“I’m not saying I don’t get it,” she says softly. “I can’t imagine how many people that stuff would’ve killed, but you’re not some vigilante, Carrson. You’re part of a system that created the problem in the first place.”
I bristle. My hand shoots out, my finger jabbing toward the half-dissolved pile of cocaine. “The drugs would be here with or without me. They’re in every city, every school, every goddamn suburb. I didn’t create this. I’m just trying to manage the fallout.”
Her scowl cuts sharper than any blade. “While making a fortune for you and your Fathers?Please, don’t dress it up like you’re some martyr.”
She lifts her chin and holds my gaze.
Fearless.
This woman is stupidly, recklessly fearless.
“This isn’t normal,” she goes on. “None of it. Not the drugs. Not the violence. Not the way The Order treats women. I know you’ve never lived outside of this world, but I have and let me enlighten you, it’s not better in here.”
“Really?” I scoff. “Tell me, Laurel. You ever get dizzy up there? Living on your high horse?”
“No,” she fires back, her face red. “I get dizzy from your massive ego sucking all the oxygen out of the room, you pompous asshole.”
I step forward, my jaw clenched. “Spare me the judgment. You’ve been here five minutes, and you think you understand the rules? The consequences? You live in black and white because you’ve never had tobleedfor anything.”
“Ihavebled,” she snaps. “You don’t get to measure suffering by how many bodies you put in the ground.”
“You think you’d do better?” My fists clench. “That if it were your hand on the blade, you’d stay clean?”
“I’d try,” she breathes. Her voice cracks, but she stands tall. “I wouldn’t forget who I am.”
“What if who you are isn’tenough?” I growl. “What if the only way to survive is to become the thing youhate?”
“Maybe survival isn’t the point,” she argues. “Maybe the point is staying human.”
We’re squared off, eyes locked, like we’re two seconds from a knockout punch.
“Glad to finally know where you stand,” I bite out. This is another rejection from her. First, she won’t let me kiss her. Now this. My hand shoots up, my finger in her face and accusation thick in my voice. “Just admit it. You think you’re better than me.”
“No,” she says, and surprises me by stepping back. She closes her eyes. Breathes. When they open again, her voice is softer, calmer. “I think I’ve been lucky. I got to believe the world was safe for longer than you did. That doesn’t make me naïve, and it doesn’t make you right.”
She fixes me with a look. “What happened to the men selling this poison? Where are they now?”
“Dead. I killed them.” I don’t hesitate. “And I don’t feel bad about it.”
Something flickers in her gaze, something that almost looks like pity. “That’s what scares me the most,” she whispers. “Your lack of regret.”
“The world is a hard place,” I snap. “Full of monsters like me. You can bury your head in the sand, pretend you’re above it, but this is reality. I don’t run from it. I don’t hide.”
She’s quiet for a moment, then says it so softly I almost miss it.
“You’re wrong, Carrson.” Her voice isn’t angry anymore. It’s sad. “You’re not a monster, but you were raised in a house full of them and you’re not trying hard enough to be something else.”
I grit my teeth. “I don’t want to be anyone else but me.” That’s the truth. I’ve whispered that through bloody lips, gritted it between broken ribs. I’ve survived my father’s beatings, his indoctrination. The mold he has tried to force me into, a perfect replica of himself.
I don’t want to be him. Ihatehim.
But I can’t be the man Laurel wants either.
I’ve seen the truth behind the curtain, how power is built on brutality and fear. If I don’t play the devil, someone worse will.
Then who protects the weak?
Who protects the people I care about?
