He grinned, and for the first time I saw teeth—normal, white, slightly crooked, not a monster’s at all.
“You always have a choice,” he said, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
I tried to stand, legs rubbery. The poker slipped from my grasp and clattered on the tile, loud as a gunshot. He came around the counter, careful to keep the ruined pillow between us, and held out a hand. I hesitated, then took it. His grip was firm, dry, warm. Human.
He pulled me to my feet, steadying me when I almost pitched forward. My knees wobbled, but I didn’t let go.
“What now?” I asked.
“Now,” he said, “we wait for clean up.”
“And after that?”
He studied my face like he was looking for a hidden message in the freckles. “After that, you’re under our protection. Royal Bastards don’t let anybody fuck with their own.”
“Your own,” I repeated, the words raw in my mouth.
He nodded, then poured another bourbon, this time for me. I took it. My hands were still shaking, but not as badly.
He sat on the barstool, bare thighs gleaming with blood and sweat, and rolled his shoulders, working out a cramp. The light caught the tattoo on his left pec: a stylized wolf’s head, jaws open, the word FIDELITAS inked beneath. I wondered what itwould feel like to be loyal to something with that much violence behind it.
The grandfather clock in the hall chimed the half hour, muffled by the splinters and the chaos. It sounded like a warning.
The wolf-man—Shivs, I reminded myself—looked around at the carnage with something like regret. “Sorry about the mess. Club’ll clean it. We’ve got a system.”
“What if there’s a next time?” I said, my voice smaller than I wanted.
He drained his glass and slammed it down, hard enough to chip the rim. “Next time, I’ll be ready.”
I believed him.
In the distance, a pair of headlights rolled up the drive, slow and unhurried, like they were early for a dinner party. I recognized the rumble of a Harley engine before I saw the bikes. A van followed them. Two figures dismounted the bikes, black jackets and helmets gleaming under the porch lights. A large man climbed out of the van.
“They’re not coming in armed,” Shivs said, reading my mind. “They’re family.”
I nodded, watching as the newcomers carried bags and toolboxes toward the door. One of them, shorter, lighter on his feet, turned to survey the treeline before following his partners inside. Paranoid, I thought. Or just smart.
Shivs watched them, but also watched me, as if waiting to see if I’d break or run or scream. But all I did was sip the bourbon and stare at the blood drying on my floor.
“You should get cleaned up,” he said. “No need to watch the gore.”
I almost laughed. “Compared to you?”
He shrugged. “Everybody’s got their thing.”
I glanced at the stairs, wondering if I could climb them without fainting. Shivs must’ve read my mind, because he offered his arm, bent and ready.
“Let’s go,” he said.
I took it.
Upstairs, the hallway was quiet, untouched by violence. The rug was soft underfoot. I caught sight of myself in a mirror: hair wild, skin streaked with drying blood, dress in tatters. I looked nothing like a CEO, or a princess, or a victim. I looked like someone who’d been through hell and was planning to send a bill for damages.
In the bathroom, I closed the door and ran water until the sink threatened to overflow. I washed my face, hands, arms, scrubbing until the skin stung. I brushed my teeth three times. I spat out pink foam, watched it swirl down the drain, and felt a sharp, bitter satisfaction.
When I went back out, Shivs was waiting in the hallway, dressed in one of my father’s old robes. The garment was too small for him, comical, but he wore it without irony.
“Better?” he asked.
