“You think this is easy for me? That I want him out here being a fucking snitch for me?”
“Then why the hell is he here and not in rehab? Shit, anywhere but in the middle of this,” I bark.
Londyn’s head jerks toward me, eyes sharp and furious. “Because if he wasn’t here, he’d be dead in a ditch somewhere. This is the only way I can keep him alive.” She flinches, barely, but I see it.
For a second, everything goes quiet except the hum of the engine. Her chest rises and falls like she’s holding the whole damn world in her lungs.
“I bet that sounds real noble when you’re trying to sleep at night,” I say, unmoved by her excuse. “Turning your own brother into bait, and labeling it as a way to save him just to ease your conscious? That’s real fucked up, Londyn.”
“Don’t,” she warns, voice shaking. “You don’t get to judge me, Malcolm. Not when you’re running with the Royal Bastards, and funneling drugs into my streets.”
Those final words hang between us, their weight hitting my chest.
And in the back seat, cuffed and burning with questions I don’t have answers to, I’m wondering how the hell I’m going to fix this.
FOUR
NIGHTMARE
As I settleinto the back seat, Tyrique’s face won’t leave my head.
He looked like life kicked his ass and left no crumbs. Glassy eyes, hands twitching like he was freezing from the inside out, and his body is half the size it was the last time I saw him. The same guy who used to outrun everyone on the field couldn’t even stand up straight. That image burrows deep in my mind, and it hits harder than I want to admit. Another demon added to the night terrors that I don’t fucking need.
We had what’s considered a clean-cut upbringing. Two-story homes situated in the suburbs with trimmed lawns and porch lights. Cookouts on Sundays, and parents who actually gave a damn. Statistically, we weren’t supposed to end up like this.
Now he’s strung out, Londyn’s got a badge, and I’m riding in the back of a squad SUV with cuffs digging into my wrists.
Life’s got jokes, but none of this shit is funny.
The engine hums low beneath us. Londyn’s eyes are steady on the road, hands locked at ten and two. The only sound is the rattle of metal when I shift and the occasional creak of the seat.
“This is some straight bullshit,” I mutter, mostly to myself.
“Keep talking,” she says, eyes never leaving the road, “and I’ll tack on resisting.”
“You’d need an actual arrest for that,” I smirk, knowing I got under her skin.
Her gaze flicks to the rearview, sharp and cold. “You wanna test me, Malcolm?”
I lean back, letting the cuffs bite a little deeper. “Just stating facts.”
I’m not trying to make her angry, but she has to admit that this has been a crazy ass night.
The silence stretches on. Streetlights strobe across her face, casting shadows that don’t belong on someone who used to laugh with her whole body. For a second, I see her how she was… trailing behind Ty and me while we walked to school, asking a million questions, always grinning, always loud. She wasn’t supposed to end up like this either.
The SUV jerks to a stop outside the precinct, and she’s out before the engine settles. My door swings open, and her hand clamps around my arm, yanking me out like I’m trash on the curb.
“Watch it,” I grunt, stumbling out of the backseat.
“Walk,” she orders, shoving me forward.
There’s no point in pushing back, she’s holding all the cards right now. Unbeknownst to her, I won’t spend one single night in a cage. I’ll let her have her moment, but it’ll be short lived.
Inside, the station’s buzzing. Phones ringing, boots scuffing tile, some young cop cursing over the spilled coffee running down his uniform. Londyn doesn’t slow. She marches me through the chaos toward a set of stairs that I know lead to the holding cells… then she stops short.
There’s a man at the front counter. Crisp suit, polished shoes, calm like he owns the place.
Walter Briggs. Royal Bastards’ lawyer.
