Birddddy

pumping air faster than my legs can make ground, but I don’t slow. I don’t stop. My ragged dress swishes against my busted up knees, mopping up some of the water

ms, and twinkling fairy lights. Of suited men, and far-off classical music warring with the gentle lap of waves. The memory tastes of sea salt. And fear. My knees start to buckle, and I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment, shaking it off. There is only winter here. A harsh, unforgiving winter. Even my fear tastes muted now, like it’s been frozen right along with my blood and dirtcrusted toes. Someone clucks their tongue a couple times, then in a low, guttural voice, says, “Thought you could just fly away, did you?” My eyes flash open to collide with a set of cold, unimpressed, steel-gray eyes, and again, I’m thrown back to when I first saw that harsh, too-perfect face. This time, the memory tastes of blood. My teeth chatter lightly despite my best efforts to put a clamp on it; the tendons in my neck straining as I clench my entire body. “Fuck you,” Imanage to bite out harshly. Corvin’s eye twitches, but otherwise, he remains as stoic as ever. Coldness radiates from him degrees cooler than the air trying to steal my breath. Fucking bastard. Someone chuckles behind me, and I tense, holding back a flinch. “Hear that, Corvin? Pretty sure that was an invitation.” Unlike Corvin, this guy’s voice is softer, lighter, like there’s a joke to be found in each drawled utterance. While I can’t say he doesn’t have an accent, it’s definitely not as identifiable as their ringleader’s. Far more subtle, easy to miss, and impossible to pinpoint its origin. Definitely not Russian though. Corvin cocks his head. His dark brown hair is short but looks to be a little longer on top, where it’s been combed back. His face is smoothly shaven, drawing stark attention to a jawline that could cut diamonds—a startling contrast to his full pink lips. I hate that I notice this about him, but it’s impossible to ignore. No wonder he’s able to get away with what he does. His piercing gray eyes remain steady on mine. “That what you want, Ptichka?” I can no longer tell if I’m shaking from the cold or from anger. “No,” I spit. This time, it’s his mouth that twitches. He takes a step forward, so I take one back. He does it again, and I do the same. It’s like we’re waltzing without touching, following some rhythm only we know, yet can’t hear.More snickering reaches my ears, and I whip my head around when I realize just how close it sounds. The only twin I’ve heard speak so far—the one with a long, jagged scar down his left cheek and the laid-back drawl—lifts a hand and wiggles his fingers at me in a wave. “Hi there,” he purrs. Behind him, his brother ducks his head, watching us through thick, dark lashes, his brown eyes hard and unreadable. I don’t mistake the silent warning there though. I stumble back, only to crash into a broad, solid chest. This time, Corvin doesn’t brace an arm around me to try to restrain me. He simply stands there, cold and unmoving, as I whip around to face him once more. The two of them close in on either side of me. “S-stop,” I stutter out, clenching my fists as I desperately try to hang on to my anger. My eyes burn as I ping-pong my gaze between the two, taking in their contrasting frames. Where Corvin is a tall, broad, looming figure, towering over me by half a foot, the twins are closer to my height of 5’5”. They’re on the leaner side too, with long, graceful necks and narrow features. And they’re young. Young like me—teenagers. Unlike Corvin, who looks to be in his mid-twenties. They all have dark hair—their only commonality, it would seem, at least on the surface—and dark eyes of varying shades. Corvin’s, a steel-gray, and the twins’, a murky brown. And while I wouldn’t go so far as to say their skin is pale, their complexions seem to be almost washed out. Like they’ve been deprived of the sun; the twins especially. Somewhere overhead, leaves and pine needles rustle loudly as several crows burst free, swooping over the ravine. Screeches fill the air, echoingoff the cliff’s edge, and Corvin’s mouth does that twitching thing again, prompting another shudder to roll down my spine. Instinct has me facing him head-on rather than the boy with the jagged scar down his face. Somehow, I just know who the bigger threat is here. “Scared?” Corvin whispers, eyes hooded as they drop to my lips. I try to force a swallow, but the shivers that have taken over my entire body are making it impossible. “P-p-please,” I find myself saying. My voice cracks with a whimper, and I hate it. Hate that I’m showing them any kind of weakness. But I’m past the point of caring. I just want to go home. He lowers his chin, and he says softly, “Ezio,” still not taking his gaze off mine, “I think it’s high time we show our new little pet where begging gets you around here, yes?” I still, and then I try to straighten my spine and pull my shoulders back, but all it does is shrink the space even further. Now Ezio is pressed right against me, his front to my back. He’s somehow looming over my shoulder despite only having a couple inches over me. He hangs his head forward, his shoulder-length brown hair curtaining around us, the ends teasing my bare shoulder where my dress has ripped, nearly hanging off me. Hands come around my waist, long fing

as quickly as he moved toward me does his hand come up. Something metallic glints in the corner of my eye, and then pain—sharp and quick in my upper arm. My fingers jolt as a shocking sensation radiates up to my neck and down my spine, bringing a quiet yelp from my lips. A needle