Despite his bound predicament, he doesn’t sacrifice his narcissism. He arches an imperious brow, still clinging to the idea of going to the grave as a victor.
Because all this man wants is for the world to center upon him. I actually feel bad for the little boy without a family; for the teenager who found a home, only to have it ripped away; for the young man leaving a shelter without a soul to call his own. But the monster in that chair, who wreaked havoc on so many innocent lives, isn’t worthy of that pity or that recognition.
Still, as a parting gift, I begin with the very words he craves. “You were right, Bryce.”
I stall there just long enough for him to be confused, but then I deliver the antidote to the monologue he served up in the courtroom. “We all have choices. And there are consequences for those decisions. My father made his when he falsely testified in your foster uncle’s murder case, much like your foster father did when he had my mother killed. You’re sitting in that chair because of yours. And that’s where you lose. Because part of winning is staying in the game. You made an epic move, but you backed yourself into a corner with no way out. All because you were under the impression that the final act of Ryker killing you or me being a part of it would destroy me, destroy us.”
Again, I take a breather. But in that breath, I am surrounded by love. Maddox, Cash, and Jax sharing cushions with me, extending brushes and nudges and hugs of support. Axel, who believes in me enough to not only trust me as part of his staff, but to also handle this and to be who Ryker needs. Which leads me to the man who has been my everything. The man I hope to be worthy of standing beside.
“The thing is,” I continue, “you were playing at being part of a family, Bryce, whereas I really am part of one. And that’s nothow we do things here. La Lune Noire doesn’t tolerate acts of violence.”
Ryker’s captivating blues flick to the camera, cognizance of where I’m headed finding him. There’s only one thing that could hurt Bryce more than being flayed open. Being nothing special.
“Is this personal, Ryker?”
The slightest hint of his dimple appears before he answers sternly, “Of course not. It’s business.”
And with that response, I know he sees it. That tonight, in counting room two, we aren’t merely avenging Emma, Hailey, the unknown girl, or even me.
We’re becoming.
I’m not a friend of the Noires. Or a victim. Or a survivor.
I’m Ryker’s goddamn queen.
And this is my fucking castle.
Bryce makes a valiant effort to remain unaffected, but it’s there in the slight slump of his shoulders. And I know it’s so much worse inside his head. That’s enough for me.
Using the very words Ryker told me he says to members when they end up where Bryce is, I seize my throne. “Exactly. Rules are fucking rules.”
On the final syllable, the man I’m proud to call mine lodges a bullet in the monster’s head and locks his gaze on to me. “That’s my Viper.”
RYKER
THREE MONTHS LATER
Hope is cognac and contracts and coming home. The gleeful second before you get the news. Good or bad, doesn’t matter. Because that’s what comes after. Nothing compares to the fleeting anticipation when you hold a world of possibilities.
Champagne and delusions.
Eleven years ago today, Mercy saved me. When people hear our story, they might be led to believe I’ve been saving her all these years. But it is undoubtedly the other way around.
She wouldn’t see it that way because her heroism was masked in the simple. It was shrouded in her boldly being who she was meant to be, refusing to accept defeat, and aspiring to the greatness she craved. And in that boldness, she single-handedly restored hope within me.
She had always been my glimmer of good, but I let her go, accepted my fate, and resigned to live out my ashes-and-lies penance. I was on top of the world and dying with every step.
The night of our French 75 birthday celebration, she revived me by trusting me to be her person and planting a dream I’d never dared to imagine.
Something about the picture she painted colored everything with the stunning shimmer of champagne. The sexual fantasies she suggested dripped with it, of course. But there was a rich comfort to the other elements that was equally alluring. The wraparound porch. The coming home after a long day. The kids running in the yard.
I had never yearned for those things. In fact, I had vehemently opposed the mere idea of them. But the vision of her there, aglow by the setting sun, blissfully content, was what made me realize I wanted her and any vision she was part of.
It still took me years to nurture it, to trust it, to fight for it. For a long while, it was the tattered delusion that many would have claimed was killing me. But even when I was terrified to make her mine, I knew she was my reason.
For every-goddamn-thing.
“Why do I have to be blindfolded if Remy doesn’t?” Mercy flaunts the cutest pouty lips from the front seat of our Lamborghini Urus.
