CHAPTER SIXTEEN
LIAM
Despite the turbulent couple of days we’ve had, blissful chaos bustles about the kitchen. The whir of the mixer harmonizes with “Bad Moon Rising” by Creedence Clearwater Revival and sweet baby coos. Cinnamon, nutmeg, yeast, and banana waft in the air, and the room is aglow with a dusty shimmer of winter sunlight, but that isn’t the root of the warmth decimating the February chill.
Nah. That’s my fucking family.
Felicity is plastered to Wells’s chest in one of those infant slings, her teensy limbs flopping about as he supervises Ivy, who tangos between sink, oven, and fridge, baking up a slew of sugary, post-murder-cover-up, anti-stress treats. She’s been doting on Celeste since the morning after the attack. Ty has his feet kicked up on a second chair at the table, eating a sub sandwich for lunch, while I perch beside my girl at the island, soaking in the scene and the muted news coverage on the television.
I haven’t left Celeste’s side for the last sixty hours—not since I joined her in bed after my talk with Wells. She’s been sore physically, fragile emotionally, and her typical snarky and confident bravado has been replaced with a meek and sheepish facade. But she’s in there, fighting to break free through a series of small moments. She’s also been glued to the television.
The news regarding Scott Filmore missing broke yesterday, and speculation that his chopper went down in the Gulf of Mexico was released late last night. Celeste watches, but doesn’t say a word about it, so we’ve provided room for her to process. The questions will come in time.
“How did … how did you manage it? Who flew the helicopter?”
It seems the time is now.
“The newscaster just stated that Scott Filmore often flew himself,” Wells volleys before the rest of us can even open our mouths.
Celeste scoffs, her spine snapping ramrod straight. “I’m not in the mood to be fucked with. Who flew the helicopter?”
There’s my girl.
A smirk graces Wells’s mouth as he palms the baby’s head.“The first rule in erasing is that you don’t speak about the event, past, or people who have been erased. They cease to exist, and you assume the new reality.” He plants his stern Chief gaze on her, but there’s more compassion in it than she may recognize. He’s invested in her well-being, so when she sneers, he yields. “We’ll discuss it once, but then the only story discussed, even at home, has to be the one we concocted.”
It’s the way we live, the way we’ve always fucking operated. If you don’t become the new identity, assume that new reality, you fail. You reveal yourself, your past, or even incite validity for the version of truth others may have fabricated.
But this is different. This is eating away at my girl, so I slide her stool closer, wrap my arm around her waist, and lift her chin with my other hand. “Except with me. You can always talk to me, baby.”
“And me,” Ivy adds, side-eyeing her husband with a dare to admonish her.
A stern Ivanna is surely on the tip of his tongue, but he smothers it for, I’m assuming, Celeste’s sake. For now. He’ll undoubtedly have his way later, convincing Ivy of her insubordination.
“It isn’t healthy to keep it in. She was traumatized and needs a safe space,” Ty interjects between bites. “You can talk to me too, Lettie.”
Celeste casts a contrived smile at the three of us, but addresses Wells. “Rules are valuable. It’s how I approach things too. I appreciate the way you want to protect me, and I respect the way you run your home or … business. Whatever.”
Your home now too, baby girl.
Her eyes close on a cleansing inhale-exhale cycle. She’s working so hard to maintain the mask she’s typically so adept at constructing. “I just need answers.”
“The more you know, the more you have to hide,” he counters. “The only story I want in your brain is the one you remember, right up until you parted ways after dinner. That’s all anyone needs from you.”
And the mask fucking shatters. Her lip quivers. “I get it, but my brain won’t let go of the helicopter question, so please—”
“Someone else parachuted out of it,” I furnish, unable to stomach that anguish threaded through her plea. It’s the bare minimum, and surely, she already suspects that, but maybe she’ll feel like she’s somewhat informed.
Ivy ceases her mixing, stretching across the island to squeeze Celeste’s hand. “It’s best if we leave the rest alone, Lettie.”
“Fine,” she concedes with a disgruntled huff, right as Gage busts through the door from the garage.
“Your guys are ready, Graves—”
“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” Ivy hollers, pointing at him with her batter-covered wooden spoon. Faster than my Aprilia motorcycle. Compassion to contempt in under two-point-eight seconds. “How many times have I told you not to come in here covered in some degenerate’s bodily fluids?”
While Wells, Ty, and I all chuckle, Gage glances down at himself, and sure enough, his clothes and skin are splattered with blood.
“Oh fuck.” His bald head scrunches as he deliberates on how to slant this conundrum in his favor. “It’s chilly today, Ives, and I’m hungry. I smelled—”
“Don’t you butter me up and ask for a baked good.” She shakes her head, skin flushed with irritation. There’s no budging High Society once she makes up her mind. He even tried using Ives, an endearing nickname generally only slung by the Chief. No point. Her fury is unwavering. “You know the rules.”
Gage growls, “I’m not showering just so I can go back to interrogating.” His narrowed eyes float around the room for a savior. He won’t find one, simply because this is far more entertaining than what’s on the news, but he commandeers one all on his own. “You know”—he points to the gentleman seconds away from sinking his teeth into a sandwich—“Ty’s been calling Felicity F-bomb when you aren’t around.”
“Fuck, man,” Ty snarls, dropping his sub onto his plate as his whole frame slumps into the chair like Gage wielded a punch, in the same breath that Ivy’s head whips toward him with she-devil eyes.
“F-bomb? Seriously, Tytan?”
He throws his arms out wide in a defensive move. “It’s cute when you think about it, Freckles.”
That exchange affords Gage the split second he needs to rush in, snatch the loaf of banana bread, tuck it up tight, and dash for the door, cackling. “Suckers.”
“Gage Porter, I swear to God, if there is blood in my kitchen …” Ivy bellows.
My eyes drift to my girl, who is indisputably nonplussed by either the state of Gage’s gore-smattered attire or Ivy’s modest approval of it—not permitting him in the house isn’t the same as shock or condemnation for how he got that way. There’s amusement blossoming on Celeste’s face too though.
Good. She’ll need that.
She hasn’t fully adopted us as hers yet, or maybe she doesn’t comprehend that we’ve already embraced her as ours. I haven’t pushed it beyond my telling her there’s no going back the other night. She needs time to heal, but she must see it. They wouldn’t be exposing her to all of this if I hadn’t given Wells the green light or if any of us intended to let her go. They wouldn’t even be this free with Natasha, who has retreated to her room for the day after the night shift with Felicity. We’ll nudge Celeste into acceptance of where she belongs soon enough though. I have other pressing matters to tackle today.
I let my lips graze against the shell of her ear as my fingers weave into her hair, other palm skimming over her lower back, reveling in the shivers that ripple up her spine. Christ, I just want to breathe in her wildflower and honeysuckle and forget the rest of the world.
My cock jumps. Not now.
“Looks like you’re getting a crash course in what it means to be part of this family of misfits, Ace.” I nibble her lobe, and her breath hitches as she arches into my touch. But there’s more to this crash course. “I have to go encourage some guys for answers.”
Guys. Plural. Because the stellar fucking enforcer that Gage is, he obtained not only the douchebag I’d sent him for, but also the cocksucker I saw with the douchebag in the restaurant that night. What we know so far is that they’re a transport team, receiving orders through an encrypted service on the dark web. Women seem to be their export of choice, shipping them off to monsters who do the unspeakable. These guys are the lifeblood of the vilest horrors of this world, allowing perverted demons to thrive in their dark corners. That repulses me in itself. But they bid on the wrong fucking job when they went for my girl.
“Okay.” Celeste’s brown eyes, russet like bourbon here in the wintery glimmer, coast over my face on a hard swallow as her tongue slinks out to lick her bottom lip. “How long will you be?”
That’s all the incentive I need to make it fast. She’s already inspired the tools to accomplish my afternoon session with both flare and speed.
As I glide my fingers further into her silky strands, our mouths collide for a parting kiss, my tongue lapping at the seam of her lips and sliding in to taste the awakening that is all mine for the taking. A moan sneaks out of her throat in response, leaving me aching to devour every one of her delicious noises. This fusion is far too brief and the first one in front of everyone, but she clutches my face and returns it with a possessive nip at the end, like a champ. Ace.
“I’ll make it quick,” I assure her, dusting my thumb over her plump bottom lip, avoiding the corner that’s still sore.
While I stride toward the door, Wells nods to me, Ivy beams with hearts dotting her shimmery blues, and Ty tamps down his delighted twinkle with a reassuring, “We’ve got her.”
Of course they do. That’s why this works. We need each other.
“What about my parents?” Celeste pushes out before I’m beyond the threshold.
I’ve been overseeing all her communication the last couple of days. Her phone is in my office, simply so she doesn’t answer it and accidentally share something she shouldn’t. Plus, she needed a damn break from them ramming their fucked-up idea of a future down her throat. But she can’t hide from them forever.
At my hesitation, she expounds, “My mother isn’t going to buy that I can’t make time totalk again, especially after this latest newsbreak.”
“Probably not.” I sigh, scratching at the stubble on my cheek. “But not until I get back.”
“I’ll manage that with Celeste,” Wells volunteers. It’s less commanding with a babbling infant fastened to his chest. “Concentrate on getting what we need.”
I kick my chin up to him with a, “Thanks, Chief,” and a wink at my girl before joining Gage in the garage.
He’s eaten half the damn loaf of banana bread, and now, he’s washing it down with a Gatorade.
“You look like shit, Big Guy,” I observe, slipping into my boots and opening the side door to trek into the back acreage.
He flashes a devilish grin as he abandons the sweet bread, chucks the empty sports drink, and shoulders past me. “I look like a goddamn beauty queen, considering I haven’t slept in three fucking days.”
“I told you to sleep-deprive them, not yourself.”
“How the hell do you think I kept them awake, by wishing it?” He smacks my bicep as we trudge past the opulence of the entertainment area. “Those two fuckers can sleep standing up, like damn horses.”
Sleep deprivation is a strong first step to retrieving answers if time permits. These guys appear to be skilled from what we can ascertain. Unless the circumstances are grim, they won’t be giving anything up, and I need a breakthrough, or I’m going to lose my damn mind. So, unfortunately for them, they’re getting the royal treatment.
On the other side of the pool house, we have a few golf carts, so I snag one of those. Our debriefing bunker is in the middle of our hundred sixty acres, obscured by vast evergreen trees and underground—not recommended in Louisiana because of the swampy soil, but we chanced it anyway. It certainly lends a moldy musk that irritates the lungs, which we’ve found useful.
“What method did you go with to keep them awake?” I ask as he hops into the cart.
“I sliced them every time they nodded off,” he replies with ease.
That explains the blood. I’d told him to chain them upright and keep them awake, but to leave their appendages intact until I was present. They’ve been chained for twenty-four hours, but hooded for twelve before that, which would’ve prevented any peaceful nodding off. Based on the time of capture, they’ve probably been awake for at least forty-eight taxing hours at this point, possibly closer to seventy-two since they were on the run.
“That’ll do it. Did they offer anything up yet?”
“Nope. They’re gonna make it fun, but I got you a present.” He waggles his brows at me, his beefy arm stretched out behind my back.
“I do like presents,” I murmur, careening down a slope toward our treed retreat.
The crispness in the air and the subtle warmth flourishing on the breeze snakes around me with an invigoration. I’m getting some goddamn answers.
We open the grass-covered door and tramp down the steps into the three-room cellar. It can serve as a safe room should we ever need it. Although it’s not our first pick with the stench of piss and death emanating from the cinder-block walls. We have a couple of plusher accommodations concealed within the confines of our house. But you can never have too many hiding places.
Our honored guests are chained against the damp wall beneath a flickering fluorescent bulb, wrists manacled above their heads and bodies stripped down to their skivvies—no need to stare at shriveled dicks unless we’re chopping them off. Maybe later. Gage must have woken them right before retrieving me because both have fresh blood trickling. One from his swollen left eye, the other from a severed nipple.
I saunter toward the supply cabinet without a proper greeting, rummaging through our tools to collect what I need. Starting my introductions off with a zing tends to break the ice. Gage strolls my way, surprising me with his gift. It even has a fucking bow.
“Is this what you’re looking for?”
“You bought me a new cattle prod, Big Guy?” I flash a megawatt grin at him. I told him my girl inspired our methods today, and even though he tends to conduct his debriefings with sanguinary techniques, he was excited and supportive. More than I realized. This is a nice one. “Love this rubber-grip handle and the oversize trigger. I’m touched.”
“Wouldn’t want your fingers to be cramped when you return to your lady,” he quips, collapsing into a chair with razzing jazz hands.
“Jackass.” I chuckle, finally bestowing my attentiveness on the scum I came to see. It’s then that I notice each is bruised in the same areas as Celeste, ribs and hips. Gage is always scrupulous and incisive with his retribution. “Fitting,” I commend him, poking my new toy into the first guy’s ribs. “Let’s see if Mischka dances.”
The aspect I like in a cattle prod is that a five-second zap can render the muscles incapacitated for up to fifteen minutes, but there’s no risk of losing consciousness. I’m starting light with a three-second discharge. We’re still in the getting-acquainted stage, preparation for the impending plunge.
Gage howls with a clap of his hands. “He’s got moves. What about Grischka?”
I smile back at him with respect for his receipt of my Octopussy movie reference. Can’t go wrong with a James Bond citation. Plus, I couldn’t be troubled to bother with these assholes’ names. There’s a slew of fuck off mutterings from our guests, but I ignore them.
“Think I can make him piss?”
“He’s been thoroughly dehydrated, so it’ll be tough,” Gage offers.
“Ahh.” I zap Grischka’s battered abdomen, admiring his Pinocchio-like rollick that ensues. “Dehydration sucks, guys. I’ll be sure to take care of that, but let’s get some answers first. Shall we?”
“You ain’t getting shit,” Mischka grumbles, but it’s devoid of the bite he’s going for. Lack of sleep, light, food, and water will do that. Not to mention the beating, lashing, and electrocution.
“Okay, boys, here’s how this is going to go,” I say, noting their labored breathing. “You’ve had days to prove how tough you are. Bravo, by the way. But as you heard Gage mention, I have a girl to return to—the woman you were stupid enough to fuck with. No one messes with what’s mine and gets away with it. So, we’re going to play a game to see which one of you cracks first. Waterboarding versus appendage severing. Preferences?”
“Fuck me,” hisses Grischka. That’s our squealer. “We’re transporters. We don’t know shit.”
Mischka grunts in irritation at his friend, so I zap him again with a three-second warning.
“Should’ve been the one to start sharing, motherfucker.”
Turning back to Grischka, I soften. “I think you know more than you realize. Let’s work together to figure it out. What do you transport?”
He hesitates, but the blood and sweat dripping down his pallid skin suggests he’ll think of something. “Sometimes guns. Mostly people.”
“People?” I ask, tapping the cattle prod on the concrete floor with a chink. Chink. Chink. “Sex trade?”
“No,” he protests. Even douchebags don’t want to be associated with human trafficking, but then he adds with a shifty furrow of his brow, “Not that we know.”
“Right. You’re just the transporters. Only responsible for delivery.” I empathize with his twisted fucking logic. Chink. Chink. Chink. “But you must know something about Scott Filmore—who he was working with, who you were delivering to, or the reason my girl was the target.”
His eyes dart around the room between his partner, the cattle prod, Gage, the supply cabinet, and back to me.
What’s it gonna be, asshole?
“Our job is to not know.”
I wag a disappointed finger at him as I mosey forward, digging in my pocket to retrieve the key to unlock his shackles. He releases an unwarranted sigh of relief once he’s free, so I set him straight.
“That was the wrong fucking answer.”
I’m sure the next few moves whiz past him in a blur. Gage knocks a table off the wall. It’s like an ironing board with restraints, slanted at about a twenty-degree incline. And that’s exactly where I toss Grischka’s limp body in less than a blink. Once he’s anchored down, I pull a cloth from my pocket and lay it over his screaming mouth. Gage hands me a pre-filled jug of water, and I pour, following through on my promise from moments ago. Celeste is fucking brilliant, so even though our typical methods are equally as effective and perhaps even faster, I find great satisfaction in incorporating part of my girl here.
Grischka gags, chokes, and sputters. It’s a continual sensation of drowning—lungs, windpipe, and stomach burning. If that isn’t enough, the darkness and the compulsion to vomit the torrent of bubbling lava are plenty to produce a self-preservation instinct. The key is not to kill him. Yet. His body convulses after about ten seconds, so I pause, allowing him to gulp several breaths. Then, I do it again.
But I also mentioned a competition of sorts, and I am a guy of my word. At least when it suits me. “Looks like you’re the proud winner of some severed fingers, Mischka.”
“We’ll start there,” Gage says, whipping out his pruning shears and directing them at the curled fingers bound above Mischka’s head. He stabs at them until the coiled fist opens involuntarily, wedging the clippers around them. “But only because I’m feeling generous. You already chose the snitch.”
My lips part to relay a smart-ass response, but Mischka wails, the screech ricocheting off the walls to devour the litany of croaks spewing from Grischka, whom I’m currently allowing to breathe. His eyes swing up to his partner’s fingers flopping to the ground. Four.
“That’s fucking low, Big Guy,” I yell over the monotonous blubbering. “Why don’t you just jump right to his dick, you goddamn cheater? Four fingers in one swipe.”
“It’s not cheating, dipshit,” he snarls, kicking the bloody digits aside. “You’re drowning your guy. You think cutting off a damn pinkie is equivalent to that? Not even Mischka would agree with that line of bullshit.” He backhands the fucker in his slashed and bloody chest. “Would ya?”
Mischka’s feet shuffle against the concrete, toes crooked, indistinct murmurs of expletives flowing through his grunts as Gage cauterizes his severed hand with a blowtorch to keep him from bleeding out too fast. There’s a lot of nerve endings in fingers and toes, but Mischka still has a jagged edge to his features.
I oscillate my gaze between the two cocksuckers. My money’s still on my guy. “Ready to cough up some of the answers you were paid to not know, Grischka, or would you prefer to choke on more water?”
His voice is froggy and strained, but he starts spilling all the same. “Probably a political promise.”
“Gotta give me more than that,” I say, dragging the rag across his face as my boot drums a taunting rap against the half-filled jug on the floor. “What kind of political promise?”
“I don’t … I don’t really …” His twitchy eyes sway back to his partner.
Ahh. Mischka knows more.
On the same wavelength as me, Gage yells, “On it,” as he squats on the floor and chops off the toes on Mischka’s right foot, following up immediately with the searing flame of the blowtorch.
Fucking hell. We need some earplugs or sound absorption in this godforsaken tomb. His screeches are grating. Not to mention the putrid whiff of burning flesh.
Jesus.
I waterboard Grischka for another ten seconds because I think he knows a little more, and my muscles itch from that incessant bleating.
Once both are wheezing for breath and drawing the conclusion that these are among their last minutes, I secure their attention with a two-second zap from the cattle prod.
“Listen up, motherfuckers,” I clip through a clenched jaw. “You will die here. You fucking deliver women to God knows who for God knows what, so don’t think I have an ounce of compassion for your sorry asses. And you picked the wrong fucking girl this time. But we can make this a weeklong endeavor, starve you so your body gnaws on itself, use drugs to keep you awake so you feel every goddamn excruciating twinge, or we can end it quickly. Your choice. Start fucking talking. What the hell is meant by a political promise?”
Mischka finally employs his mouth for something other than pussy sobs. “Higher politicians often use up-and-coming guys to bid their dirty work in exchange for support.”
Makes sense. The guys in power would own the rising puppets, assembling an army of indebted servants while also getting shit done.
But I need more. “Support in the way of money or position?”
“Both.” He spits foamy saliva, mixed with bile, and clears his throat. “Or blackmail.”
“Wasn’t blackmail,” Grischka offers, suddenly eager to have something to contribute again.
I tap him on the leg with the cattle prod without pressing the trigger, pleased when he jerks against the restraints. “How do you know?”
“We only spoke to him once,” Grischka heaves, terror swirling in his eyes. “I didn’t think too much about it, but he said the payoff was big.”
“He? Scott Filmore?” I ask for clarification. That fits. Everything I learned about that asshole showed he was eager to race to the top as fast as he could. When Grischka nods, I keep going. “Why does that mean it wasn’t blackmail?”
Mischka fields that one, the exhaustion and pain decidedly winning out as his body begins shuddering. “Blackmailed guys don’t see it as a payoff,” he supplies, but he’s holding back.
This isn’t about not wanting to give something up. It’s a simple instinct to prolong his life. When his information runs out, so do his numbered heartbeats. Gage snicks the shears open and closed in a metallic clink of warning until our guest relents.
“He said it was White House big.”
White House big.My mind spins. The only name not blurred is Oliver Jensen. You gotta love Ivy and her weird-ass hunches.
“What the fuck would someone that high up want with my girl?” I shout, punting the now-quarter-filled jug at the wall, the hollow pop and exploding roar echoing around us.
They don’t know. I see it as clear as day.
What the hell does Oliver Jensen want with Celeste? Or is it just any fucking Carver?
A vortex of the baffling connections swarm around me in a flurry—Easton and Pruitt Lancaster, Johnny Balzano, the Skulls. How the fuck does it all intersect with Frank’s company, Carver Homes? What the hell do they want?
“Graves,” Gage barks. “Keep going. They’re losing steam.”
They don’t know much more regarding Filmore. That much is apparent, but maybe there’s clarity to be found in the basics.
I’ve got one more line of questioning. “What were your orders that night?”
Mischka’s head is drooped, barely hanging on, so Grischka spits it out. “Typical pickup, drop-off. Filmore was supposed to entertain her for an hour, which was when she needed to let her security guards know everything was good—”
“How the fuck did you know that?” I snipe. Whoever’s behind this has been watching her or detailing Frank’s communication with her security team. Long enough to know her standard protocol.
“It was stated in the orders.” Grischka swallows thickly, his throat surely swollen and scratchy from the waterboarding. But the rage written on my face is probably the real culprit.
“Okay,” I grit out, resisting the urge to light him up with a jolt that will render him permanently immobile, “the hour passes, and then what?”
“He drugs her. We create a diversion, take her, and deliver.”
My fists clench with an untamable fury, the one gripped around the cattle prod blanching as I clang it against the cement.
Chink. Chink. Chink.
Fucking hell. I shouldn’t have left her there. Images of what they would have done to her assault my thoughts. But she defeated them. My fierce, wild-eyed girl was the bludgeoning they never saw coming. She beat them, and I’ll make every last one of them pay.
Moving on, I keep questioning while they’re still conscious. “Where were you expected to deliver her to?”
Grischka’s eyes are losing focus, but he answers, “The Lulu Truck Stop off Route 90.”
“That’s a seedy fucking place,” I say, realizing I skipped over one very important detail mentioned earlier—they sometimes deliver guns. And I know who the biggest underground arms dealer is. “Do you deliver there a lot?”
Mischka finally lifts his head, determination burning in his diabolical eyes. Ready to end this. “Only for our highest bidder.”
“You were taking her to the goddamn Skulls?” I bellow. “What do they want with her?”
Crickets from both. That’s all they’ve got. Fuck. It’s not enough. My gaze sails over to Gage, who confirms what I already know. They’re all dried up. We both whip out our pistols and shoot the drooling bastards in their pathetic faces.
As I’m clipping my gun back in my jeans, I try to work through it. “With all these politicians involved, maybe it stems from Celeste’s grandfather rather than Frank’s company.”
“Not sure how the Skulls would come into play, but Occam’s razor,” he says, unhooking Mischka so that he folds into a heap on the floor.
Occam’s razor is another way of saying keep it simple, stupid—the simplest explanation is usually the right one. No fucking idea how that applies here.
I loosen the restraints around Grischka, and we prepare for disposal. “Give me more than that, Big Guy. ’Cause I’m way past simple.”
He snags a tarp from the supply chest, rolling it out on the concrete floor so we can cart the bodies to our incinerator. “Doesn’t really matter what they’re all looking for or whether it stems from Granddaddy Carver or Daddy Carver. Pruitt ran into her here. Filmore was hired to take her.”
“She was connected to Easton,” I supply, wondering if Ben’s crash is somehow tied to this, tied to whatever they want with her now. “She’s the link to anything Carver-related.”
He taps his nose, like an asshole, insinuating that I’m finally catching on. “She sure as fuck is. You called it early on. She’s the Carver princess, and if you want to take down the kingdom—”
“You steal the princess,” I finish. Or kill the goddamn prince.That’s where this started. “We still need to figure out what they’re after. They’d be taking her to trade for something. It isn’t retaliation, and it’s not money. Frank’s house being ransacked before they ever came for her means they’re searching for something.”
“Maybe she knows,” he muses.
I consider that, but I’ve questioned her a lot the last two days. She was vulnerable and off her game. If she was hiding something purposefully, I’d have seen it. Although my questions were primarily centered around her attack and her conversations with politicians. I need to be more direct about Easton and Ben. Maybe she has some ideas regarding that mysterious book we’ve heard about.
“Not consciously,” I contend.
“Either way, they come for our girl once you’ve claimed her, it’s war.”
I’d love to bask in the casual way Gage tagged Celeste as ours, but my gut wrenches with an intuitive realization that war is a distinct possibility. And war means loss. Which pisses me the hell off.
“They’ve already waged it as far as I’m concerned,” I tell him, wrapping up the scumbags hired to take my girl and ruminating on the fact that the Skulls have no idea who they’re fucking with.
Our anonymity is both a blessing and a curse at times, but it’s up to us to decide how we spin this. I’m not sure revealing ourselves is the best plan. Yet.
Coming for Frank, a high-level member of The Order, is ballsy. They’re clearly confident and after something they deem valuable enough to risk retaliation for it.
But coming after me and my family is fucking suicide. No one touches what’s mine.
I’ll make it damn clear that Celeste is an untouchable by annihilating the entire Skulls species. Until then, I’ll start by informing the Carvers. They need to understand who she belongs to. We’re building a new goddamn legacy.
She’s KORT royalty now.