his hand, leaving me to rub at the newly sore spot.

Shit, I forgot how strong he was.

"These forms of disrespect will not be tolerated during your time here," The Chief warns. "Has Jeremiah filled you in on the situation at hand?"

"You mean the one where a Son is running around killing Ayngels and ripping their wings off to keep as some freaky souvenir? Yeah, I've been brought up to speed on that. Tell me, who is the current ruler of the Demonic Realm?"

"Demitri, heir to Greyson. He took the throne not long as you were sent to Kimera. We have reached out to him, but he has been unresponsive. We have done what little research we can there, but there is not much on the Sons other than two of three are still alive. There is no information on their names, appearances, or what gifts the Demonic Realm has blessed them with."

"The Demonic Realm providing scarce information and refusing to work with us? Shocking. Any idea why one, if not both, of the Sons are running around this state ripping the wings off Ayngels?"

"We believe that they are searching for something only the Ayngels are familiar with, but we are yet to gather any leads on what it might be. However, if they are willing to risk imprisonment to find it, it is best we locate it first. The Holy Realm has closed all lines of communication with us and will not speak on the deaths of their own. We are in the dark here." He opens a drawer beside him, pulling out a sleek brown folder before sliding it to me. "Here is the agreement that was drawn up once Peter sent word that you had agreed to return with them. I assume you would like to read it over before signing it?"

"You're damn right I do." I pull the document from its spot and, unlike the last time I was handed a DSA contract, I make sure to read every single line written. Skimming over what I considered to be the boring parts was how I ended up screwed the last time, and I am not about the make the same mistake twice. "Everything appears to be in order, but a few adjustments need to be made before I sign."

"Adjustments?"

"There is nothing in here about payment."

The Chief scoffs. "You are a fugitive from both this agency and Kimera prison, and you believe that I am going to pay y-"

"I don't work for free," I cut him off. "You know that. I want the same pay I was given before and an additional ten percent due to the risk. You hunted me down and brought me here because I am the only thing strong enough to bring these guys in so that you can deliver whatever kind of justice you feel is necessary. I am risking my ass for free. Thanks to Thing One and Thing Two, I have nothing in my bag that resembles proper attire for the heatwave you guys are experiencing, and that means I will need money to get new clothes. You want this job done correctly? Pay me. Oh, and I want my soul back. I am not talking about pieces of it or half of it, I want the whole damn thing back, and in the same condition it was in before you stole it from me."

The Chief rubs his hands together, making the same thoughtful humming sound he does when he is mulling things over. The wrinkles next to his eyes are more prominent the harder he thinks, a sign that this job is finally taking its toll on him. "I accept those terms, but it does mean I will be placing harsher punishments into the contract. You will report directly to Jeremiah while you are here, you will participate in any and all training that he deems necessary to make sure you are in peek physical condition before being allowed to start your mission, and you will reread and best tested on the rulebook for this agency. Should you violate any of those terms or try to make a run for it again, the contract will be voiced, and you will not be given another chance."

"Sounds far enough." I pull myself out of the chair, grabbing my belongings from the floor. "Have the updated contract sent to my room by the end of the evening so I can sign it. Speaking of places to rest my head after being dragged halfway across the country by Dumb and Dumber, where will I be sleeping?"

Jeremiah takes a step towards me, and I can see that he is fighting back that smirk of his. "Did I forget to mention that before we left Utah? Your room is right next to mine, so I can keep an eye on you. Looks like you're back on site with the rest of us."

I let out a huff, gritting my teeth together as I head for the door.

"Welcome home, Eden," Peter mocks as I barrel past him.