What the fuck?
He’s twitchy, his fingers plucking at the seams of his own cut. He’s dipped deep into his own product, a man eroded by fearand chemicals. No wonder no one could’ve recognized him after stepping into the Steelwood clubhouse. It’s pathetic.
His gaze locks on me, and the confusion in his eyes sharpens into something else. Dread. Disbelief.
“You,” he breathes, the word trembling. “They confirmed it. The drive-by… You died. They confirmed it.” He takes a jerky step back, pointing a shaking finger. “You’re supposed to be dead. You shouldn’t be standing here. You shouldn’t be breathing.”
He talks to me like I’m an apparition, a vengeful spirit that’s clawed its way out of the grave just for him. And in a way, I am. Apparently, he didn’t get the update that I got brought back.
Then his eyes slide past me, landing on Trouble. The fear on his face curdles, transforming into pure, unadulterated rage. The twitching stops, replaced by a rigid, hateful tension.
“Now you,” he snarls, his voice gaining a shred of its old venom. “I know you’re alive. I should have put you in the ground myself. This is all your fault! You stole from me! You let those girls go! You ruined everything!”
He begins ranting about debts that need to be paid. Fear, which I could never imagine fitting inside this man, starts pouring out.
His focus is entirely on Trouble, his body coiling like a spring. I see his right shoulder dip, his hand starting to snake behind his back, toward the small of his spine.
The world slows down, freezing in place as my body moves on its own. I lunge forward, not as a man, but as a projectile. Not to protect Trouble, but to keep this bastard from taking another life.
His reign is over.
A gunshot explodes, impossibly loud in the enclosed space. The bullet doesn’t hit me. It tears through the space where my chest had been a split-second before, punching into the wallbehind me. I don’t feel the heat this time. I only feel the cold, clarifying fury.
I don’t tackle him. I don’t wrestle for the gun. My right hand, already scarred and swollen from the earlier fight, closes into a fist. I put my entire weight, every nightmare, every moment of panic, every single second I spent jumping at shadows, into the motion.
The punch connects with his jaw.
It’s a sound I’ll remember every time my eyes close. A wet, sickening crack of bone and cartilage. His head snaps to the side, a spray of spittle and blood arcing through the dusty air. He stumbles back, his eyes rolling white, the pistol clattering from his limp fingers.
He doesn’t go down. Not yet. He’s a fickle thing, but he’s got a solid footing.
Good.
This is the man who threatened my home. Who made me feel weak in my own skin. This is the man who threatened Penelope. The thought of his filthy, drug-addled gaze even glancing in her direction sends a fresh wave of incandescent rage through me.
This is the man who has haunted me.
And I’m angry. Angry at him for what he did. Angrier at myself for allowing the fear he planted to fester and grow for so long. Angry at the pathetic, disappointing creature he turned into.
Someone who is happy to let his brothers sacrifice themselves in order to take out a threat. Someone who doesn’t appreciate life doesn’t deserve to breathe air.
He’s dazed, a low moan escaping his broken mouth. I don’t give him the chance. I step in, my chest burning with the force of my next breath, a ragged, fire-filled gasp.
My left fist follows, a brutal hook to his ribs. I feel them give way, a series of pops and crunches under my knuckles. He doubles over, gagging before sinking to the concrete flood.
I grab a handful of his greasy hair, yanking his head up. His face is a mask of blood and shock. There’s no titan here. No king. Just a pathetic, broken man who should’ve been put down a long time ago.
My right hand draws back again. “This is for every decision you’ve made that has hurt one of mine.”
For Eliza getting twisted up in a debt her father owed to him. For Haven and Trouble getting caught up in an attempt to survive in this shit town. For Destiny and all those women he tried to sell off for profit. For Diesel and Ruby, trying to consume them in flames. For scaring the love of my life.
I drive my fist into his face again, my fingers aching in a way that isn’t painful, but with relief.
And above all, forme.
Blood, warm and slick, seeps between my fingers. I feel the gritty grind of shattered teeth against my knuckles. He collapses, a boneless heap on the polished concrete, finally still.
Reeling back to hit him again, just to make sure he’s dead, I feel a hand on my shoulder.
