I blink at her slowly, and something sharp twists in my chest. My brows pull together before I can stop them, heat rising under my skin, and suddenly I’m filled with anger.
“And why would I think that?”
The words leave my mouth before I can even think to stop them.
Her eyes go wide with shock, but I don’t stop. I yank my hands out of hers, jaw clenched tight.
“Why does it have to be my fault?”
“Lucas,” she breathes out, voice cracking. “Oh my God. Did you just talk? Did you just use your voice?”
She’s full-on sobbing now, hands trembling as she lifts them like she wants to cup my face. But I pull back immediately, fast and hard, and stand from the couch.
“Don’t you fucking touch me,” I sign harshly, anger spilling out in full force, knowing my voice won’t come out again—not now, not with her. “I am not and I will not blame myself for your ex-boyfriend’s son’s death.”
Her face falls apart. Completely crumbles.
“Lucas, stop this—”
“Oh, piss off,” I sign, slow and deliberate, making sure she sees every letter of it. “You, that dead boy, and his friends ruined my life.”
“No,” she cries, shaking her head between heavy sobs. “Lucas, please, just—”
“No.” My hands slice the air.“I’ve done enough listening.”
I yank my phone out of my pocket with shaking fingers. I need to leave. Now. I tap at the screen only to find it black. Of course it’s dead. Of course, everything falls apart today.
I groan low in my throat, grip tightening around the useless device, and shoot her a glare so cold it makes her flinch.
“I don’t care that he’s dead,”I sign slowly, deliberately, so she sees every word. So it burns. “If anything, I wish it had been worse. Slower. More painful.”
Her hand flies to her mouth again, like she couldn’t believe what I am saying to her.
“I’d do it again,”I add, venom sharp in every motion. “Over and over again, if I had the chance.”
My chest heaves, but I don’t cry. There are no tears left for this. For her, and clearly not for him.
I head for the door, anger boiling in my chest, my hands trembling as I reach for the handle. I’m ready to be done with this place, with her. Done with everything that always finds a way to pull me back into this hell.
But just as my fingers curl around the knob, the door swings open on its own.
My heart skips.
Standing there, blocking the exit like a goddamn nightmare, is a man I hoped I’d never see ever again.
He’s tall. Broad. Towering, even. His skin is a canvas of ink, every inch of him from his throat to his face, down to the stretch of abs peeking out beneath his open suit jacket, is covered in tattoos. There’s no shirt underneath, just bare muscle and art. A cigarette dangles lazily from his lips, smoke curling up into the air. He looks like someone who doesn’t just enjoy chaos, he thrives in it.
And that smirk on his face is the one I had wished to never see again after meeting him once in the past. This is the man my mother borrowed from. The man who owns the kind of debts that get paid in blood.
Oliver Carson.
Behind him, two other men stand—taller than him, somehow. Built like mountains, their faces hard, eyes scanning the room like they’re casing it.
My blood freezes, and for a second, I forget how to breathe.
“Hello, Lucas,” Oliver drawls, his voice slick and dark, like oil on water. That smirk widens, flashing teeth. “Mind if I join the family meeting?”
I swallow hard.
