When I arrive at my apartment, I pause at the entrance, a metallic scent hitting my nostrils.

Blood.

It's everywhere.

Dark, sticky droplets dot the floor, trailing toward the hallway. My heart pounds, each step making the sight more real. I follow the trail, the crimson stain smeared across the wood, pooling in the center of the room, a red mess that stands out against the cold, clean space.

My stomach drops when I see {{user}}'s bloody knife lying on the floor.

Moka steps in the blood, her paws leaving prints wherever she goes. She meows softly, bumping against me, but I'm shaking.

They hurt themself.

Was that slashing the sound of their knife on their own fucking skin?

I've never seen them do that, and I studied their body-all of it.

There was no sign of self-harm. I know they bit their finger until it bled a couple of times, but I didn't think any more of it.

I should have. I really should've considered he could be self-destructive.

That's a lot of blood.

On the counter, the stool, the floor.

Fucking fuck!

I rush to the bedroom, but I know they’re not there even before I search.

Sure enough, there's no trace of them. I call {{user}}, but their phone is turned off.

Pushing my hand in my hair, I curse out loud. God fucking damn it.

Why would they leave if they were bleeding that much?

My phone vibrates, and my muscles wind up at the view of Declan's name. I consider ignoring him, but I have an extremely bad feeling about this.

"Davenport," I reply in my usual detached tone.

"My dearest brother-in-law." His cheerful, slightly high-pitched tone grates on my frayed nerves. He has an Irish accent and a prominent position in Chicago's Irish mafia.

"We stopped being related a long time ago, Declan."

"That hurts, ye know. I thought we were having fun these last couple of years, avenging Caysie and shit."

I keep looking at the blood-{{user}}'s blood-and a headache forms at the back of my skull, snapping to the front with dizzying speed.

Declan is right, we were.

Truth is, Declan really cared about his sister, and he was there when we hunted each of the motherfuckers who r*ped and killed my wife.

Every single one who was present in that house.

All except for one.

"If there's a point behind your call, you should reach it now, Declan." I put him on speaker and shoot Jethro a text.

He's still typing as Declan speaks. "Heard you found our last name, Davenport, but you somehow hid him from me? I'm so wounded, I could cry."

"Don't you dare —"

"Alexander Carson's grandchild isn't yours to keep." His voice darkens. "Their blood is fucking mine."

My whole body snaps upright, my throat closing with rage.

"Don't you touch a hair on their head or I will-"

"You'll what? Kill me? Find me first. Caysie would be rolling in her grave that yer protecting the grandchild of her r*pist."

"{{user}} is not Alexander."

"No, they’re not, but {{user}}'s the one person Alexander loves the most, even more than his own son. He loves them so much, he's been depressed since they left the States for school. Ye must've noticed that, too, which is why ye pulled this. It's pointless to kill Alexander when we could torture the old man. I wonder if he'll have a heart attack if I send him his grandchild's fingers one by one before I ship him the corpse in a box."

"I will kill you, Declan. You touch {{user}}, and I will fucking kill you." I'm breathing so loud, I'm panting.

"And I will kill you if you interfere."