“Jesus Christ,” I mumble under my breath.
“I adore you,” Marley chimes in contrast.
“Right back at you, babe.” Sage blows Marley a kiss, then closes the door quietly, leaving us back to the hiss and hum of Queenie’s monitors.
I sink back into my chair, my thoughts taking a turn to darkness after the lighter conversation with Sage.
Marley seems to notice instantly as she reaches to take my hand. “Hey… where’d your mind go right now?”
I hesitate to tell her. But I have learned my lesson about keeping things from Marley.
“I saw him,” I say into the quiet. “At the fire.”
“Who?” Marley asks, clearly confused.
My lip curls as I have to fight the bile back rising in my throat. “Derek.”
Marley goes rigid against me.“What?”
“After I got Queenie out. I saw him in the shadows, watching. He was there, Marley. He set the fire.”
“Oh my God.” Her voice is barely a whisper. “Oh my God, Nitro, I…” She pulls away, and when I look at her, her face has gone pale. Guilt is written all over her features, stark and devastating.
“What?” Dread pools in my stomach.
“I called him…” The words tumble out fast, panicked. “That night after you told me about who you really are, after we fought. I was drunk and angry, and I called Derek. I told him everything. About you being Damon Blackwell, about the lies, all of it.” Tears stream down her face. “This is my fault. Queenie is in this bed because I—”
“No.” I cut her off, my voice firm despite the rasp. “This is onhim. Notyou.”
“But if I hadn’t told him…”
“He would’ve found another way to be a vindictive piece of shit.” I cup her face, making her look at me. “You didn’t know what he’d do with that information. You were hurt and needed to vent. That’s normal, Marley. What’snotnormal is burning down a retirement village full of older people because you’re a psychotic asshole.”
“People died,” she whispers. “Because of me.”
“Because of Derek.” I lean my forehead against hers. “You didn’t light the match. You didn’t set the fire.That bastard did.And I swear to God, we’re gonna prove it.”
She nods against me, but I see the guilt still eating at her. We sit like this for a long moment, forehead to forehead, breathing together.
A sharp knock interrupts us. The door swings open, and Ghost steps in, his laptop under one arm and his expression grim. “Turn on the TV,” he says without preamble. “Channel four.”
I fumble for the remote on the side table, my hands still shaking. The screen flickers to life, and my heart drops into my stomach.
My face fills the screen. Not Nitro the biker, but Damon Blackwell, the CEO.
It’s a professional photograph from some corporate event, me in a suit, clean-shaven, looking nothing like the man I am now.
But it’s unmistakably me.
The headline runs across the bottom.
BILLIONAIRE CEO EXPOSED AS OUTLAW BIKER
“… Sources confirm that Damon Blackwell, owner and CEO of Blackwell Entertainment Group, is actually a member of the Las Vegas Defiance Motorcycle Club, where he goes by the road name ‘Nitro,’” the reporter says, her voice dripping with manufactured scandal. “This shocking revelation comes on the heels of a devastating fire at Sunset Manor Retirement Village, which claimed the lives of multiple residents.”
The screen cuts to footage of the fire, flames pouring from windows, emergency vehicles everywhere.
My stomach turns, my breathing quickens as Marley’s hand tightens in mine.
