Page 274 of Coal Hearts

I chuckled as realisation struck me like a fist.

Fuck.

I had to let Ward die.

Had to turn my back on everyone and everything.

Transform into who I’d always been.

Without any life raft to go back.

Stepping out of the guards’ imprisonment, I didn’t stop marching until I grabbed a chair opposite Victor and sat down. The guards trailed me, unsure what to do.

“You gonna let him get away with this, Vic? Shoot the cunt,” a guest shouted.

“Don’t!” Ily screamed.

“Do it.” Another guest.

But Victor didn’t say a word or order my execution, so I smiled and not only became an open book, I wrenched out every sin and secret and prepared to dump them on the plate in front of him.

“I’m not a cop.”

He nodded as if he expected me to say something like that. “Forgive me if I don’t believe you.”

“The things you heard. The whispers we shared...it was a method of control.”

“Again, I don’t believe you.”

“Okay then...I asked her to play along with me. I told her not to fight back, and I’d get her out of here. I told her I’d been sent to free your slaves by doing whatever was necessary.”

“That I believe.”

“I told her for me to achieve such things, I had to wait for backup to arrive and that meant having to pretend. I confessed that even while I ‘pretended’ to be abusive...I would enjoy it.”

His eyebrows quirked. “And she went along with it?”

“She did.” I resisted the urge to turn around and find her. “She gave me her consent. For all of it. Hence...it was never rape.”

“Interesting.” He toyed with a mini pastry. “If that’s true and you don’t give a damn about her...then this won’t bother you.” Snapping his fingers, he barked, “Roland. Grab Ily and bring her here.”

“Be my fucking pleasure.” Roland shoved the rest of whatever he was eating in his mouth, then wiped crumb-covered hands on his shorts. Leaving the throng of other cop-detesting guests—all of them lined up and salivating at the thought of my murder—he shot me a wicked grin, then shot down the steps to the grass.

His large belly jiggled beneath his maroon polo, and his khaki shorts strained over his ample backside as he snatched Ily around the elbow and hauled her to her feet.

Possession rose ugly inside me.

I wanted to rip his motherfucking hands off for touching what was mine.

But I stayed silent and stoic as he dragged her into motion.

Peter restrained himself from reacting, but I saw the look between them: the quick bolt of terror and powerlessness, support and commiseration.

Ily tripped as Roland cuffed her around the ear. “Walk properly, or I’ll make you crawl.”

Bracing herself, she figured out her feet and lurched up the deck in his grasp. Her bare, stunning skin looked sacrilegious beside him. The cuts I’d made—all hidden beneath plasters and bloody fingerprints marking her as mine—roared our history, all while another man dragged her around like she was his.

Shooting me a scowl full of hate, Roland stalked right to our table, kicked aside the two unoccupied chairs, and tossed Ily toward us.