"No," I say, closing the folder.
"No?" Cohen pauses. "I thought you wanted to bury him."
"I do," I agree, leaning back in the leather chair. "But not quickly. If we cut him off now, he plays the victim. He cries to his mother’s friends. He spins a story about how I’m the asshole in this scenario." And I don’t tell Cohen how Blair wants to watch my son’s downfall. How she wants to help orchestrate it, and how filing a piece of paper with the court isn’t going to cut it.
Rough stubble scrapes against my palm as I run a hand over my jaw.
"He needs to have nothing left to catch him when he falls," I tell Cohen. "His reputation needs to be in tatters. His social standing incinerated. He needs to know, in his bones, that he did this to himself."
"And Thornton?"
"Thornton is circling," I say. "Let him think he sees blood in the water. When he lunges, I’ll take his head off, too."
"You’re playing a dangerous game, Gabe."
"I’m not playing."
“So you say.”
After that, the call ends.
The clock on the wall indicates the sun went down hours ago. Darkness tries to push in, but with Blair here, stringing lights everywhere and bringing happiness inside its walls, this house has never felt warmer.
Standing up, I adjust my cuffs. Violence simmers in my blood, looking for an outlet. Destroying Ryder on paper isn't enough. Taking something real is the only way to settle the itch under my skin. Putting my hands on the prize he was too stupid to keep will remind me why I’m burning my own heir to the ground.
Blair is standing in the Great Room.
The massive Christmas tree we decorated towers over her. She did what I told her. The dress fits her perfectly, the hemhitting just above her knees, the neckline plunging enough to tease. Dark waves of hair fall down her back.
She’s so goddamn beautiful, it hurts to look at her.
"Ready?" she asks, turning as I approach.
The scent of her—sweetness and trouble—hits me hard. My cock twitches and I don’t try to hide the way I adjust it. Her eyes drop to the motion and her lips part.
"Change of plans," I say, when I notice the slump to her shoulders. There’s been a lot of dark introduced into her world, and while she’s handling it, I can also see the toll it’s taking on her. I’m going to remove the burden of guilt from her in the best way I know how.
Her gaze snaps back up to mine and she tilts her head as she studies me. “Okay… what are we doing?”
"You’ll see." My hand extends toward her. "Come with me."
She doesn't ask where. She doesn't hesitate. Her hand slides into mine, her skin cool and soft against my palm.
I skip the Bentley tonight, wanting something faster. The Aston Martin purrs as we wind down the mountain roads, headlights cutting through the blackness of the pine forest. Speed is a necessity tonight. It’s the only time my brain shuts the fuck up.
Blair sits quietly in the passenger seat, but her gaze feels heavy on my profile. She’s studying me, trying to figure out what the hell I’m doing.
She’s not the only one. I’m trying to figure out what the fuck I’m doing, too.
Confusion ripples across her face when the car pulls up to the curb a few minutes later.
"Gabriel," she says, looking out the window. "This is a church."
St. Augustine of the Cascades looms above us, a gothic beast of stone and stained glass. The oldest building in Emerald Hills stands as a monument to old money and older guilt.
"I know what it is," I say, killing the engine.
"It’s Monday night," she says, checking her phone. "It’s closed."
