“That day by my car … the day when I told you I was pregnant and you told me to text eighty-six if anything happened, I …” The confession lodges in my throat, so I clear away the boulder of emotion and forge ahead. “You asked me if I loved Dalton, and I told you no. Right after I said it, I had this thought … It came out of nowhere, and I didn’t know what to make of it.”
He nods, like he knows, like he understands how the memory of what could have been beautiful is now splattered in terror. “What was it?”
I lick a salty tear from my lip, determined to get this out. “Call me Viper, and I’ll leave with you right now.”
He struts over to me, nudging me inside and caging me against the wall. “I’m so fucking sorry. I wanted to, but it felt selfish. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want to burden you. You’d already given up so much for your siblings, and I didn’t know if you felt anything more for me. I thought for a second that I saw something … but even if you had, I knew that wasn’t the life you wanted. I couldn’t ask you to raise another man’s child.”
“The last thing you or Remy could ever be is a burden, Mercy. I offered because I wanted to. I wanted you both, but … okay.” He drops his forehead to mine, stroking my hair with a tenderness I’ve only ever known from him. “Then why fight this now?”
My palms rest against his chiseled pecs, and a hint of ink peeks out above his undone shirt buttons. Other than the picture he sent me of him and Remy in the pool, where he was primarily covered by my little guy, I haven’t seen his bare chest since we were young, a year or two post college. Because we were best friends, who met for dinner after work and watched movies and had drinks here or downtown. Maybe we both knew there was a fuzzy line between us, so boundaries like clothes and crowds were important to keep it solid.
I wish that weren’t the case. That we’d seized whatever this is when the world was brighter. When I was whole.
Sailing my hands over him in a way that skirts that fuzzy line entirely, I settle at the nape of his neck and lay out the agony of why there’s a mountain of rubble between us. “That’s the part that’s hard to explain. Every time Dalton accused me of having feelings for you, I felt guilty because maybe I did. So, I put distance between us. And when he insisted you had feelings for me, I felt guilty because I was pretty sure you didn’t, and that thought crushed me for reasons I couldn’t grasp.”
I force a swallow in my dry throat, struggling to finish. “That’s what really sparked his anger that night—that I insisted I needed you in my life. Of course, I know that’s not … He was deranged. But it’s like my scars are as much a tortured memento of what Dalton did as they are of my silence that day at the car with you.”
“That’s why you ran from me?” He whispers that on a shuddered breath, as if he can barely tolerate the memory of how I disappeared on him or stomach the reasons or see how, in my mind, he’s the best thing that ever happened to me, but a constant reminder of the worst.
He’s as shattered as I am.
Everything inside me wants to rescue him from that bloody floor. To apologize for bringing him there in the first place. To thank him for showing up for me, for loving my boy, for being my safe place. To beg for forgiveness and tell him how I’d do it all differently, given the chance. But I can barely save myself, so I do the only thing I can manage—feed him a little more truth.
“I didn’t want you to know, and … he’d already stolen you from me. There was no point in dragging you through the nightmare.”
“Except he didn’t.” His protest is low and lethal as he cups my face, his thumb sweeping over my cheekbone. “I’m right here, Merce. Fighting for you. For us. For Remy. Fight with me.”
Blowing out a frustrated breath, I realize my objections to his work and morals and the entanglement he caused me to have with this cabal are still raging, but have nothing to do with this. Because regardless of all of that, he’s the best man I’ve ever known.
“You’re worth fighting for, Ryker. I’ll always fight foryou.” My lips press to his, gentle and swift and longing for more, but I need to be honest about where I’m at. This throne comes with a crown of thorns. “I know it’s messed up, but the idea ofusis so entwined with Dalton that it hurts. Rational or not, the thought that all of it could’ve been avoided if we’d just spoken up makes me angry at both of us. I don’t know how to fight my way out of that.”
I slip out the door, and for the first time since I’ve been back—or maybe ever—he doesn’t make demands or promises or try to hold on.
He lets me go.
RYKER
Ajittery game-day energy pulsates through the penthouse. No words accompany it. Just a melody of blood, sweat, and thrill.
Theclick-clack-rattleof Maddox’s butterfly knife.
The crisp flutters and snaps of Cash’s card deck.
The jangle of the seven-sided dice in my palm.
A soulful rendition of “House of the Rising Sun,” Axel’s dress shoes tapping on the marble floor as he spins his luck on his Casino Tourbillon watch, and the brush and swoosh of Jax’s matches.
This is our goddamn Super Bowl.
The five of us are gathered in the family room, dressed in our all-black tuxes. Rena joins us virtually via a wall monitor, soaking in the music. Floor-to-ceiling windows flaunt the glowing New Orleans skyline—our backdrop before any important evening. A Picasso painting that my mother would have loved steals the show on the opposite wall, along with our black-and-white memories that didn’t go up in smoke.
And a silent accolade from her cloaks us all.
My father ruled with unforgiving fear. Under his regime, there were squelched deals, lies honored, backs stabbed, and memberships revoked for inexplicable reasons.
He was an asshole, but a successful one. Still, no matter the big business strides he managed, his days were numbered. Even his best friends didn’t shed a tear at his funeral. The line to behead him would have wound around the resort multiple times.
