As I read the shift in her words, I feel a sharp coldness open in my chest.Her handwriting grows unsteady and desperate as she writes about the night I knew in my gut was coming.
The night Denver tied her to the bed.
The Glasgow smile painted on Wolf’s face.
The devil’s bargain.
Vital pieces inside me break cleanly, audibly.I hear them snapping, falling away permanently.
The man who raised Wolf hurt him in the most unthinkable way.The betrayal.The damage.It’s a wonder Wolf can function at all.
Tears smudge everything, and I press a hand to my mouth, trying to keep quiet, but the sob crawls out anyway.
God, Wolf.
My throat closes.The room shrinks, and the air becomes unbreathable.I can’t look away from the page, even when the tears splash onto the ink.
Someone else cried on these pages, the dried splotches making some parts hard to decipher.Am I reading through Monty’s tears?Wolf’s?
Fucking hell, this hurts.
I keep going, the letters blurring, the ache in my chest insufferable.Wolf stirs but doesn’t wake, his breath warm against my thigh.I drag my fingers through his hair again, careful not to wake him.
He survived this.They all did.But now I understand what it cost.
Wolf made a deal with the devil to protect Frankie.Then she sacrificed herself to protect him and his brothers.She promised to give Denver anything, everything, if he never hurt his sons again.
My eyes burn, the pages swimming.
Jag triggered Wolf’s breakdown in the shower.Whatever happened between them was sexual.If Wolf has only ever known abuse, his reaction to Jag makes sense.
It breaks my fucking heart.
As I sit there, tears streaking down my cheeks, with Wolf’s head resting on my lap and his scars hidden beneath my fingertips, I realize the truth that Frankie didn’t write.
Sometimes survival isn’t proof of strength.
It’s proof of love.
If only I could apply that truth to my own past.
The private jet takes off, vibrating with the ominous, too-late sensation of a terrible decision.
I flex my good hand, keep my expression blank, and stare at the man sitting opposite me.
The courier of cartel favors.
Cole Hartman.
I recognize him instantly.
He doesn’t speak for the first thirty minutes.Instead, he studies me with hard brown eyes that undress, dismantle, and decide a man’s fate in a single heartbeat.
The good news?I’m still alive.
Unlike most cartel lieutenants, he doesn’t wear a suit.His mobster gear consists of a black leather jacket, boots that have seen desert sand, and a T-shirt that fails to hide the gun tucked along his ribs.
His posture says trained soldier.His glare says homicidal deserter.His smile says he’s not sure which one he’ll be today.
