“Make the call,” he says, his eyes shifting to mine, checking in.
“Until then?” I ask.
RJ steps forward, an unfamiliar predatory cadence to his steps. “Until then, we make sure he understands what happens to someone who dares mess with any of us or our families.”
Trips nods along but stays watching me. “First blackout should be yours, if you want it.”
I feel the weight of my men’s eyes on me. I know they’ve heard what I did, but none of them have seen me torture or kill besides Trips. And I’m not sure I want to show them that side of myself to them, even as I’m growing to embrace the darkness that’s always lived deep in my bones.
Walker’s the one who pulls me to his chest, his voice soft. “I think I speak for us all when I say I love every bit of you, even the parts that scare you. If you need this, take it. If you don’t, don’t. No one here would ever change the way they feel about you, no matter what you choose.”
Relief washes through me, the safety of his embrace calming the last of my shuddering heart.
Then I step away to circle Bryce, his eyes challenging me instead of afraid.
I want him scared of me. I want him to feel about me the way I felt about him—like one wrong move would lead to consequences that he isn’t sure he can handle.
I’ll never gain his respect. But I can earn his fear.
“How well do you think sound carries here?” I ask as I carefully tug the T-shirt from his mouth.
“It’s pretty empty, so probably far,” Walker says, standing behind my shoulder, offering support.
I turn to Trips. “Bring him to the basement? I want to pick out a good playlist.”
He and RJ laugh as Bryce sputters. I find his voice less annoying now that I know what’s coming for him.
Me.
I’m coming for him.
And he won’t know what’s hit him until it’s too late.
Chapter 83
RJ
The soundtrack Clara picked out is perhaps a bit too on the nose, but I can’t blame her. This scum took so much from her; the least she’s owed is some fun music to rock out to while she coats her fists in his blood.
The playlist is heavy on the beat, the lyrics all about having a toxic, violent ex, and there’s a hint of a smile on her lips as she struts around him. Trips and I strung him up from the rafters, dangling so his feet barely touch the ground, and every time she lands a solid hit on his gut, he swings like a heavy bag.
But he hasn’t lost his tongue, as much as I wish we were at that point. He spits blood at Clara, and she stares at it on her pink T-shirt. Her grin grows wider. “Did you think that would bother me?” she asks him.
“You’re sick. Broken. I always knew that, but this just proves it,” he says, not holding back like he should.
She laughs. “You’re right. I am broken. Guess who helped break me?” She stabs a left fist into his dick, dancing like she’s at a house party while he screams.
I can’t help but laugh with her, Trips looking more gleeful than I’ve ever seen. Whatever happened to them, they’re different. More in control, but darker than I’d thought either of them could become. And I feel strangely okay letting my own darkness out with theirs.
Ever since my first growth spurt, it’s been easy for people to see my skin and assume I’m dangerous. Which just meant I was extra careful not to give in to the parts of myself that are furious at the hand I’ve been dealt. Like Clara, I folded those darker parts of myself into a tiny box, only letting a touch of it out in bouts, enough to let me win, but not enough to scare anyone. Locking myself in the van, just in case. Any crime we commit looks worse purely because of my involvement. I tried to be invisible, to pack away those pieces of myself that could help us when shit got dangerous.
Here, in an empty basement, with a bloody predator of the worst kind hanging like a ham from the ceiling, I realize it’s as safe for me to let loose as it is for Clara.
These people won’t judge me or fear me for letting the darkness bleed past my edges. And we’ve got a plan that shouldn’t point the cops at us. I mean, hell, Trips and Clara are embodying their shadow selves fully, and Walker’s sitting on the stairs, a little green, but with a twist of a grin on his lips as he shakes his head at them. He’s acting the same way he would if Jansen were trying to corral us into a game of strip Yahtzee instead of torturing a man.
Less than a man.
Jansen joins him on the stairs as Clara steps back, sweat coating her skin from the effort she’s put into serving him what he’s ordered. “I need a water break,” she announces.
