by Vic Tyler
A cruel, clinical smile spreads across his face.
“Snapped her neck like a twig when I squeezed too hard, coming deep inside her tight pussy. It feels so much better when you don’t have to worry about impregnating them, doesn’t it?”
He chuckles, wheezing the sounds before a cough overtakes him. Blood seeps out with every shake of his body.
My fingers squeeze around my gun.
It’s my most reliable piece, and I’ve taken good care of it for the past few years.
But for the first time ever, it feels incredibly cold, heavy, and daunting in my grasp.
“I don’t get it.” My voice sounds weary and hollow. “Why won’t you just admit East did it?”
West’s lips curl downwards disdainfully as he sneers, “Are you deaf, on top of being stupid?”
I look to the tiny figure still slumped over the table. “You know why Phan shot North.”
West watches me, his dark gaze studying my blank expression.
“Hmm.” He struggles to contain his labored breathing, trying to pass it off with a forced chuckle. “She always did say she’d come back to haunt us if she died in an unfitting way. Poison was an insulting end for her. But she wouldn’t have lasted more than a few minutes before her body gave in. A slow, painful death. Her deviant granted her her last wish.”
My voice sounds distant, even to me. “My father did the same.”
The last traces of West’s fake amusement fade from his face.
“He saved my mother from a torturous death.” I swallow as I remember the loud crack, the smell of gunpowder and iron, and the sound of my mother’s body colliding into the floor from the closet where Elena and I hid. “They were outside the door, and he knew he wasn’t going to win.”
His eyes search mine for any trace that I’m not telling the truth — that I’m lying.
“That’s something documents and dossiers don’t tell you, West.” My heart weighs heavily in my chest. “You try too hard to be hated.”
As he sits there, West looks like the old man he is, defeated and feeble.
But there’s a solemn depth to his gaze, full of everything he’s buried deep inside himself over the years.
I understand it now, and the knowledge is crippling.
So many things wrong over the years.
So much time and energy wasted.
Maybe I should’ve let him think that he’s the villain he painted himself to be.
Was it crueler to tell him the truth?
“Did you know my father survived?” I ask hoarsely.
After a moment, West nods. “It wasn’t worth sending my men to put down a manic coward.”
There’s a flat resignation in his tone, and I believe him. West didn’t let him go out of kindness. My father probably would’ve taken down a lot of the Twelve and deviants with him.
It wouldn’t have been practical, not in West’s calculations.
“And Adriana —” I falter. “All this time…”
Something in his expression makes me swallow the rest of my words.
West reaches into his breast pocket with trembling hands, pale and jittery from losing so much blood. He struggles to wrap his fingers around something, and when he does, he holds it to his chest.
“There’s a chip in here that’ll give you a record of our faction’s affairs,” he says. “If Jura’s dead, you’ll have some trouble unlocking it, but you’ll get it done. You’ve always been persistent.”
With labored breaths, West smiles as genuinely as I’ve ever seen him smile at me.
“Now, enough talking, son. I’ve got a date with the devil, and I’m late.”
chapter forty
The door to the Windrose is open, and I quietly creep in, my heart racing in my chest.
My eardrums pulse, and I can’t tell whether it’s because they’re straining to hear or whether they were just blown out from all the gunshots.
The silence could be deceiving. Just because I can’t hear anything doesn’t mean there isn’t anyone inside.
I can’t stop looking over my shoulder nervously. I keep thinking I hear something, and it makes me jump, especially when I think about finding Kaden right behind me.
But nothing. Which is simultaneously relieving and terrifying.
“Take care of her.”
My heartbeat skyrockets.
West?
It wasn’t my imagination, was it?
No, it definitely was West’s voice. There’s no mistake about it.
I clap my hand over my mouth to hold back my relief.
Oh, thank god. West is okay. He’s alive.
But I don’t know who else might be here, so I fight the urge to run to him immediately.
He could still be in danger.
Having abandoned my shoes a long time ago, I quickly tread to the banquet hall in my bare feet.
After a beat, another solemn voice echoes softly in the hall. “Always.”
My knees buckle, and I nearly collapse where I stand.
Damien.
Damien is with West. They’re both fine!
My feet stumble as they push off the floor.
Thank god. Thank you, God.
West grunts gruffly. “Thank you.”
Their voices warble in my ringing ears, and I can barely make out their words, but it doesn’t matter.
They’re alive.
I pick up speed, trying to run even though my feet are burning from all the cuts and gravel piercing through my soles.
I need to see them. I need to see both of them with my own eyes.
Damien’s cocky lilt is so familiar that I can see his smirk in my head. “Always wondered what it’d feel like to kill you.”
West chuckles.
“Bastard.”
The hall explodes with a deafening crack.
The sound booms and echoes, and my heart flies into my mouth.
No.
NO.
I sprint all the way without a second thought and freeze at the entrance of the domed hall.
Unmoving bodies are littered on the ground, surrounded by so much red.
There’s only one person standing.
Only one person moves.
And he turns to face me.
Damien almost looks stunned to see me until his expression clears neutrally. “What are you doing here?”
At his feet, motionless against the massive wooden table, sits West.
I — I —
In an instant, I’m next to him, trembling as my eyes travel over his body.
He’s not moving. Why isn’t he moving?
“West?”
His eyes are closed, and there’s a gaping raw hole in the middle of his forehead with something red drizzling out of it.
What is that? Why is there so much of it?
I grab his face, and the thick liquid smears across his cheeks, staining his white hair.
It’s not blood.
It can’t be.
It’s fake.
His head lolls heavily in my hands, and a choked cry bursts out of me.
“West??”
Why isn’t he moving?
It’s like he’s asleep. It’s like he’s unconscious.
Wake up, West. This is not the time or place to be sleeping.
My throat squeezes as it burns from both ends — the heat seeping from the back of my nose and the acid burbling from my stomach.
The silky satin of his jacket feels normal in my fists as I shake him.
His body is still warm and soft like it always is when I hug him.
But he doesn’t put his hand on my head or pat my back.
He doesn’t wrap his arms around me.
He doesn’t smile and call my name.
He doesn’t move at all.
Move, West! Move, goddammit!
“West!” My scream echoes in solitary agony off the cold, white walls.
He simply jostles and shimmies every time I yank his lapel, but his eyes remain clos
ed and he doesn’t wake up.
I gasp when he suddenly tips to the side, and even though I try to soften his fall, I can’t pull back his massive body.
His head slams into the ground with a painful crack, and his body follows without any resistance.
I get tugged along when my hands refuse to let go of him, and I stumble hard onto his body.
Water drips from my face, and I can’t stop this wail screeching out of me.
Wake up, and tell me this is your idea of a sick joke! Laugh, and apologize for scaring me!
I scream and shake him, desperate to see him open his eyes and smile at me.
His limp hand unfolds as he lies sprawled on the marble floor, and a small wooden locket with a poorly scratched ‘W’ falls from his palm and onto the ground.
The room fills with my shrieks and sobs, and West’s soft wool vest clutched in my fists grow wetter and heavier with each passing second.
It’s not true.
Please tell me it’s not true.
West can’t be dead.
He can’t.
And yet, the truth looms overbearingly in his steadily cooling touch.
“What did you do?” My anguished voice is hoarse and broken.
“Isn’t it obvious?”
I want to throw up. I want to hit him. I want to throw something at him.
How dare he sound so smug and snarky right now?
When I lift my head, Damien looks coolly at me with the slightest uptwist in his lips.
“You said you wouldn’t kill him,” I beg, my voice cracking. Damien will tell me it’s a joke. He’ll tell me this isn’t real. “You promised me you wouldn’t.”
“Well, doesn’t that just make you stupid for believing a liar?” He chuckles.
Slipping his gun back into his holster, he lithely snatches up West’s locket before walking away.
“Damien,” I half–sob and half–shriek frantically. “Damien!”
He doesn’t turn around.
Before I know it, my fingers wrap around the cold silver metal lying next to me, and I stagger onto my feet.
The weight in my hand threatens to sink me straight into the ground.
Guns are so much heavier than they look.
I raise my arms. “Damien!”
Something in my voice makes him turn around, and the ear–splitting boom pierces through my head before my entire body kicks back and my back slams into the ground.
The gun flies out of my hand, clattering onto the floor.
I bite back a gasp and a groan, clutching the sharp, biting sensation in my hand.
It’s wet, and when I look at it, there’s blood gushing out of the gash in my thumb.
I have no idea where the bullet went, but Damien stands there, unscratched and unharmed.
He watches me with a blank expression as I tremble and grit my teeth through the pain.
Pain.
Why does everything hurt so much more than I remember it to?
My chest floods in confusion with anger, regret, horror, and shock.
What if I had shot him?
What if I killed him?
What did I do?
He watches me for a few seconds before spinning around on his heels again and stalking towards the door. “Get out of here, Adriana. You don’t belong here.”
Dismissing me.
Like he always has.
Launching off my feet, I sprint straight at him, screaming.
As soon as he’s an arm’s length away, my head whirls and crashes straight into the wall as a searing pain shoots through my arm and into my shoulder.
The wall is cold and unfeeling against my cheek and chest, but it’s infinitely more welcoming than the overpowering heat behind me.
The vice grip burns through my bones as it locks my arm against my back.
Damien’s hot breath tickles my ear as he sneers, “You’re lucky you’re a civilian, and I don’t care to kill someone who can’t properly fight back.”
“Let me go,” I snarl, struggling to get free. But he’s too strong, and he only tightens his hold on me. I cry when my shoulder feels like it’s going to pop out. “I hate you, Damien. I hate you so much.”
“Good,” he harshes, shoving me harder into the wall. “That’s the way it should be. Don’t forget how this feels, Adriana. Don’t forget what you saw. And never forget that I’m the one who killed West.”
“I’ll never forgive you,” I grit. “I’ll make sure you regret it.”
He bursts into that laughter I loved so much, and the sound tears my heart.
“Yeah? And what are you going to do?” His hand slides down my dress, and I jump at his hot touch. “Look at you. So fucking weak and helpless.”
His fingers slide under the hem of my dress, and I lurch in panic, violently squirming to get away.
It’s just like Kaden. It’s just like what he did.
But this is different.
This is so much worse because it’s Damien.
He chuckles and whispers in my ear, “You’d even enjoy it if I fucked you now, wouldn’t you? You’d come so fucking hard from these hands that killed West only minutes ago —” I choke back my tears at the reminder. “— All that delicious pleasure with your body defiled in West’s dead, cold blood —”
Lost in the agony and the sobs wracking my body, I barely register that his hands stopped along my bare hip.
His fingers graze over the crease of my thigh.
Even though he’s not touching me anywhere else, I feel so violated. My entire body hurts and aches with the pain wrenching through me from the inside out.
How could he do this to me? Damien, of all people?
Suddenly, the pressure of his hot body on mine increases, and I feel suffocatingly trapped between him and the wall.
Yesterday, I might’ve mistaken this for protectiveness, but now, it just feels threatening.
“Who?” There’s a harsh, feral edge to his deep growl. “Who touched you?”
His fingers dig into my flesh, and devastation pours out of every single one of my pores.
Why does he care? Did he want to ruin me all by himself?
Even if I wanted to answer him, I can’t. The only sounds ripping from my throat wail into cries and screams.
My chest feels like it’s going to explode, and all the pressure building up inside has nowhere to go, especially when I’m crushed against the wall.
He’s right. I’m too weak. I’m helpless. I’m useless.
He could do whatever he wants to me right now, and I wouldn’t be able to stop him.
The Damien I knew wouldn’t do this. He wouldn’t.
But I don’t know this man holding me. I can’t guarantee he wouldn’t hurt me.
I don’t know how much time has passed when all my energy is spent, and I’m left a whimpering, sobbing, and exhausted mess.
But I’m still stuck in this position and Damien is still behind me, securing me in place.
It’s only when his hand slides out from under my dress that I realize he was gripping me tightly, digging his fingers into my hip so hard I can probably still see their mark if I lift the hem. And now, the spot he was holding feels cold and empty.
Like the rest of me.
Footsteps shuffle down the hall, growing louder and louder, and in a matter of seconds, the most welcome sight I’ve seen all day pops through the door.
Jura stares at Damien and me as he catches his breath. His gaze slides over the rest of the hall, lingering on West.
“Jura,” I sob. “Jura.”
My body collides into his as I’m thrown straight into his arms, and I fall into his long, lean body, feeling strangely weak and wobbly with the sturdy wall no longer holding me up.
“Get her out of here,” Damien snarls.
Jura’s heartbeat races against my forehead, and I clutch his shirt, squeezing my eyes shut.
I can’t bear to look behind me. I can’t bear to measure the distance between Damien and me. Re
membering how helpless and powerless I felt to do anything. How I lost everything.
Through clenched teeth and heavy breaths, Jura says, “They’re coming.” Damien curses under his breath. “There’s a hidden exit in the back. If we go now, we might be able to make it past them.”
My fists tighten painfully. Why is Jura trying to help Damien? He can’t come with us. He’s the enemy. “He killed West.”
There’s no response except for Jura’s labored breathing. His arm squeezes painfully around my shoulder, clutching me tight against him.
In a strange thought, I realize this is the first time Jura’s held me. What a time for a first hug.
But it’s strangely comforting. Because I know Jura is always there for me. I know he’ll never turn on me. I know he’ll never hurt me.
And that’s the last thought I have before everything goes black.
chapter forty-one
Adriana’s body goes limp in Jura’s arms.
My mouth dries.
He hit her way too fucking hard.
He staggers from her sudden dead weight, and my feet fly over to them without a second thought.
I catch her before she falls to the ground, and her body feels so light and fragile now — a complete opposite from the taut and dense vibrating mass of rage I pinned against the wall earlier.
Jura’s hands are white as they grip the door, balancing himself as best he can.
The knot in my throat swells. “You need to get to a doctor.”
His jeans are stained crimson, and a lot of the blood is probably from other people, but the scarlet dripping from his drenched and torn black shirt is unmistakable.
His face is paler than it usually is, and although he’s doing a damn good job of keeping the pain from showing, he’s struggling to stay conscious.
“No,” he grits. “Adriana first.”
I whip out my phone, dialing in as many numbers to the underground surgeons and clinics that I can think of.
We can’t go to regular hospitals, but these guys will do a better job of patching Jura up anyway.
Even though he probably has his connections, I don’t want to leave it to chance since he looks like he’s barely remembering how to stand right now.
Fuck. If East has already made his move, it’ll be hard to find one that won’t sell Jura out, but hopefully, the contacts I have will cover him for the time being. Otherwise, he’ll just have to find a safe place until Isla can get to him.