Summary: Ten thousand feet above sea level, positioned half way up the side of Mount McKinley in Alaska, is The Denali Institution for Rebellious and Troubled Teenagers. Teens that parents and social services couldn't handle were brought there–an inescapable boarding school–and were placed in the care of the teachers and the insufferable head master, Tanya Denali.
Ten sixteen year olds that have two choices–Denali or death–have been selected to attend the school that holds just thirty children at a time. Can they change for the better, or will the fight to remain as they are claim them to darkness? What happens to those who do graduate?
The Denali Institute for Rebellious and Troubled Teenagers
Chapter One
Leah POV–Rumford, Maine. August 1st 2011. 7:03am.
"Leah! Get up!"
I barely lifted my head from the pillow before shouting back, "Fuck. Off."
Seconds later, the blankets were torn from my body, and cold air rushed over my skin. A second pair of hands—definitely not mine—grabbed both my ankles, and in one rough pull, I was yanked off the bed like a rug and dumped onto the hardwood floor.
"Jesus Christ!" I hissed, already feeling the sting of friction burns on my spine as I untangled my cami from under my chin and plucked the underwear from between my ass cheeks.
Sue was already stomping down the hallway.
"Have a shower and get dressed, you've got make-up all over your face!" she called out, her voice jagged as ever.
I pushed up from the floor and dragged myself toward the mirror, scowling at the raccoon-eyed, lipstick-smeared disaster staring back. Everything I'd worn last night had migrated halfway down my face. There was even a smear of coral gloss underneath my jaw.
"I'm not going!" I yelled as I stormed into the ensuite, flipping the taps on full.
Alaska. They wanted to send me to some institution in goddamn Alaska. Like I was going to freeze my ass off in some psych-boarding school just because Sue couldn't deal with having a child that didn't worship her white picket fence fantasy.
"You are going if I have to kick your ass across the country myself!" Sue shouted back. "You'll learn some manners or die trying!"
"Lee-Lee?"
I turned at the sound of the voice. Seth. Of course.
"What?!" I snapped, pulling my shirt off halfway before catching his wide-eyed face peeking in around the doorframe.
He shrank back a little. "Why are you going away?"
"I'm not going anywhere," I muttered, tossing my shirt into the corner. "I'm staying right here."
"Mommy said you were going away for a long time." He stared at the floor, like that might protect him.
"I'm not going anywhere," I said again, louder this time, gesturing toward the shower. "I'm having a shower."
"But Mommy said—"
"Mommy said I'm going away because you're here!" I shouted, cutting him off. His eyes went glassy, then he spun and ran, feet pounding down the hall.
I slammed the bathroom door and locked it, heart thudding, but not with guilt. Not yet.
The water drowned out the next round of pounding on the door—Sue again, no doubt. Screaming something about how dare I say such a thing to her precious replacement child.
I ignored her.
The shower was hot enough to scald the anxiety off my skin, and I scrubbed away the last of last night's make-up, the faint beer stench in my hair, and whatever was left of the version of me that still thought maybe I'd get to stay.
Eventually, I shut off the water, towel-dried my hair just enough to stop the dripping, then wrapped myself in another towel and yanked the door open.
And nearly collided with a wall of muscle and stoicism.
He was tall, older than me by at least a decade, and definitely someone's definition of attractive. But what I noticed most was the complete lack of reaction when I opened the door half-naked.
"Hi," I said sweetly, leaning against the doorframe like this was the start of a music video.
"Hi," he replied, monotone. No eye contact. "Get dressed."
I tilted my head, unimpressed. "That's a new one."
He didn't blink.
"I mean, normally they say it after, not before." I let the towel drop to the floor and sauntered toward my closet like this was a normal Tuesday. "Hot out? Cold? What's the vibe?"
"Doesn't matter. Just put something on."
"Well aren't you bossy."
Behind me, Sue groaned. "Have you no shame?"
I didn't even bother to turn around. "Obviously not."
She marched in, full fire-and-brimstone mode, and yanked the nearest shirt over my head before shoving me into a skirt and muttering about how I didn't need a bra if I had no dignity left to protect. My arm was in her grip a moment later as she shoved me toward Mr. Stoic.
"Take her. She's yours now."
We walked out of the house—me a lot more willingly than I'd expected to—and down the front steps toward a black minibus idling at the curb. Two more men waited by the open door, both big enough to be linebackers. Neither looked thrilled to be here.
"Wow," I muttered as we approached, smirking. "Didn't realize I was getting picked up for a gang bang."
Stoic said nothing. One of the others rolled his eyes.
I climbed onto the bus anyway. Because as much as I wanted to rage and scream and fight—deep down, I knew this was happening whether I liked it or not.
And I'd never been good at saying goodbye anyway.
Rosalie POV–Rochester, New York. August 1st. 4:30pm.
Royce's head tipped back as he groaned my name, hips slamming into me hard enough to rattle the table I was sprawled across. The wood was cold beneath my back, a stark contrast to the heat of his skin and the sharp tang of scotch on his breath. His rhythm was sloppy, rushed—he was close, and not bothering to hide it.
I braced a hand against his chest as he leaned over me, his ribs jutting out like fence posts through too-thin skin, all bone and entitlement. He wasn't romantic. Or even particularly good. But I was drunk enough that it didn't matter.
His grip on my hips tightened and I could feel him finish inside me with a low grunt that sounded more like victory than pleasure.
Then it was over.
Just like always.
Royce pulled away without a word, his pants already halfway up before I'd even sat up. He turned his back to me, fumbling for the shirt I'd tossed onto the floor earlier.
"So," he said, tone far too casual for the intimacy we'd just pretended to share. "When are you coming back?"
I smirked, swinging my legs off the table and reaching lazily for my bra. "As soon as I can get myself expelled."
He huffed a laugh but didn't turn around. "Try hard. I need you here."
"I'm not exactly thrilled about it either," I muttered, slipping into my jeans. "But come on. Troubled teen boarding school? Even they have to draw a line somewhere. It's only a matter of time before I push hard enough to be sent packing."
Royce finished adjusting his tie in the mirror above my desk, smoothing it down with the same precision he applied to everything in his life. Perfectly presented. Perfectly hollow.
"If you don't come back," he said, "I'll have to find someone else. I can't exactly go around telling people my girlfriend's in Alaska."
I raised a brow. "Girlfriend?"
He didn't answer.
I rolled my eyes. "Right. Love you too."
There was no goodbye. Just a noncommittal hum and the sound of the door clicking shut behind him.
Only it didn't stay shut for long.
Before I could even grab a clean shirt, the door opened again, and this time it wasn't Royce.
Two massive men stepped into the room like they owned it. Both wore dark, fitted uniforms and had the kind of build that could double as a wrecking ball.
The taller one blinked, then exhaled a long-suffering sigh. "Jesus Christ. Two in one day?"
I smirked, unbothered by the way his eyes immediately averted from my very naked body. "Good morning to you, too."
"Could you please put on some clothes?" he asked, already turning away like the very sight of me burned.
I gestured lazily to the pile of designer luggage in the corner. "Those are mine. Be a dear and load them up for me, would you?"
The blonde one—the quieter of the two—crossed the room to start grabbing bags. I took my sweet time getting dressed, just to spite them. Dark jeans, a halter top that made the most of my assets, and a pair of peep-toe heels that clicked satisfyingly on the hardwood when I walked. I brushed out my hair, touched up my lipstick, and gave my reflection a final once-over.
Flawless.
"Ready?" the second guy asked as I emerged again, calm and composed like I hadn't just been mid-hookup ten minutes ago.
I glanced around the room one last time. There was nothing here I wanted anymore. No one, either.
I nodded. "Let's go."
And with that, I walked out ahead of them. Not because I was eager.
Because I knew they hated that.
Tyler POV–Detroit, Michigan. August 1st. 10:30pm.
"We gonna get hiiiiiggghhh t'day!" I grinned, leaning over to fill the cone on my bong while Smokay sat perched beside me, looking fresh as ever in his purple hat and gold chain.
He grinned back with his huge buck teeth and little wire glasses, looking as goofy and glorious as always.
"This one's for you, Smokay. This one's for you. And maybe a little for me." I elbowed his squishy stomach and laughed, grabbing the lighter and sparking it up like we had all the time in the world.
"Toke, toke, toke, toke, toke! Hold that motherfucker! Hold it! Now let it out and laugh, nigga stoner!" he shouted in that scratchy little pimp voice as the speaker inside him crackled back to life.
I exhaled, coughing out half my lungs in the process and swaying as I laughed. "Smokay, you so funny," I wheezed, tapping him in the stomach again.
"Pass the duchy by the left hand side," he crooned.
"Oh, sure, buddy." I held the bong out to my left. "There's no one there, but you know what that means! Back to me!"
Before I could take another hit, there was a loud BANG on the door followed by a voice I knew way too well.
"Tyler!"
Then my old man came stumbling in like a tornado wearing a crusty singlet and socks with holes in the heels, picking food from between his teeth with a damn barbeque skewer.
"Boy, I know I told you not to be smokin' when the motherfuckin' bus got here!"
"No you didn't," I said flatly, not even looking up. "'Cause if you did, why the hell am I smokin'?"
"Because you arrogant, and you defiant!" he barked back, smacking me upside the back of the head like I owed him something more than mild trauma.
I flopped onto the carpet with an exaggerated groan, limbs sprawled like a crime scene. "Ow! Shit, damn! Assault!"
He just glared and farted. Loud. Proud. Grimaced like he'd been personally wronged by his own colon. "That hot sauce went straight through me."
I shot him a look of pure betrayal. "Why the fuck you hittin' me like that?!"
"One of these days, I'm gonna knock some sense into your dumb ass. Until then, you're gettin' on that bus and freezin' your nuts off in Alaska."
"I don't wanna go to Alaska!" I shouted from the floor. "It's full of hobbits!"
"That's New Zealand, you idiot! Now get up and get the fuck outta my house!"
He stormed out, and right on cue, two dudes stepped in like bouncers at the gates of hell. Matching shirts. Matching stoic expressions. Total buzzkills.
The taller one—built like a refrigerator—looked down at me. "Hope your bag's packed."
I blinked up at him, disoriented and still halfway to the moon. "Who the fuck are you?"
"Demetri. I'm from The Denali Institute."
"…This shit is real?"
They shared a glance that said unfortunately, yes.
The blonde one repeated, "Is your bag packed?"
"Man, I ain't got nothin' to pack," I said, sitting up and grabbing my bong again. "But I will have a cone for the road."
Next thing I knew, Blondie had me by the back of my shirt and Demetri grabbed my tray of gear. "Bring it with you," he said, shoving it into my arms. "It's not like you've got anything else."
I shrugged. Fair enough.
"We're goin' on a road trip, Smokay!" I declared as they hauled me toward the door.
But I wasn't done.
Right before we hit the threshold, I stuck my feet out and locked them against the frame. "I ain't leavin' without Smokay!"
Demetri blinked, annoyed. "Who the hell is Smokay?"
"I ain't Smokay. You ain't Smokay. This pale-ass Johnny Bravo sure as fuck ain't Smokay!" I pointed accusingly at Blondie. "There's only one other person in this room!"
There was a pause. Then—
"You mean… the pimp doll?"
I turned my head to glare at him like he was the slowest man alive. "Do you see anyone else here?!"
Demetri sighed, reached down, and grabbed Smokay—by the hat.
"WAIT!" I screeched, pushing harder against the doorframe. "Don't you crush that hat! Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a purple hat for a four-foot pimp?!"
"…No."
"Then don't crush it."
He stared at me, then adjusted his grip and lifted Smokay up by the body instead.
"Whoo! Look at them tig ol' bitties!" Smokay howled.
I dropped my legs from the doorframe with a huff. "Now we may leave," I announced with all the dignity I could muster.
As they dragged me out the door, I clutched my bong and tray in one hand and cradled Smokay in the other.
"Stupid motherfuckers," I muttered under my breath. "No damn respect for the pimp lifestyle."
And just like that, my grand departure began—with a pimp doll, a half-packed tray, and a solid buzz.
Edward POV–Chicago, Illinois. August 2nd. 11:15am.
"We really didn't want it to come to this, Edward," my mother murmured, voice barely audible over the quiet ticking of the antique clock above the fireplace. "But you haven't changed, no matter how much you promise, and I'd rather send you away than bury you."
I didn't look at her. Just flicked ash from the end of my cigarette into the empty coffee mug I'd been using as an ashtray since last night. It was my fourth of the hour, and I wasn't about to slow down. God only knew if I'd get another once I was carted off to whatever high-security snow-covered hell they'd enrolled me in.
"Whatever," I muttered, tone flat. "Just don't cry, will you? It's not like we'll miss each other. Why pretend?"
She flinched a little. I didn't care.
"I will miss you," she said, quieter this time. "I just… I wish I knew how to help you. But I don't. These people—they might. I just want you to have a good life. A long one."
I should've laughed. She almost made it sound like she meant it.
But I didn't laugh. Didn't bother with any of the dramatics. I just tipped back what was left of my beer, swallowed the bitterness, and stubbed out the cigarette in the mug.
Under different circumstances, I might've been impressed by the performance. My mother, Elizabeth Masen, showing emotion in daylight? Almost unheard of. But I knew better. It was all just an opening act. Warming up before the real show for the people coming to collect me.
The real decision-maker had been my father anyway. About a month ago, after I'd broken into a liquor store with Shaun and gotten picked up for it, he'd started calling every reform school, boot camp, or "behavioral intervention program" he could find. Anywhere that didn't involve me sleeping under his roof anymore.
Eventually, he found it.
Some obscure place halfway up a mountain in Alaska. A "therapeutic academic institute," whatever the hell that meant. He called it a last resort.
I called it exile.
Unfortunately, he happened to find it the day before I wound up in a police chase that ended with a totalled car...
If it hadn't already been a done deal, it was then.
Just as I set the empty bottle on the scratched surface of the coffee table, the doorbell rang. And like flipping a switch, my mother broke into sobs loud enough to echo through the damn house. Her voice cracked, her shoulders shook—it was a full collapse.
I stood up, slung my duffel bag over my shoulder, and grabbed the handle of my suitcase.
Of course, before I could reach the front door, he appeared—Edward Masen senior. Descending the staircase like a goddamn monarch, cool and detached, and pushed right past me to open the door himself.
"Don't worry, I'm fucking fine," I snapped, staggering slightly from the jolt as his shoulder caught mine. "You almost knocked me into a goddamn glass cabinet, but it's cool."
Two men stood on the porch. Both big. Both looked like they'd be more at home bouncing for a nightclub than escorting troubled teens to boarding schools.
"Edward Masen?" the taller of the two asked.
The bastard and I said yes in perfect unison.
"I'm the criminal you're after," I said, grabbing the second backpack—the one filled exclusively with cigarettes and bourbon—and slinging it over my other shoulder. "Let's go."
"Edward, they're not going to let you take that," my mother choked out, still blotchy and red-eyed from her theatrical sobbing. She pointed at the bag like she expected them to confiscate it for her.
"What's in the bag?" asked the shorter of the two men, a sharp-featured guy with a ponytail and an expression that made it clear he'd heard every lie in the book already.
"C4 and a fuckload of cell phones," I said, deadpan. I didn't blink. Didn't flinch. Just waited, slouched slightly from the weight of my bags.
The big one stared at me for a beat. His eyes flicked between my face and the bag.
I exhaled. "Cigarettes. Bourbon. That's it. Happy?"
He nodded once, like he'd expected worse. "School doesn't prohibit narcotics or alcohol. Just no weapons."
"Don't have any."
There was a long pause, then both men stepped aside.
I walked through the door without a word, without a backward glance.
Not because I was making some grand statement. Just because there was nothing left in that house worth looking at.
Lauren POV–Pompano Beach, Florida. August 3rd. 7:00pm.
"Lauren! I've already told you ten times—you are not going out tonight!"
My father's voice rattled through the hallway, low and forceful like it could flatten walls.
I didn't even blink. Just dropped my keys into my purse and kept adjusting my earrings in the mirror.
"It's Friday night, Daddy," I said evenly. "I'm not spending it en route to some prison-like reform school in Alaska where everyone is mentally fucked or clinically insane. And the fact of the matter is, you can't make me. I'm not going willingly."
I turned on my heel and made a move for the front door, trying to duck under his arm like I'd done half a dozen times in the past, but—like always—he stepped in front of me again.
We stared each other down.
"I don't know how old you think you are," he growled, "but you're sixteen. And I can—and will—make you go. The bus is on its way. They called twenty minutes ago. If I have to drag you out myself, I will. I'm done. You won't follow the law, you won't follow my rules, and unless you want to spend your eighteenth birthday pregnant and in prison, you're going to Alaska. That's exactly where you're headed if something doesn't change."
I tapped my fingers against my purse, pretending to mull it over.
Then I shrugged. "I'll take my chances. It's only illegal if you get caught. And I use condoms. Plus birth control. I think I can beat the odds." I looked up at him sweetly. "Now, would you please move?"
His jaw clenched. "It's not negotiable."
The doorbell rang before I could retort.
I groaned. Loudly.
He sighed like someone had just handed him salvation. "Thank God."
He turned and opened the door. "Hey, come in."
Two men stepped inside—huge, broad-shouldered, heavyset types who looked like they'd been pulled straight from central casting for military security.
The blonde one smiled at me politely. "Good evening, Lauren. I'm Garrett, from The Denali Institute. Are you ready to go?"
I nodded slowly, keeping my expression neutral. "Uh-huh. But not with you." I lifted my chin. "I've got a party to get to."
My dad huffed. The two men just stared.
I made a quick step forward, tried to slip around the taller one. Didn't work.
He grabbed me around the waist with one massive arm and pulled me right back into place.
"We're running a little behind," he said calmly, like I wasn't actively trying to scratch his arm off. "And as much as I'm sure we'd all love a party, there's really no time." He glanced toward the suitcase by the stairs. "That your bag?"
I didn't answer.
My dad did. "That's it."
The blonde man stepped forward to grab it, and I took the opportunity to try ducking again—only for the taller one to lift me clean off the floor like I weighed nothing.
"PUT ME DOWN!" I shrieked, kicking my legs in every direction. I made contact—his shin, maybe his thigh—but he didn't even flinch. "YOU CAN'T TOUCH ME! This is ASSAULT!"
"Call the cops," he muttered under his breath. "I'm sure they'd know who you were."
"YOU CAN'T TALK TO ME LIKE THAT!" I screamed, flailing harder, striking him with my fists, even though it didn't do a thing. "DADDY!"
My father stood there, watching, unmoved.
"I'm sorry, Lauren," he said, tone flat. "But it's for your own good."
I gasped—actually gasped—at the betrayal.
"You're just gonna let them take me?!"
I writhed in the guy's arms all the way down the front steps, screaming, kicking, cursing.
Didn't help.
"In a minute," he said vaguely when I screamed at him to let me go.
The bus door hissed open, and I was tossed in sideways like luggage.
The door slammed shut behind me.
"There you go," the man said casually as he and the blonde one climbed into the front cab with a third guy already behind the wheel.
I sat up, shaking with rage, and turned toward the back of the bus.
Four other students were already seated there.
All about my age. All watching me.
Not a single one of them looked friendly.
And just like that… the party was over.
Alice POV–Biloxi, Mississippi. August 4rd. 10:15am.
"Mama, I don't want to go, please."
It was the tenth time I'd said it since waking up.
She didn't answer.
Just picked up the empty plate from the nightstand without even glancing at me.
When she opened the bedroom door to leave, I caught sight of the suitcases—two of them—lined up neatly in the hallway beside the front door.
All my things packed.
Waiting.
I was being sent away.
Not just out of town. Not to a new school a few districts over.
To Alaska.
I sat up straighter in the bed, my fingers knotting into the hem of my sweater.
"Why do I have to be locked in my room?" I asked. My voice was small.
It always was.
She paused just inside the doorframe, one hand on the knob.
"We don't have time for one of your little disappearing acts," she said. Her tone wasn't cruel, just... tired. "The bus will be here soon. They won't wait to look for you."
"I don't want to go with them," I tried again, even though I knew it wouldn't matter.
Her shoulders rose and fell in a slow breath. She didn't meet my eyes.
"Well, you never want to do what's good for you, Alice," she said quietly. "So you don't have a choice in the matter."
Dana Brandon—my mother. Small in every way that counted. In stature, in voice, in compassion.
She turned away.
Didn't say goodbye.
Maybe if I'd known that would be the last time I'd see her for two years, I would've committed her face to memory. Maybe I would've said something.
But the door clicked shut and the lock turned from the outside, and that was that.
A few minutes passed.
Not many.
Then a knock at the front door.
I couldn't make out the voices, just that they were low, male, and not hers.
When the bedroom door opened again, someone else stepped inside.
And he was... massive.
Easily over six feet tall and nearly three times my weight. He looked like he could lift me one-handed and not even break a sweat doing it.
His expression was flat. Neutral. Not angry. Not soft.
Just… unreadable.
A military buzz cut. Sleeves stretched tight over thick arms. Faded blue jeans and steel-toe boots. A green, blue, and white polo shirt with the Denali Institute logo embroidered above the heart.
I didn't say anything.
Didn't move.
Then he said, "Three seconds to walk on your own or I'll carry you."
It wasn't a threat. Just information.
I stood up quickly.
Paused when I realized I couldn't pass him without brushing against him.
He stepped to the side, giving a short wave of his hand, directing me out into the hallway.
Another man stood near the front door.
Sandy blond hair tied back into a low ponytail. Just as broad, maybe half a foot shorter. Same shirt, lighter jeans, same boots.
"Let's get this show on the road," he said, flicking his hand forward in a gesture that was more dismissive than encouraging.
I didn't argue.
Didn't run.
Didn't cry.
I walked down the hallway, through the front door, and out into the warm autumn air.
The sky was bright. Blue. Mocking.
A black minivan sat in the driveway, engine idling, a third man still behind the wheel.
The side of the van had white block letters on it.
The Denali Institute for Rebellious and Troubled Teenagers.
So there it was.
The next three years of my life.
I didn't look back.
Jasper POV–Houston, Texas. August 4th. 10:20pm.
I messed with the leather cuff on my left wrist, thumb hooked under the strap as I fidgeted with the buckle for the tenth time in the past hour. It wasn't hiding anything, not really—everyone in this house already knew what was underneath. The scars. The newer cuts. Some still raw under the edge of the material.
Penelope's ballet-flat footsteps sounded against the hardwood a second before she bounced into the living room with that fake sugar-sweet energy she always weaponized. She plopped down beside Marianne like she owned the place.
And in some ways, she did.
"Mama," she said, drawing the word out like it meant something, "will you send me to Alaska when I'm Jasper's age?"
There was a lilt of mischief in her voice, buried under mock innocence. The kind that made your skin crawl because you knew she wanted a reaction.
"Of course not, sweetheart," Marianne replied, brushing a strand of Penelope's blonde hair behind her ear with a fondness I hadn't seen directed my way in years. "Jasper's a very, very troubled and sick boy. You're perfect. You don't need to go to a special school like he does."
"Excellent way to help my almost non-existent self-esteem," I muttered, tone flat.
Penelope had been eight when they started fostering her. Now she was fourteen and still played helpless like it was her job. Somewhere between year one and two, she'd gone from being the scared little project to the shiny replacement kid. All the attention. All the apologies. All the excuses. She doesn't know any better, she's been through a lot, give her time. She knew better. She'd figured out exactly how to manipulate them before she even had her own drawer in the bathroom.
"Oh, I'd say your self-esteem is fine," Marianne snapped, the sharp edge in her voice cutting clean through her usual Southern poise. "You seem to have no problem doing the exact opposite of whatever your father and I tell you to. You clearly don't need to inflate your self-importance any further."
I sat forward, hands folded over my knees like I was preparing a statement in court. "Well, I'll try my very best not to come back. I'm sure you and Pa will be much happier with your little troubled cherub. Don't worry about me. I just hack my arms open for no reason."
The silence that followed cracked like ice underfoot. Marianne's face dropped into that familiar cold mask, the one she used when the guilt started to bubble up. She turned to Penelope.
"Go to your room, sweetheart."
But I wasn't done. Not yet.
"What's wrong, Mama?" I asked, voice curling at the edges with bitterness. "Don't want Precious Penelope to hear what happens to people when their parents stop loving them?"
Penelope hesitated at the door, eyes wide. I met her stare and held it.
"Don't worry, sweetheart," I said, soft and acidic. "When the baby gets here, you'll understand what it's like. I'll leave a blade in the bathroom when the skin starts itching and the pain in your chest won't let you breathe. It's beautiful when it bleeds. The way it drips down your arm. Like you've got something real left in you."
I ran my finger slowly down my forearm as I spoke, tracing a line she couldn't unsee.
She gasped, and then ran.
Marianne's voice was a hiss behind her clenched teeth. "And you wonder why we're getting you help."
I turned back toward her, leaned into the fury radiating off her face. "I'm sorry, Mama. Was that impolite? No wonder I don't have any friends."
Her face flushed red, jaw locked so tight I could hear the grinding of her teeth.
I stood, slowly. Calm. "Before I leave, I'd like to know something."
She didn't respond, so I kept going.
"When was it you stopped caring about me?"
That question hit her harder than I expected. For a moment, her expression cracked. A breath went in, but it didn't come out.
"If I didn't care about you," she finally said, quiet but tense, "I'd let you do whatever you wanted until it killed you. Or until you killed yourself. You changed, Jasper. I didn't know you anymore. But I haven't stopped caring."
She hesitated, then added, "I love you. I just… don't understand you. And you won't explain, so this is how it has to be."
The air between us hung heavy for a few long seconds before I replied.
"Too bad I'm not one of your foster kids. You never give up on them."
She looked like she might say something else—but then came the knock at the door.
Right on cue.
We both moved like a scene on stage. I grabbed my bags while she opened the door, her hands trembling slightly as she smoothed down her blouse.
Two men stood outside. Both massive. One bald, the other blonde. Both wearing black. One of those 'we-don't-get-paid-enough-to-care' expressions settled between them.
"You're not going to be any trouble, are you?" the taller one asked.
I shook my head once.
The blonde one stepped forward and flipped through a file in his hand. "Says here you're partial to a little cutting. Before we get on the bus, let's save ourselves the time. Any blades, weapons—dump them now. We don't care about any other contraband. Just keep it TSA-friendly. You'll lose anything sharp the second we get there anyway."
I sighed, dropped my bag onto the floor with a heavy thud, and unzipped the side pocket. From it, I pulled out a long black case and a smaller white one—both of them full of the usual suspects. Box cutters, razors, utility blades, even a pair of sewing scissors I liked the feel of. I placed them on the floor like I was laying down a deck of cards.
"Who wants them?"
The blonde looked past me. "Ma'am, do you have any younger children in the house?"
"My daughter—" Marianne started.
I let out a sharp, bitter laugh before she could finish. "If Penelope's dumb enough to play with box cutter blades, she deserves to cut her fingers off. She's fourteen, not three."
Marianne's lips thinned to a hard line. Her face was red again as she snatched the cases from my hands like I'd handed her a bag of cocaine and a loaded pistol.
"Ready?" I asked, adjusting my duffel over my shoulder like I hadn't just turned our living room into a makeshift intervention.
Neither of them answered, but they stepped back and made room for me to pass.
And just like that, I walked out the door without looking back.
Jacob POV–Sterling, Colorado. August 5th. 8:30am.
"It's not my fault you're a bad father. You should be punished, not me," I growled, my voice low but shaking, that dangerous edge already creeping in.
Billy didn't flinch. He just exhaled like he'd been holding it in all morning. "There's no justice in the world, Jake. I apologize for that."
His tone was too casual, too calm—like the fact he was about to hand me over to strangers to be carted off to the middle of nowhere wasn't a big deal. Like it wasn't ruining what was left of my life.
He held up a pair of pants then, brows lifted. "Do you even fit into these anymore?"
"Maybe two years ago. If I hadn't eaten for a week," I muttered bitterly.
The corner of his mouth twitched like that was funny. He let the pants fall to the floor. "I'll just throw those out."
"Why not," I snapped. "You're throwing me out. Might as well get rid of everything else too."
Billy sighed, slow and weary. "I'm not throwing you out, Jake. I'm hoping—praying—that eventually you'll start to care as much about your life as I do. You've been stuck in this place for five years. I know why. But that doesn't mean you can keep hurting yourself just because you were lucky."
That word made something in my chest twist like a knife.
"Lucky," I muttered, tasting blood behind my teeth. Just hearing someone talk about 2007 like that—like I should be grateful I survived—felt like getting sucker punched all over again.
"You were extremely lucky," he said, calmly packing my clothes into a suitcase like we were going on vacation. "Nothing you did or didn't do would have changed what happened."
"If I'd just let her sit in the front seat…" I whispered, my throat tight. "If I'd switched with her… I'd be dead instead. And I'd rather be with Mom."
Billy didn't say anything. Didn't look up. Maybe he knew if he did I'd break completely. Maybe he was just tired of seeing me like this.
But he kept packing. Kept preparing to send me away.
"Okay," he said quietly. "If you think living is such a punishment, then why would you want Rachel to have been the one who had to stay behind? Why should she have to suffer through this hell instead of you?"
I didn't have an answer for that.
Because I didn't want her to suffer. I didn't want her to be the one left behind. But that didn't mean I wanted to be here either.
"Jacob…" he said after a long pause. "Your life isn't that bad."
I laughed once—a bitter, joyless sound.
He kept going anyway. "I know I don't make up for your mother, but you're still my son. I love you more than anything. You can hate me for this. That's fine. But if it gets you moving forward—even a little—then I can live with that. We've never left this town. It's filled with ghosts. A change of scenery might be exactly what you need to finally start seeing how lucky you really are."
That was it. That was the last push I could take.
Something ripped open in me like a raw nerve being peeled back, and the weight of his words made me double over like I'd been punched in the gut.
"I should've died with them," I choked.
I didn't hear what he said next—if he said anything. My ears were ringing, and the nausea was hitting hard.
I bolted out of the room, barely made it into the bathroom before I hit the floor and vomited into the toilet, the force of it wracking through me. My whole body shook.
A minute later, I heard him behind me, quiet and careful.
"It's not normal to react like this five years later," he said, his voice low, tired. "You still think it was yesterday. But it's been a long time, Jake."
I didn't move. Just pressed my forehead to the edge of the seat and let the cold porcelain ground me.
"I've tried everything. Every doctor, every therapy, every damn trick in the book. And nothing's worked. This… this is the last shot. If not for you—then for me. For your mother. For Rachel. Please."
He was choking up now. I could hear it. And for some reason, that hit me harder than anything else.
The sobs came then. I couldn't stop them. Couldn't hold them in anymore.
"I don't want to go," I whispered.
"You don't have a choice," he said, and I hated how quiet and broken he sounded.
I knew it was true. I could argue all I wanted, but they were coming. And if I didn't go willingly, they'd take me anyway. I'd be stuck. Alone. Trapped for two whole years in some remote school with strangers, where the only thing louder than the silence would be my memories.
I had one option left.
"I need some air," I mumbled, flushing the toilet and standing, legs shaking.
I barely made it out the front door before I saw them—two massive guys crossing the yard from a bus with a glossy logo I recognized from the brochure.
Too late.
My chest seized. Fight or flight kicked in—and I ran.
Billy shouted my name behind me. The two men paused, then took off after me.
I hit the road and sprinted, lungs burning, the pounding of boots behind me. But I was faster. Driven by desperation, not duty.
The overpass was just ahead.
If I could make it there—if I could just get high enough, fast enough—
The sidewalk curved and the metal rail came into view. My feet barely touched the pavement as I launched forward, grabbed the railing, and hurled myself over.
For one second, I was weightless.
Free.
Then pain exploded across my shoulder. My body jolted as hands caught me mid-fall, and I slammed back into the railing.
Someone grunted—one of them had me. Another pair of hands grabbed my other arm and I was yanked backward, back over the barrier, back onto solid ground.
I screamed in pain and fury, thrashing against them, but it didn't matter.
My last shot was gone.
And I was still alive.
Emmett POV–Long Beach, California. August 6th. 12:30pm.
Bump.
"Mmmn."
Thump.
A sharp kick connected with my ribs, jolting me out of the numb haze I'd been happily marinating in since—hell, I didn't even know what time.
"Get up, McCarty."
The voice wasn't familiar, and it definitely wasn't friendly.
I cracked one eye open and was greeted by the glare of midday sun and a scuffed steel-toed boot, still aimed directly at my side. I was flat on the hardwood floor of the community center, my cheek mashed into something sticky, probably someone's spilled vodka or stomach contents from last night.
I squinted up, eyes trying to adjust to the light. Two guys stood over me—both built like nightclub bouncers and just as personable.
"Who the fuck are you?" I asked, voice rough from dehydration and stale alcohol. The words felt like they scraped their way out of my throat.
"We're from The Denali Institute," said the shorter of the two, speaking like he expected resistance and was kind of looking forward to it.
I groaned and let my head flop back against the floor. "Nah. I'm not interested." I waved a lazy hand through the air. "Fuck off."
And that should have been the end of it.
But instead, I felt hands—big ones—grabbing my wrists and ankles like I was a rolled-up rug they were planning to toss out back.
"Hey, hey—what the fuck—!" I snapped, suddenly moving, or more accurately, being dragged, belly scraping the floor, my spine bending in ways that made me screech like someone stepping on a feral cat.
My leg flailed backward, connecting with one of them hard enough to send him stumbling. I wrenched my arms free in the confusion, scrambling to my feet.
"There's always one," the bigger guy muttered, stepping forward again.
He was massive. A few inches taller than my six-one, and broader by a margin that made me regret skipping all those leg days.
Still, I wasn't about to let that slide. He'd made three critical errors:
One—he woke me up.
Two—he did it with his foot.
Three—he dragged me.
So now I had to fuck him up.
I went low, fast, trying to sweep his knees. But before I could make solid contact, a hand clamped down on the back of my neck and slammed me into the floor hard enough to blur my vision and spike the nausea already churning in my gut.
The hangover hit me all at once then—pressure behind the eyes, sour in the throat, rage bubbling up hot and bright.
I bucked and twisted, managing one sharp growl before they both dogpiled on top of me, at least four hundred pounds combined. My arms were yanked behind me and bound tight with tape. The kind that stuck to skin like it had a personal vendetta.
"Let me the fuck go or I'll call the goddamn cops!" I snarled, thrashing like a caught animal.
They just laughed.
"Without your hands or a phone?" one of them taunted. "I'd love to see that."
The other added, "Sorry, pal. Your parents already signed the forms. Guardianship's with the Institute now. That means us. Your ass is ours."
He clapped a hand on my shoulder in what I guess he thought was a calming gesture, then hooked a grip into the back of my belt and hauled me upright.
"You'll have plenty of time to sleep off the alcohol in the bus," he said, starting to shove me toward the door. "We're running late. Be a good boy, and we can hit the road."
The sun outside was merciless. I squinted hard, blinking against the brightness.
Parked in front of the building was a big black bus—nondescript but ominous as hell. And through the tinted windows, I could make out vague shapes. Other kids. Already collected. Already caught.
The bigger guy let go of my arm once we reached the door. I barely had time to turn before he was addressing the bus.
"This is Emmett McCarty," he announced to the silent group. "Emmett's feeling a little grouchy today, so we're going to let him cool off in the pit. Try to ignore him, if that's at all possible."
They all just stared. No reaction. No nods. Just empty faces and wide eyes.
Before I could even figure out what "the pit" meant, I found out firsthand.
There was a dip behind the driver partition, barely two feet deep and lined with cold metal. My taped wrists meant I couldn't catch myself when they dropped me into it, and my back hit hard, ribs jamming awkwardly against the edge.
The doors shut.
The engine growled to life.
And with a lurch, the bus rolled forward, slamming my shoulder against the wall behind me.
I lay there, arms bound, sweat already starting to rise under my collar, staring up at the ceiling as it all settled in.
Dad always did say I'd end up in a cold metal box someday.
Guess he wasn't wrong.
Bella POV–Forks, Washington. August 7th. 11:05am.
The burn of stomach acid crawling up my throat was almost comforting now. Familiar, at least. A sting I could control.
I knelt in front of the toilet, head low, hair tied back, body tense with the effort of forcing out what little I'd eaten. The taste was foul, bitter. But it was better in the bowl than in me. The pale porcelain always looked cleaner when it wasn't reflecting me.
A heavy fist slammed into the bathroom door. "Bella, knock it off! You won't get away with this not-eating crap in Alaska!" Charlie's voice was as rough and irritated as ever, every word a blunt weapon.
I rolled my eyes and flushed. The sound cut through his shouting, and he fell quiet. But I could still hear him breathing just outside, that thick, angry sound like he was gearing up for round two.
I stood, rinsed out my mouth at the sink, and undid the ponytail I'd tied my hair into. Behind the door, I heard the shift in tone as my mother's voice rose—not loud, but strained.
"Charlie, leave her alone. You've done enough sending her away to that godforsaken school," Renee said, her words sharp with quiet desperation. Her loyalty was predictable, but never any less appreciated.
With her voice in my ears, I opened the door.
They were both there—Charlie standing like a wall of judgment, Renee wringing her hands like she could somehow squeeze the pain out of me if she just held on tight enough.
I brushed past them and went to my room. Fell back onto the bed and stared up at the ceiling. They followed, of course. Charlie stood stiff beside the dresser. Renee sank onto the edge of the mattress like she might physically shield me.
"They're not going to leave you behind just because you're in bed," Charlie said flatly. "Pajamas or not, you're leaving, Isabella."
"Leave her alone!" Renee's voice cracked as she bent forward, pulling me into her arms. I wrapped around her without hesitation and kissed her cheek. Her perfume smelled like spring. Gentle, harmless things.
"Don't worry," I murmured into her hair. "I don't blame you."
Renee's eyes were glossy, already leaking. "Do you have everything?" she asked, kissing my cheek again, and again. "I don't want you to get there and not have something you need."
Behind her, Charlie made that awful clicking noise with his tongue. When I looked over her shoulder, he rolled his eyes. "Don't baby her. She did this to herself. She wants to hurt herself, then fine—let her deal with the consequences."
Renee spun on him like a storm.
"She needs support, Charlie. Love. That's what she needs. Not to be shipped off like she's disposable!" She looked ready to burst into flame right there. "There's a reason she does it. And those people up there don't even know her."
"She's in a niche here. Too comfortable," he snapped back. "She needs a reset. A real one. And this school is her best chance of being normal someday. I've paid a fortune to make sure she gets that chance."
"She's perfect already," Renee whispered, brushing her hands down my sleeves. Her fingers paused every time she passed a scar, like she could feel them through the fabric. "Maybe she wouldn't do these things if you weren't always telling her she wasn't good enough."
I just smiled at her. "I'm the only one that can hurt me, Mom. Nothing he says matters."
Her face folded in pain, but she nodded, stroking my cheek. "You'll let me visit, won't you?"
"Of course," I said. "And you'll write me, right?"
"Every day." She kissed my forehead and smoothed my hair back as the sound of a thunderous knock echoed through the house.
The front door. The brass knocker Charlie had insisted on because it was "dignified." Now it sounded like a war drum.
Renee started crying harder. Charlie grunted, "Get dressed," and walked off without waiting for a reply.
I peeled myself from the bed, traded pajamas for jeans and a hoodie, and made my way downstairs to find two enormous men already rummaging through my bags like I was about to board a prison bus.
"What the fuck?" I said, glaring down at them.
One of them—blond, sharp jaw, vaguely polite—held up a razor blade I'd packed. "No weapons. That includes blades, knives, and anything else you use to hurt yourself. You're marked as a cutter."
"Then take my speed and my cigarettes, too," I said, arms crossed, defiant. "Leave me totally fucking sober and see what happens."
The other guy—bigger, darker, less amused—glanced up. "No need. Cigarettes and speed are allowed."
I raised an eyebrow, a smirk flickering across my lips. "Really?"
Charlie's voice boomed from behind us. "Are you kidding me? She's allowed to keep drugs but not a damn razor?!"
He was ranting, now, full volume, but no one was listening. Not even the two men who had apparently been trained in the art of ignoring pissed-off parents. They zipped up my bag, stood in sync, and motioned to the door.
"Let's go," the blond one said calmly.
And just like that, I was walking out of the only home I'd ever known, headed toward a place that promised to fix me—without even asking if I wanted to be fixed.
I didn't look back.
There was nothing behind me worth seeing.
:
Well there's chapter one.
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