“We trusted you,” he says, soft now, his voice mournful. Like he’s heartbroken. “I gave you the privilege of running our betting ops, and what did you give me in return?”
A pause. A beat of silence.
“Laurel,” Sam breathes, “we need to go—”
“Lies.” The word cuts through the room like a blade. Carrson shakes his head, his lip curled with disgust. “You’re a traitor.”
He stands. He faces the other brothers and raises his voice to a roar.
“What do we do with a traitor?”
They answer like a chorus from Hell.
“Kill the bastard!”
“Take his money!”
“Throw him out!”
“Punish him!”
Their voices overlap, one feeding the next. Hungry. Righteous. Bloodthirsty.
Carrson listens calmly, presiding over the chaos like it belongs to him, and maybe it does. I barely recognize him like this—sharp-jawed, hard-eyed, utterly in control. He has the kind of presence that radiates power and dominance. That demands submission.
He’s been giving me the boy version of himself, I realize. The soft Carrson, warm in the morning, tender at night.
But this?
This is the man.
The king.
Except what he rules isn’t a kingdom, it’s a court of monsters, and he wears the crown like he was born and bred for it. Like he never intended to be anything else.
Carrson reaches behind his back and pulls a knife from his waistband. He lifts the blade into the light, turns it this way and that, like he’s admiring its wicked curve, its serrated edge.
Richardson whimpers. The sight of the knife alone is enough to undo him.
“Please,” he begs. “Please don’t. I can get the money back. I swear. Just p—put that away.”
Carrson doesn’t even blink. “I just sharpened it,” he says cheerfully. “Let’s see how I did.”
Sam grabs my arm again, harder this time. “Forget the notes, Laurel.Please.”
I brush her off, unable to look away.
I almost drop the apple when Carrson takes the blade and drags it across hisownforearm in a clean, deliberate slice. Blood wells instantly. Runs like rain. Drips to the floor with a steadyplop…plop…plop.
Carrson grins, a devil’s smile. He brings the blade to his mouth. Licks it.
“Delicious,” he says.
Just like that, I’m thrown back at the beginning. To the night we met, when he said that same word,delicious, as he licked Jackson’s blood off my fingers. I’d forgotten what he truly is, the predator that hides beneath that slow smile and Southern charm. I let myself get comfortable, lulled by his sweet gestures, his pretty lies, the way his body fits against mine, but now that spell breaks. I’m scared of him all over again.
He thrusts the knife toward Richardson. “Want some?” he asks, mocking. “Go on.Try it.”
Richardson turns away, gagging. A pitiful, mewling sound slips from his throat.
