“Bail?” Atticus asks, all business.
“Denied,” Conrad says. “Judge called him a flight risk and a danger to potential witnesses. His passport’s pulled. His accounts are frozen. He’s not walking out of that building tonight. Or any night that matters.”
The last part is for me.
My knees go weak in a way that has nothing to do with fear. Atticus feels it first and pulls me closer, his arm a band at my waist. Storm’s hand spreads over my ribs like he’s holding the pieces in. Maverick’s fingers lace with mine where they hang at my side.
“Say it straight,” I manage, because I need them to tell me the truth, simply. “Is he done?”
Conrad doesn’t rush the answer. “He can still talk,” he says. “He can still make trouble for himself. Maybe for the people who enabled him. But as far as you go?” His voice drops to something rough and steady. “Yes. Phoenix, he’s done. He will never touch you again. He will never buy or sell anyone again.”
Something in my chest that has been clenched since the container finally…lets go.
I didn’t know I was crying until a tear hits the inside of Atticus’s wrist. He makes a soft sound and pretends not to notice. Maverick presses his mouth to my shoulder, a shaky kiss, like he’s blessing the news. Storm leans his weight into my side, solid and unmovable.
“What if he gets out,” I say, because the fear has been rehearsing that line for months.
“Then we’ll handle it,” Storm answers. “But that’s not the story today.”
“Today,” Conrad says, voice low at my ear, “you’re safe from him. Legally. Logistically. Completely. He can scream my name in court all he wants. He can drag the Masteron legacy through fire. He doesn’t get to hurt you ever again.”
A laugh bubbles up in my throat, wild and broken and a little vicious. I let it out.
“He’s going to hate that,” I say.
Conrad’s smile ghosts against my hair. “He already does.”
I watch the river move. People down there have no idea a monster just got locked in a different kind of box. Somewhere in a windowless room, the Broker is learning what it feels like when the doors close and someone else controls the locks.
I breathe in. Out. The air tastes different. Lighter. Like the city finally shifted its weight off my shoulders.
“Okay,” I say. “Then we start from here.”
“You’re smiling,” Atticus says, sounding pleased to catalog it.
“Dangerous,” Storm adds.
Maverick laughs against my skin. “God, I love it when she plots.”
Conrad brushes his mouth over my shoulder. “Our wild card.”
“Your queen,” I correct him gently.
“Our queen,” he amends, and none of them argue.
The city waits. The day waits. I don’t bother. I press my palm to the glass, leave a print that will fade, and feel four hands settle over mine, a promise layered over a promise.
Let them come. Let them try.
I broke out of a box meant to hold me. Now I rule the house, and I make the rules.
