He gestures between us, at the blood and the bodies, at his entire self.
The words hit harder than I want to admit. Because he's right. Tank's always been right about the shit that matters. He's not avoiding Ellie because he hates her. He's avoiding her because he loves her too much to let her see what he's turned into.
What we'veallturned into.
I holster my gun, suddenly exhausted. "She's already seen plenty. Watched me execute Marco. Probably thinks we're all psychopaths now."
His eyes narrow to pinpricks.You killed someone in front of her?
Might die on this dock, after all.
"He insulted her," I say, holding my hands up in defense. "What was I supposed to do, let him get away with it?"
He actually fucking snarls, and takes a trudging step toward me. I manage not to flinch, but he circles by at the last moment and starts dragging a corpse's body toward the water.
"Right. Let's clean this mess up," I mutter, deciding the crew will have enough to deal with between all the blood and scrap metal that used to pass for cars.
Tank ignores me and we work in silence. Tony and Matt know better than to say shit when Tank's in one of his moods.
"Hey, man, you're bleeding," Matt remarks from where he's holding pressure on the makeshift tourniquet around his leg.
I look down at myself and sure enough, there's a huge red spot soaking through my jacket where the bullet grazed my left arm. "Just a graze," I say with a shrug, favoring my right side as I drag another body over to the edge of the dock.
The bastard who shot me, I realize. Look at that. Fate and shit. I drive the steel toe of my boot into his ribs and roll him into the water with a bigplunk.
The cleanup crew will be here in twenty minutes. The bodies will sink into the river by dawn. Carson's crew will be written off as casualties of the Southside war we're about to start.
And the one back home is just beginning.
Chapter 26
ELLIE
The water'swaytoo fucking hot, but I don't turn it down.
Steam fills the bathroom, turning everything into a hazy dream where maybe the last hour didn't happen. Where I didn't just let Jinx eat me out and mark my skin with his come like I'm a canvas for their twisted art while Cyrus fucked my mouth.
I lean my forehead against the tile, letting the spray pound against my shoulders, washing away the physical evidence even as the memory burns itself deeper into my brain.
My lips still feel swollen.
My thighs are still shaking.
And I'm still reeling from just how much I liked it.
The soap smells like vanilla—my own, from the duffel I hastily packed—and I lather it between my hands, scrubbing at the dried come on my back. Jinx painted his name there with it. I felt him do it, those light strokes across my spine while Cyrus watched with something that was definitely either approval or jealousy.
Hard to tell with him.
Good boy.
The phrase loops in my head, Cyrus's voice wrapped around those two words in a way that made Jinx shudder and come like someone flipped a switch. I replay the moment, trying to understand the dynamic I stumbled into. The way Jinx melted at the praise. The way Cyrus commanded him with zero hesitation, like it was routine. Natural.
Like they've done this before. A lot.
My fingers find my clit almost automatically, the touch sending sparks through my oversensitive nerves. I'm still turned on. Still wet despite two orgasms that should have left me satisfied. The image of them together—Jinx on his knees while Cyrus fucks his throat the way he just fucked mine—makes the pressure build all over again.
I wonder if they knowIknow.
