He’s not wrong. Took us four and a half hours to get here. But going back through the city is always a shitshow.
I turn to Jackson. “Blackwell waiting for you?”
He smirks. “Sure is. Serpents played Harvard yesterday. Home game too.”
Connor nudges my shoulder. “Wanna come out later?”
"Got other plans."
But I clench my jaw as I scan his face. My friend is still alone in his house, and while I can’t comprehend his body language, the fact that he has any in the first place is all I need to know something’s off.
He shrugs. “Merci?”
I nod.
“Need help?”
“No.” It comes out harsh, but the idea of Connor laying a finger on my stepbrother makes me want to rip my teammate’s throat out.
Maybe Viktor's right. Maybe there's something else going on that my fucked-up brain can't process.
But it doesn't matter because I’ll finally get my revenge tonight, and Merci Laurent will cease to exist.
Chapter 6
Merci
Two days.
Two fucking days.
Not that I’m keeping track or anything. That would suggest I’m clinging to some semblance of sanity, which . . . . yeah, no. Sanity clocked out around hour six when I pissed myself because King Dickhead McAsshole didn’t even bother to leave me a bucket.
It's not like I would've been able to use it anyway. My fucking hands are bound behind my back.
But the humiliation of pissing myself in some warehouse in the middle of Nope-ville? It’s a new low, and I've had some pretty fucking low moments.
Like that first night on the streets. Fifteen years old, scared shitless, with nothing but a backpack and whatever cash I could grab before bolting. The Amtrak to Chicago seemed like a good idea at the time. Figured it was far enough away that no one would look for me there.
I learned real quick that a pretty face and a tight ass would keep me fed. First time I ever got fucked for money was behind a 7-Eleven. The guy paid extra because I was a virgin.
Still, even this literal brink-of-murder plot is better than what my bio dad used to do. Goosebumps break out along my skin, the hairs on my nape standing up at the memory of the fucking chest freezer in the basement.
At being locked in, screaming until my throat was raw, until my nails broke off from scratching at the sides. Can’t remember when it started, but I know he’d been throwing me in there since I was six. That time, spaghetti fell off my fork and landed on my shirt, the sauce leaving a stain.
He'd left me for hours in darkness, the cold metal pressing in from all sides.
Don’t go there. Not now.
I roll my neck, taking in the current space. At least it’s big—small favors and all that shit. Even if I’m probably going to die here.
My stomach growls. Not that I’m hungry. My body’s just protesting out of habit. I’ve gone without food before, spent days rationing saltines and wondering how the hell I’d make rent.
That year on the streets after I ran away? Pure survival mode. Chicago winters are a special kind of brutal.
St. Louis was where things finally started to look up. I found work at a strip club and learned the pole. The owner taught me tricks, showed me how to work the crowd. It was the first time I felt . . . powerful.
In control.
