“Jesus.” My voice comes out wrecked. “Logan?—“
“I'm fine.” He says it flat, the way that means he's not fine at all but doesn't want any pity.
I test my restraints. Zip ties, tight enough that my fingers are going numb. Legs free but useless. Ankle throbbing with every heartbeat. Twisted at best. Broken again at worst.
I can't run. I can barely stand.
“How long?” I ask.
“Few hours, maybe.” Logan shifts, winces. “They took my phone. Yours too. My gun.”
So much for that advantage.
I lean my head back against cold concrete, trying to steady my breathing. Think of a way out.
Somewhere above us, footsteps echo. Voices muffled. The building creaks and groans like a living thing.
“Kai.” Logan's voice drops. “Whatever happens?—“
“Don't.”
He keeps going. “I've been thinking. While you were out.” A pause. “We've had a good run, you know? Fifteen years of your family's bullshit, and I'm still here.”
Despite everything, I almost laugh. “That's supposed to make me feel better?”
“It's supposed to remind you that I chose this.” His jaw tightens. “So whatever happens, no regrets.”
I look at my best friend, beaten and bound because of my name, my blood, my goddamn legacy.
“I've been a shit friend.” The words scrape out of me, raw and graceless. “This past year. Longer. I got so caught up in the war with Victor, in proving I could build something without him, that I disappeared. You were right there. Backing me up. Never asking for anything. I just...”
“Kai.”
“Let me finish.” I swallow hard, throat tight. “You're my brother. Not by blood, thank God, because my blood is poison. By choice. I took that for granted. I took you for granted.”
The bulb flickers overhead, shadows dancing.
“You're a dramatic bastard, you know that?” His voice is rough, and when he looks at me, his eyes are glassy. “Save the eulogy for when we're actually dead.”
“Is that forgiveness?”
“It's a rain check.” The corner of his mouth twitches. “Buy me a beer when we get out of this. A nice one. None of that domestic shit.”
“Deal.”
The word hangs between us, fragile and fierce. A promise we don't know if we can keep.
Footsteps on the stairs. Several sets of heavy boots. We both go still.
Logan's spine straightens against the beam. My hands curl into fists behind my back, nails digging into palms.
The door opens. No matter what I told myself, nothing could have prepared me for this.
She descends like a queen entering her throne room. Cream coat, immaculate. Hair swept back without a strand out of place. Heels clicking against each metal step with the precision of a metronome.
Helena Hammond.
My mother.
