Page 53 of Freedom’s Inferno

The words hit like a fist to the ribs. My stomach soured. How many times had I thought I understood her when I hadn’t had a fucking clue? Something in me splintered—shock, disbelief, rage—all folding in on itself. I sat back, heart pounding in my throat. My best friend… that fucking bastard had branded her.

“Jesus Christ,” I breathed, the words tasting like rust.

Lana didn’t flinch. “Don’t look at me like that,” she said, her voice breaking. “Don’t you dare look at me like I’m some broken thing. I’m not.”

“No,” I said, standing from the bed because sitting still was impossible. “You’re not broken. He was.”

My skin crawled, my pulse hammering so hard my chest might explode. The air in the room felt claustrophobic, my rage pressing in on me from all directions.

“Jesus Christ,” I muttered again, pacing a short line between the bed and the window.

My fists clenched at my sides, knuckles whitening, the bandage on my hand pulling tight against the skin. For the first time, I wished I could kill a dead man.

“Do you think your anger fixes anything?” she asked, shaking her head like she wanted to dislodge the moment. “You think glaring at me makes it less real?”

“I think I should’ve killed him myself,” I growled, the words sharper than I meant. They hung there, ugly and undeniable.

Lana’s eyes found mine again, cold and cutting. “Well, you don’t have to. I already took care of it.”

The silence that followed held no peace in it.

I ran a hand through my hair, trying to breathe past the fury sitting like a stone in my gut. “He carved his initial into you. Like you were property. You lived with that.”

“I survived it,” she snapped. “That’s what you’re missing, Charlie. I survived him, and I don’t need you to avenge me.”

Her defiance hit harder than a slap. That same fire in her that scared the hell out of me from the beginning.

“I’m not trying to avenge you,” I said, my voice dropping low. “I just can’t stand the thought that I called that bastard my friend.”

Something fleeting softened in her eyes. “He’s gone. We need to move on.”

My eyes moved over her.

Neither one of us could move on until we found the twenty million and ended this thing with Costa.

I didn’t know what scared me more: that we were both still prisoners to Richard’s ghost, or that all I wanted to do was reach for her. I stepped back, afraid of what I might do if I didn’t.

She met my stare without blinking, eyes bright with something fierce and unyielding, and I understood with sick clarity that nothing had managed to break her.

“You should get dressed,” I said. “We’ve got a lot of shit to figure out.”

She nodded once, the wall between us slamming up again.

I turned away first. The noises of the city filtered through the windows, honking horns, the echo of life carrying on somewhere far from this quiet room that had become like a cage.

My reflection in the glass stared back at me, hollow-eyed and grim.

We’d go to the bank, we’d open the safety deposit box, but I wasn’t sure if what we’d find would save us or bury us with Richard.

Chapter 23

Lana

Showering in the clawfoot tub was not my favorite. It may have been a statement piece, beautiful, ornate, a call back to 1920s elegance, but it was terribly impractical for a shower. With no shelves, I kept my shampoo and conditioner on the floor. I didn’t have a place to keep a razer. I hated it.

Still, the water ran hot and steady, loosening the ache from my tired muscles. I leaned my head back, closing my eyes as I soaked my hair under the spray as if it might wash away the memory of last night. The dream that had dragged me under, sharp and cruel as broken glass.

Richard’s voice had come alive in it, low and slurred with venom, reminding me I’d never be free from his memory. I woke with a scream caught in my throat, my heart hammering against my ribs, and for a long, breathless moment, I’d forgotten where I was. I’d forgotten he was gone, I had killed him. Richard had haunted me in my nightmares before, that wasn’t anything out of the ordinary.