Page 33
I’m driving with one hand on the wheel and the other braced low against the bench seat, eyes sweeping the dark road ahead for the gates I know are coming. They’ll be impossible to miss once we reach them—gold, oversized, built less for privacy than intimidation: Prince style.
It’s late. Too late for an unannounced visit to the Purple Palace, but that doesn’t slow me down. The road cuts through East End territory, long stretches of dark lots and shadowed mansions broken by the occasional porch light or passing headlights. No one in the truck has said much since we left the hospital, but silence doesn’t mean peace.
Arianette is wound tight between us, restless energy coming off her in waves. She’s staring out the windshield, jaw set, fingers twisting in the hem of DK’s hoodie pooled over her thighs.
DK sits on her other side, broad shoulders filling the cab, one hand clamped around her thigh like he’s anchoring both of them. He’s been quiet too, but not calm. I know the difference. He’s got something loaded behind his teeth. He just hasn’t fired it yet.
I glance over at him, and right on cue, he straightens and says, “Stop the car.”
“Now?” My instincts say to keep going, but DK holds rank over me now. So even though we’re in the middle of enemy territory, exposed and uninvited, I ease up on the gas.
“Now,” he confirms.
There’s enough command in his voice that I don’t argue again. I ease the truck onto the shoulder, the mud soft as we roll to a stop.
“What’s wrong?” Arianette asks, turning between us.
DK drags a hand through his hair, then shifts so he’s facing us both. The cab is tight with the three of us across the bench seat. His knees brush her thighs.
“I have something to say before this goes any further.”
His tone changes the air in the truck.
He reaches for Ari’s chin and tips it gently until she’s looking at him.
“I don’t know what you think you’re going to get out of Mateo,” he says, voice lower now, steadier, “but he’s a stubborn bastard. No one has gotten anything out of him except blood, bullshit, and,” his lip curls, “a couple of teeth.”
“I just want to try.” Her answer comes fast. Certain. “I need to know why he did this to us.”
A car passes on the road, headlights sweeping through the cab in a white flash. My hand goes straight for the gun under the seat, and for a second it lights DK’s face in sharp angles—the rings in his face, the tension in his jaw, the memento mori tattoo curling over his eyebrow like a warning. The scar on his throat is a reminder that he’s tasted death, just like we have, and there are few things scarier than a survivor who knows what’s waiting on the other side.
It passes, and the night stills around us. Slowly, I take my hand off the gun and focus back on DK.
“Timothy is your husband,” he says. “I’ll never minimize that.” The words surprise me enough that I glance at him again. “But right now,” he continues, “I’m your King.”
Ari doesn’t flinch.
“I need you to trust me. That means if you start panicking, or see something that messes with you, or a memory comes back, or anything feels even the slightest bit off—you tell Hunt or me. Immediately.” His thumb brushes once over her jaw. “And we’ll fix it.”
“I’m not freaking out,” she says, drawing in a steady breath. “And you can’t fix this. You’ve tried.”
There’s no cruelty in it, just truth. We’ve taken her to the woods she escaped from, back to the creek where she was found, and into West End to get hypnotized. Only a trickle of memories have returned, but not enough to end this once and for all. But even with all of that, I don’t like the idea of her being anywhere near that asshole.
“Then why give Mateo the time of day?” I ask, looking at her now. “We should kill him and be done with it.”
Her gaze shifts to me for a moment, then back to DK. One of her hands slides across the seat and rests lightly against my thigh.
Small touch.
Big effect.
“Now that I know Timothy’s going to survive,” she says quietly, “I want to help fix this mess.” She swallows, then keeps going. “A mess I somehow helped create.”
The confession lands like a weight in the cab.
“If I can’t make the memories come to me,” she says, voice sharpening, “then I’ll take my memories to the bastard who created them.”
No one speaks for a moment, but I can sense exactly what she’s after: Control. Something taken from her that she wants back with both hands. I don’t blame her for that. Hell, I respect it.
