Dahlia sags against me. I can feel her breath, ragged and hot, and I want to pull her into the nearest room and fuck her until she remembers who she is. But I just hold her, knuckles white, eyes never leaving the spot where the Don vanished.
The Kings' men retreat, some dragging bodies, others already calling in the cleanup. The Pineridge boys slap each other on the back, lighting up cigarettes, telling stories like it’s a bar instead of a massacre site.
I pick up Dahlia, not gentle, not soft, and carry her out of the light.
She doesn’t resist.
We find a bench around the corner. I set her down, crouch in front of her, and let her cry.
“You did amazing, princess. You know he’s not done.”
She nods. “I know.”
I run my hand up her arm, over her wrist, thumb on her pulse.
“I won’t let him take you,” I say. “Not ever.”
She looks at me, lashes wet, and I see it: she believes me. She actually believes.
I sit next to her, shoulder to shoulder, hand tangled in her hair.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
She laughs, ugly and beautiful. “No.”
I nod. “Good.”
We sit there in the fluorescent dark, surrounded by the ghosts of everyone we just outlived.
We don’t talk. We don’t have to.
There’s nothing left to say except this: she’s mine and she picked her side.
The line has been drawn, the die cast, and now all that’s left is to play the ever-shifting game.
Chapter 19: Dahlia
Thebodiesjustliethere, all my father’s men. I don’t feel anything. My heart is numb to that life, the one of death and destruction.
I just hope my father lets this go. I’m not worth going to war over.
I sit with Bam at the far end, one hand clenched tight in his, the other pressed flat against my thigh to keep it from shaking. The entire floor smells like blood, but no security has come up. No cops either. Guess Papa paid them off.
Wonder how Colt and Issy are…
We are the only ones sitting. Julian paces the tile, dragging his boots in a line that’s already starting to wear a path. The Pineridge boys lean against the wall, arms folded, heads angled toward the delivery suite. None of us speak. The fluorescent lights buzz above, throwing hard-edged shadows that make everyone look pale and a little sick.
Ophelia’s some kind of warrior princess. Her screams aren’t the high, pretty kind. They’re gutter sounds, wet and tearing. I hear her curse in English, then in something in gibberish. Then it’s just a wordless howl.
Bam’s hand is warm around mine, the only steady thing in the world. He squeezes once, bone-deep, and I squeeze back. He hasn’t said a word in twenty minutes. He doesn’t need to. All his attention is on the door at the end of the hall, waiting for someone—anyone—to come out and tell us the baby was born safely.
No doctors have come up here to check on her… she’s doing this alone. Well, her and Caius. But mostly her.
I risk a glance at his face. He’s stone. Not the blank mask of my father or the sick delight of Julian, but a statue built to withstand every hurricane, every bomb. His eyes are steel and his jaw ticks with every fresh scream from the delivery room.
“Why are you so nervous?” I murmur, stroking his hand with my free one, allowing him to keep clutching one.
He keeps staring forward. “It’s not my thing.”
