Lords of Wrath: Chapter 32

I’ve known Tristian since I was nine years old, so when I say I’ve only got—at maximum—ten minutes head start on him, that shit is precise. I can only imagine his face when he walked into that room at Ray’s and found out I’d dipped. The guy’s probably going to put another bullet in me.

I’m barreling toward the brothel, regardless, pumped full of antibiotics and whatever else Ray had in those other IV bags. If it had anything to do with pain management, then it’s not strong enough to wobble a mouse. My side is a tender, throbbing mess of hurt that explodes with every dip and bump. I gnash my teeth and go faster, because I know by now that the only way to get through pain is to get through pain.

The Velvet Hideaway is gasping its last breaths of life for the day. When I pull up, skidding to a dusty stop in front of the gate, it’s obvious that whatever crowd was here for the show is long gone. It’s been fourteen hours since Rath returned to the cabin, saying nothing as he and Tristian loaded me into that Jeep. It’s been twelve since Ray first caught me in a wheelchair, following a harrowing entrance into his underground clinic. It’s been ten since the x-rays and the tests and the determination that all this pain and suffering isn’t going to kill me—just end my career for the season.

It’s been four hours since Rath informed me what my father’s done.

I spent most of that trying to get away from Tristian, who—let’s be real—probably spent those four hours trying to figure out how to get away from me.

If my calculations are right, then the show happened two hours ago, which makes me too late, too tired, and too pissed to care that I probably look like a walking corpse as I angrily hobble up to the doors of the brothel.

As soon as I get inside, I recognize the regulars still milling about. The Velvet Hideaway is never closed, but there are the quiet, unhurried hours of the night, much like this, when men have found a woman to take to a room and hunker down the moon with. Once, freshman year, I used up a credit on a slender brunette. It was back at the old place out on the avenue, so it was nothing like this. The converted motel was trashy and a bit too obvious, but the back office was comfortable and familiar to me, too many years spent stomping around inside it, being told to sit my hyper little ass down and keep my goddamn mouth shut for five minutes.

My eyes skip around the room, trying to suss out where to point myself when Auggy steps in front of me.

“Killian?” she asks, taking me in with a slow, worried expression. “Honey, I heard you were hurt.”

“I’m fine.” The pain throbs like a motherfucker, and even though Ray thinks I won’t need surgery, he still didn’t sound a hundred percent on it. “Where is he?”

She knows who I’m talking about. It’s clear in the way her eyes go shuttered. “You’re here for the girl, too, aren’t you?”

Clenching my jaw, I repeat, “Where is he?”

“Counting cash.” She means in his office, near the back of the house. I push past her, but she snags my elbow, the sudden jolt making pain sear up my side. “Killer, don’t do anything you’ll regret. She’s not worth it. She’s just a who—”

I spin around, using my precious last nerve to snatch her by the throat. “Go ahead and call her a whore,” I sneer, “I fucking dare you.”

Her throat bobs beneath my palm, eyes wide and scared. “But you can’t honestly—Killian, she’s your stepsister.”

“She’s my Lady!” My voice clips off, because fuck, screaming is apparently not something I can do with this hole through my side. “She’s our Lady,” I stress, releasing her with a shove.

Auggy looks scared and hurt, but I don’t give a shit. I came down here for a reason. I walk toward the office in the back, holding my side as I push through the pain. I’m not surprised to find Pretty Nick standing guard at the door, but I am surprised to see Rath here. He’s sitting against the wall close by, head tipped back, eyes closed as his jaw works tightly around a piece of gum. His hair is a mess, falling into his eyes, and his hand is motionless around the gun it’s holding, loose and casual as it rests against his knee.

Pretty Nick straightens as soon as he sees me, holding up both tattooed hands. “I didn’t lay a finger on her.”

“Lucky for you,” I say, watching as Rath’s head snaps up to meet my gaze, “my boy already told me that.”

If not, he’d already be dead.

“Look, Killer, I got no interest in your weird family drama,” he assures me, rolling his eyes as he slides away from the door. “I don’t get paid enough for this shit.” He’s lying—he absolutely gets paid enough for this shit—but he doesn’t want to get involved.

Smart kid.

As soon as Pretty Nick saunters away, Rath pushes to his feet. He’s wearing nothing but a t-shirt and jeans, and despite the tension in his shoulders, he looks exactly like a guy who’s soaking in some afterglow.

I give him a nod. “You good?”

He shakes his head. “Christ, Killer. Aren’t you supposed to be strapped to a bed or something? You look like you’re about to drop.”

“I’m not,” I argue, and I don’t know how I look, but that’s how I feel. “Where is she?”

His eyes slide to the door beside him, jaw clenching around that piece of gum as he bites out, “He said he wanted her to stick around until he was sure we made enough.” It’s clear what he thinks about this, the flash of spite in his eyes hot enough to burn this place to the ground.

He’ll have to stand in line.

A ripple of white-hot fury makes my stomach twinge, but I ignore it, snatching the gun from Rath’s hand as I barge through the door.

Inside, Story’s perched on a chair against the wall, arms wrapped tightly around the knees she’s got tucked to her chest, face buried in her arms. She’s wearing an oversized leather jacket that I instantly recognize as Rath’s. For some reason, the knowledge that she’s wrapped in his jacket eases some of the tightness in my chest. I know there was a time the thought of him and Tristian having her would make something wild and selfish thrash around inside me, but I can barely remember it. Now, it brings me an acute relief. She’s cared for, protected, even when I’m laying on a gurney ten miles away, by two of the best and most capable men I know. What could ever be bad about that?

My dad is behind the desk, head snapping up when the door bangs loudly against the wall. I see Story’s flinch from over his shoulder—see her bolt up from her seat—but I don’t take my eyes off him.

“You’re a real sick fuck, you know that?” I hobble into the room, arm curled around my side. “Did you really think I’d let you get away with this?”

“Son.” He looks idiotically relieved to see me, giving the stack of money a tap on the desk, making it nice and tidy. “I was just about to come see you myself. Ray made it sound like you’d be incapacitated for a bit.” His eyes take in my slumped posture, head shaking. “As if that’s ever stopped you before. I don’t even want to ask how sloppy you were for Ugly Nick to get the jump on you like that.”

“I’m not here to talk about the Nicks.” I wave the gun at the money on the desk, feeling stiff and belligerent. “I’ve got more pressing matters.”

He leans back in his seat, and behind him, Story watches me, eyes wide. “I can see I’ve made some mistakes.”

“You’re fucking right, you did!” Chest heaving, I finally let myself look at Story. “Go out to Rath.”

Before she can, my dad stands up, blocking her way. He throws me a heated look. “The mistake wasn’t what happened tonight,” he clarifies, voice low but deadly. “It was letting you think she belonged to you. I don’t know where you got this idea in your head—”

“She does belong to me,” I argue, feeling fit to explode at the way he’s holding her back. “You can marry her mother, molest her, stalk her, threaten her—I don’t fucking care. None of that makes her yours.”

“Oh?” The expression on his face is one I’m used to. It’s the look of an irritated parent humoring their child. “And what makes her yours, Killian? A contract? A few nights living under your roof?” He scoffs, planting both palms on the desk to level me with a glare. “I want to be perfectly clear. You may hold my assets by housing Story and Ms. Crane, but they always have, and always will, belong to me.”

I don’t realize Rath has entered behind me until he speaks, voice low and full of threat. “Ms. Crane doesn’t belong to anyone. Not anymore.” I’m not sure if Rath really believes it or not, but the fucker sure sells it. It’s the way it should be, anyway. Ms. Crane didn’t stab her old man to death just to be passed to another captor.

Even though that’s what happened.

My dad’s eyes flick over my shoulder, flashing in amusement. “Is that what the old hag wants you to think?” He barks a laugh. “Oh, boys. Delores Crane was working girls on the avenue before either of you were protein in your daddies’ ballsacks. The only thing standing between her and every twitchy celebrity, politician, and husband in this town is me.” He raises an eyebrow at Rath. “You think she wants to be free? Even if she knew how to be—and she doesn’t—she wouldn’t last one day out here. She’s got too much dirt on the people running this town.”

“They can fucking try us,” I spit. “Ms. Crane is ours, and so is Story.”

“You’re being ridiculous.” Sighing, he gives the money another tap. “But I do share some blame here. I should have put my foot down about this before you boys cornered her in the laundry room that night.”

Story snaps to attention, giving him a stunned, disgusted look. “You knew about that?”

He doesn’t turn to look at her. “Did I know about the goings on in my own home? Of course. Should I tell her, Killian?” He gives me that infuriating, patronizing look. “Should I tell her about all the nights before that? The way you’d sneak into her room and—”

“Shut up!” It doesn’t really matter to me. Story must know by now the things I used to do to her while she was sleeping. It’s just that I can’t take her pale, mortified expression when she realizes he knows. It’s too late for that now, though. She ducks her head, burying her face into her palms.

“I was hoping it was just teenage hormones,” he continues, sounding disappointed, “especially considering I needed her virginity intact for the patrons who were interested. Truthfully, I didn’t care that you were slinking away at all hours to rub yourself off into her mouth. If anything, the little tales of your exploits just cultivated more interest.”

“Oh, my god.” Story’s cracked whisper is muffled by her hands.

“But I admit, I was hoping to see you form healthier attachments.” His gaze slides away, briefly contemplative. “Especially after your mother. You saw how that worked out, didn’t you?”

“Shut up,” I say again, but my voice is weaker this time, barely a thread of a hiss. “You don’t get to talk about her.”

“Healthy attachments,” he stresses, “like the ones you have with the Mercer boy. That’s an alliance worth making.” I don’t miss his glance behind me. “I mean no offense, Rath. You’ve been an enormous asset and I’ve always been quite fond of you, but aside from the street smarts and intimidation, you don’t bring a lot to this organization.” To me, he adds, “Frankly, I’m worried about your future if you keep collecting all these problematic associations.”

“Frankly, you can eat a bag of dicks.” I adjust my grip on the gun at my side, lip curling. “You’re going to leave Story and Ms. Crane alone.”

“Am I?” he asks, looking unimpressed. “Maybe you haven’t been hearing me—”

“I’ve heard you just fine,” I argue.

There’s a pause where he just stares at me, eyes going hard. Then he’s sliding open the drawer and pulling out his own gun, sliding out the clip, and shoving it back in with a harsh ‘click’.

“I’ve tried to teach you, son. Life is about making decisions. Hard decisions. You think I enjoyed what happened with your mother?” There’s this look he always gets in his eyes when he talks about her, and I can’t fucking stand it. It’s cold and hollow, and it’s impossible to miss the flash of grief it swallows. The worst part about it is the knowledge that he probably did love her. “Because I didn’t. You must know that. But I had to make a decision, Killian. A hard decision.” Looking me in the eye, he twists just enough to raise the gun, pointing it at Story’s head. “And now, so do—”

I lift the gun and shoot him in the shoulder.

My reaction is so quick and impassive that none of them see it coming. It cracks through the air like lightning, and Story lets out a bloodcurdling scream. In a flash, Rath is over the desk, tackling her to the ground, shielding her with his body.

Kind of a lot of fuss, considering.

My dad falls back into his chair, and he doesn’t cry out. No. Paynes don’t cry out. We gnash our teeth and look at our assailant as if he’s personally affronted us.

Been there, done that.

“What are you doing?!” His growl tears from deep inside his chest, ragged and tremulous as he clutches at his shoulder.

“Making a decision,” I reply, motions loose and casual as I approach him to pick up the gun he dropped on the desk. “Sorry. I interrupted you, didn’t I? You were going to tell me to choose, right? Her or you?” I tuck his gun away into the waist of my pants, swallowing against the tide of pain. Over in the corner, Rath is tucking Story’s head beneath his chin and telling her that everything is fine—everything is chill—but all I can do is give my dad a shrug. “It’s the funniest thing, though. Wasn’t really all that difficult.”

Someone bursts into the room then, and it’s a good thing I’ve been keeping track of the time, because otherwise I’d be pulling some stitches to whirl around and raise the gun at them.

Ten minutes.

Like clockwork.

“Oh, shit,” Tristian says, sounding out of breath as he takes in the scene. The gun in my hand. The scent of sulphur in the air. My father cringing as he clutches his injured shoulder. “Did you shoot your dad?” he asks, voice full of baffled excitement.

I spare him a glance over my shoulder. “Yeah.”

He nods, eyes fixed to the blood running down my dad’s arm. “Nice.”

“Who the hell do you think you are?” my dad grates out, struggling to his feet.

Sneering, I answer, “I’m a Lord of Forsyth University. Heir to this goddamn throne.”

My father’s jaw sets as blood gushes through his fingers. “No one’s going to accept a coup from you. Three spoiled little shits who couldn’t find their asses with both hands and a compass.”

“It’s not a coup,” I assure him, lurching forward to press the barrel of the gun to his forehead. “This is a message—to you, South Side, the other Royals, and anyone else who needs to fucking hear it. If the Lords or their Lady are threatened again, it doesn’t matter who the threat is coming from. They’ll be shot on sight.” Pausing, I take a moment to impress, “If they’re very lucky, that is. And if they aren’t,” I jerk my head to the man standing behind me, “I’ll just let Tristian set them on fire.”

He gives a tight, pained, humorless laugh. “You think that’s what this throne needs? Three psychopaths?”

I reach out to fist his shirt, my hand squelching in the blood-soaked fabric. “We’re exactly what you shaped us to be, dad. Never forget that.” I throw him back and he flails against the chair, grunting in pain.

Breathless, he bites out, “Whoever sent Nick to kill you should have done a better job.”

“Whoever sent Nick to kill me better get the fuck out of Forsyth, because it’s not just me they’re going to have to deal with.” I wipe my forehead, and blood smears across the back of my palm. “They’re going to have to deal with all of us; three psychopathic Lords and one seriously conniving Lady.”

Tristian extends a hand to Story, who’s been speechlessly watching the whole scene. She’s not shaking anymore, but she still looks shell-shocked, colorless, and off balance. Despite that, she still reaches for his hand without reservation, allowing him to carefully guide her over a puddle of blood.

“Consider her debt paid,” Tristian says, lip curling as he pulls her automatically into his side. “Else, I’ll tell my dad exactly what you think of Mercer money.”

“And Ms. Crane is done with you,” Rath adds, looking my dad in the eye. “You think we’re psychopaths? Motherfucker, you haven’t seen shit.”

Tristian gives him a cold grin. “It’s true. She uses metal utensils on Teflon pans. In forty years, we’ll all be full of cancer. Downright diabolical.”

But my dad is hardly listening to them, eyes fixed on me. “Killian, if you walk out that door—”

I don’t give him the chance to finish. “Take the L, dad.” Hobbling out of the room, I add, “I’ll have Auggy call Ray about your wound. Consider it the last of the mercy you’ll see from us.”

We leave the Velvet Hideaway amid a crowd of nervous onlookers, Rath propping me up as I shuffle heavily toward the foyer, Tristian and Story hand in hand. The whores and the Johns all move aside as we pass, their faces drawn and worried as their gazes peek down the hall behind us. We probably look like a bunch of fuck-ups, one of us ruffled and fucked-out, the other curled and hobbling, another so impeccably clean and styled that it could only be the result of a deep neurosis. And then there’s Story—our Lady—looking weary and blank as she walks her way out of the hell she’d always been intended for.

I suppose I see that now.

To my dad, it was never about having a family, or giving me a gift, or even possessing his own personal little slice of sick perversion. I wonder now if it was even about marrying her mom. Maybe Story has always been about this for him. About owning something pure and unsullied in a world where so few things are, just so he can turn a profit on it.

When we get outside into the chilled night air, it’s to the sight of our four cars, all lined up together near the gate. My Range Rover, Story’s Charger, Tristian’s Porsche, and the Jeep from the cabin that Rath drove up here. For a moment, it looks so ridiculous that it pulls an agonizing laugh from my chest. I should read it as a sign that we’re all too connected, too fucking fused, to operate as anything but a unit.

Instead, it just makes something black and ugly twist in my chest.

We stand there a long moment behind our cars, none of us knowing what to say.

It’s Story who breaks the silence, clearing her throat. “Ms. Crane. She’s…”

“South Side’s most notorious madam,” Rath answers, posture somehow both loose and closed as he lights a cigarette, the flame illuminating his face in a brief flash. He exhales, nodding up at the mansion. “At least, she used to be. Now she’s just,” his face tightens, “someone people like Daniel want to pump for dirt. Because that’s what she has. Dirt, on every skeevey old fuck in this town.”

“That makes sense.” Story gives me a quick look, and I know she’s remembering that discussion I had with Auggy the first time I brought her here. Ms. Crane, she’s realizing, is the woman all the girls had been asking about. Not because they wanted to use her. Because they loved her. “Tell her I said…” Story pauses, like she’s trying very hard to choose something appropriately sentimental to say. In the end, she breathes a laugh and raises an eyebrow. “Tell her she’s a crabby old bitch and I’m glad to have known her.”

So.

I guess we’re parting ways now.

Neither of the others look surprised, Rath just giving her a single, heavy nod. “I’ll let her know.” He doesn’t sound happy about it, but I can see that this is a whole thing.

A thing where we acknowledge she’s leaving.

Where we tell her we’re letting her go.

When Story starts shrugging out of his leather jacket, he scoffs, reaching out to close it. “I hear Colorado gets cold. Keep it.”

Her shoulders slowly deflate, and she ducks her head, pulling the jacket tight around her instead. “Thank you.” Rath takes a drag of his cigarette and looks away, as if this is nothing.

She turns to Tristian next, starting, “About the car—”

“No.” His blue eyes bear down on her, daring her to say what she clearly wants to. “Take it. It’s paid for, and I don’t know anyone who’ll get as much use out of it as you.”

She looks conflicted and all tangled up as she chews on her lip, twisting to send the car a covetous glance. “It’s too much.”

Tristian reaches up to brush a knuckle under her chin, giving her a sad smile. “I think we both know it’s not even close to being enough.” Something passes between them—a long look, full of back and forth and a hurt that might be too deep to heal.

To him, she says, “I’ll treat her well.”

He passes her that winning Tristian Mercer smile I know is as fake as the man he inherited it from. “I know you will.”

When she turns to me, I just cast my gaze to the distant lights of the city that’ll be mine someday. “Don’t look at me. I never gave you anything.”

Not yet.

Not until I find Ted.

She steps in front of me and I can’t look at her, because I don’t know what the beast inside me will do. It’s a tossup between throwing her in the back of my truck, kissing her black and blue and bloody, and clutching her to my chest and begging—fucking pleading—with her to stay here. To stay mine. To stay ours.

None of them is acceptable, so I keep my eyes trained to the distant glow, telling that beast within to shut the fuck up and let this happen. It’s harder when she strains up to brush a kiss over my jaw, pain shooting through my torso as I struggle to remain agonizingly still.

Her voice is soft, a whisper against the rough stubble. “Yes, you did.”

I don’t look away from that point in the distance until I hear her footsteps recede. The sound of a car door opening. The cushioned, mechanical sound of it closing.

Tristian, Rath, and I have been friends for longer than most, but when all three of us start moving at the same time, like someone’s cut our strings, I know that we’ll never be as close as we are at that exact moment.

Because they were wrestling with the same beast.

We each get into our cars, one by one, and crank our respective engines. One direction leads to the glow of the heart of Forsyth, and the other leads to somewhere else.

When we start filtering out onto the highway, the three of us go left, and Story goes right.

For once, no one chases her.