"Mom?" I ask.

Her eyes, the same shade of green as mine, are bright on mine. "What is it, Jude? Ready to get your ass kicked?"

"Mom!" I protest. I am seven years old. The world outside is full of snow. Outside, I hear the sound of gunshots lighting up across the street. But I don't pay any attention to it―hearing the fights are normal.

"Mary," my dad chastises from the kitchen.

"If Mom can say kick ass, why can't I?" Jeremy complains. He is twelve.

My dad pretends to consider this. "When you're a ninth-degree black-belt at karate, you can say ass kicking. How does that sound?"

Jeremy groans. But I know that even though he is grumbling, he's a karate prodigy. The senseis at the studio say they've never seen anyone like him, and just last week, they said I was following in his footsteps.

Mom kissed my head. Although she didn't say it, I could see the pride glowing in her eyes.

Now, I turn to Mom. "Can we be done earlier? Please? Just today?"

I already know the answer will be no before she says it. "You still have three self-defence drills."

"I know, but I don't want to."

Jeremy pops his head in from the kitchen to say, "You whine so much, Jude."

My hands ball into fists.

"Jeremy," my mom says suddenly, and he freezes. It's never a good thing when Mom says your name like that. "How about you do the self-defence drills with Jude?"

"Oh, Mom, don't make me . . ."

But before he can finish slouching over, the window shatters.

Bullets. Raining down on the carpet. Through the living room.

Mom says a curse word much, much worse than kickass.

"Damn Wolves!" my dad barks out.

Wolves? I thought. Wolves don't have guns . . .

"Go upstairs, Jude!" my mom commands. Furious. "I'll handle this."

Clutching the railings, trying to catch a peek of the kitchen, I edge closer down the stairs.

I hear the sound of crying. Low, keeling moans. Real pain, and it sounds familiar.

"They'll pay for this," my dad hisses. "They agreed to protect us."

"No," my mother says. "I handled it."

"Mary . . . I just don't think―"

The sound of the sobbing interrupts them. And I realize it is Jeremy's voice. He is trying to hold back his tears, like the time I hit his windpipe hard enough to rupture it. When he could only half-gasp, half-cry.

What's wrong with him? I don't understand.

"You don't think what, Daren."

"I just don't think the Wolves would listen to a . . . a woman."

"I handled it." My mom grits it out.

I hear the slam of a fist on the table. "Mary, I want to believe you. But this keeps happening. Living here . . . it's unsafe. I don't understand why you want to stay here, I know you're attached to the neighbourhood, but look at this. Jeremy was shot. This is the price of staying here."

A long silence follows. Jeremy's hiccuping is the only sound.

Jeremy was shot. I hadn't even noticed.

"This is the only place we're safe."

"Our son was shot, and he's safe?"

"We need protection, Daren."

"From gangs? From Mafia lords?"

"Lower your voice!"

My dad's voice is bitter. "From the Wolves? Look at what they've done, Mary. To our son. To our daughter. They're growing up in this―this ghetto."

"This isn't a ghetto." My mother sounds mad now―madder than I've heard her ever.

"Yeah? Well, then, you can stay here and I'm taking Jeremy to a hospital!"

"No!" my mother bursts. "They'll find out!"

My dad is frustrated. "I hate this, Mary. I hate the secrecy and the lies and―and the danger. I'm taking Jeremy to the hospital. Go ahead and stop me."

But she doesn't.

Because she knows―she must know, that he is badly injured. That maybe, just maybe, she has had enough too. Maybe she wants out, too.

When I wake up, I remember.

The night before the accident.

Dad and Jeremy, driving to the hospital. The driver who crashed into them, saw their mangled bodies, and fled. Running away.

This was the reason they were alone in the car.

This was the reason they died.

And those . . . those were the last few hours of my life before everything fell apart.

Rocking back and forth. Knees tucked into my chest. Head buried in my arms.

I can't stop thinking of it. The dream.

My mom is dead. It hasn't sunk in.

But the dream . . .

I know where it is from. I know exactly when it happened.

It is the last―and only―thing I remember from my life before the first accident. Back when I lived in a town in Louisiana I can't remember. Back when I still had a family and a mom who wasn't broken.

But maybe that's not fair. Maybe I'm broken too.

Maybe we broke each other. Maybe that's all we knew how to do.

And yet. The details of that night were so blurry that the dream . . . it gave me something clear. New.

The Wolves . . . Damn Wolves . . . I just don't think the Wolves would listen . . .

That can't mean what I think it means.

When Anise said my past was so connected with the Saints, could this be what she meant? But no, that doesn't make sense. Nowhere do I remember my mom or dad mentioning Saints. Only Wolves.

So why would Anise think . . .

The water is bitingly hot. My skin has begun to sting, but I can't burn to stop the rush of the tap. I can't bear to reach over and turn it off.

My mom is dead. I didn't save her.

I was supposed to save her.

And the Saints. They are the ones responsible for this.

Now that my mom is gone . . . I don't have anywhere to be. I don't have anywhere to go. I don't give a damn about university―Mom was the only reason I went.

But she's dead. She. Is. Dead.

And I . . . I want revenge.

This is rash. This is reckless. This is wildly and extravagantly irresponsible.

But really, what else did you expect from me?

9. Work as a spy for the CIA.

To be honest, I don't really know how I planned on carrying that one out. And the Mafia sure as hell isn't the CIA, but boy, it's a start.

Which is why I stand outside of the Alpha's private room.

And by the way, no―it's not her bedroom.

After waiting for a few minutes, I see a woman dressed in silk lingerie slink out of the door, making sure to brush past me, whispering, "Want a turn, sugar?"

I wouldn't call my response growling―but, well, I growled.

Not exactly my most ladylike moment.

But then again, I wasn't born to be a gentleman.

In a purring voice, Anise says, "Come in."

She doesn't know I'm the one waiting outside, and her eyes widen in surprise―then anger―as soon as I walk in.

She is half-undressed, wearing no top and long, flowing pants. Her legs are significantly far apart from each other. She is sitting on a velvet black couch, and the lights are dimmed to a red glow.

"You," she snarls. "You're not―"

I can't resist saying, in the same voice as the hooker who just left, "What's wrong, sugar?"

At this point, it'd probably be safer for me to throw myself off a cliff.

Anise's hands curl over something that looks remarkably like a gun. Of course the Alpha would have a gun―even when she's getting lap dances.

My eyes flicker down to her torso, to the sleek edges of her collarbones and the carved lines of toned stomach. Her breasts full, the nipples peaked, and I know she must be in the middle of lust and rage.

I swallow. Not a good combination.

"Peace offering," I continue. Because I can't take a hint.

"What do you want, Jude?" she hisses. She makes no effort to get up or to cover herself. She is arrogant. Confident. Unashamed.

The Alpha. I can see it, even now, with her smooth skin uncovered and her bare stomach rippling with hard lines.

She is attractive. But when I think of a mouth on mine and a hand drifting between my legs, it's Hunter's dark, luscious smile I see.

Shit.

There is no time to dissect that.

I say, "Let me work for you."

"What?" This has caught her off-guard.

"Let me work for you," I insist. "If the Saints killed my mother . . . I want them dead. I want to do something. And if you let me . . ."

"What do you propose?"

"I spy on them. I attack them. I don't care. But if it involves vengeance, I'll do it."

Her eyes alight with an interested gleam. "Tell me, Jude." Her voice is little above a rasp. "What will you do for me?"

"Anything," I whisper. "I want them dead. I want them slaughtered."

Anise gestures lazily to the couch, a broad sweep of her elegant hand. "A double agent," she muses. "A spy."

I know she thinks I'm a spy from the Saints. But maybe, just maybe, this can work. If she sends me there, I'll infiltrate them. I'll figure out who killed my mom, and I'll kill them all.

My hands begin to shake.

"Now, now, Jude," Anise says. "You'll have to prove yourself to me."

"Prove myself?"

"I need to trust you." A serpentine whisper. A seductive smile.

"What do you want me to do?"

"Will you agree to it, when the time comes?"

My mom. My mom, signing off that final note to me.

I swallow. "Yes."

"Then go, Jude," she says. "When I'm ready, I'll ask you. And if you succeed . . . we'll see about the Saints."

It's not a promise, but it's enough. It's more than I could have hoped for.

As I walk out, I am aware of the fact that I made a deal with the devil. But all I have to do is think of my mom, and the fact that I let her down, and I stop caring.

"Where were you."

It isn't a question. It isn't even a sentence. At this point, Hunter seems to be barely controlling her fury, and her eyes are narrowed on mine as I close the door to the apartment behind me.

I won't escape―at least for now. I don't know how to find the Saints on my own, and I imagine it'll end up just as bad as me looking for the Wolves.

But it doesn't mean I want to be here.

I'm waiting. Because when Anise gives me the order to strike, to spy on the Saints, I'm going. And I don't care if it gets me killed in the process―as long as it's worth the slaughter.

"You're not my keeper," I snap.

I know I'm goading her, but I can't stop.

Not today, Jude, some kind of conscience whispers to me. Maybe common sense. But why do I care?

She's mad today. I can tell.

This is the first time I've seen her since the poker game, just yesterday. After I came back into my room, she didn't appear for the entire night. And if she did, I didn't hear her.

I don't know what she does, late at night. It shouldn't bother me.

Either way, I know that if she is already furious, I shouldn't push her into a fight.

I just can't help it this time.

"I didn't know where you were," Hunter says coldly.

"What, are you supposed to keep watch over me? I'm not some damn pet."

"Where did you go?"

I close the door behind me. Set down the key. "I don't have to tell you anything."

Hunter is standing in the doorway to her own room. As I turn towards her, I can't help my gaze as it drifts over her long, lean body, and the arrogant set of her jaw.

"I told the Alpha I would watch over you," she says. "While you're here . . . you're mine."

"I don't belong to anybody. Especially not you."

I can't help thinking of the sting yesterday, when she didn't follow me after I stormed away from the poker table. Maybe she was trying to give me space, but honestly? I think I'd have rather had her. There with me.

"Tell me," she sneers, stepping away from the doorway. "Who do you belong to, Jude?"

I hesitate, thinking of my mom.

But she's dead, and now―now I'm alone.

I don't have anybody. I don't belong to anyone. But that's not the same as belonging to myself. I've never been alone, as long as I had my mom.

Maybe that sounds stupid. I don't care.

After my father and brother died, she was all I had left.

Even Aimee . . . even my other school friends . . . they weren't the same. I don't trust easily, and I don't trust enough. It tends to scare people off.

I shake my head at Hunter, turning away. I don't want to answer her question.

In two strides, she is close enough to me to hold my face in her hand. It is gentle, featherlight, her fingers on my jaw―but I don't mistake it as anything but a threat. Her eyes are dark and devastating, and there is something wrong about the colour I just can't place.

"While you're here," she says, "you belong to me."

>>>

A new side of Jude.

Somebody tell me their favourite Disney princess, because I'm about to watch Mulan. Who is, by the way, the most kickass princess there is. Yeah, I said it.

From the moon and back,
Sarai