Chapter 21
Ry
I drive my blade into his throat, twisting it viciously.
His eyes widen, a gurgling sound replacing his manic laughter as blood fountains from the wound, coating my hands, my face, my chest in crimson.
I twist the knife again, severing his windpipe completely, watching the light fade from his eyes as his body goes slack in Kai's grip.
"Drop him," I order, my voice sounding distant even to my own ears. "He's garbage."
Kai releases Camden's body, letting it crumple to the concrete floor like the worthless thing it is. I stare down at the corpse, at the blood pooling beneath it, at the vacant eyes still wide with shock. It doesn't feel like enough. Nothing would be enough for what he's done.
"Ry." Rev's voice cuts through my rage-filled haze. "Hudson needs help. Now."
I turn back to where Hudson lies, his breathing shallow, face ashen beneath his tan. Rev has fashioned a pressure bandage from his shirt, but blood is already soaking through it. Too much blood.
"The medical team is five minutes out," Kai says, checking his phone. "It's Dead Devil's Night—no emergency services running, but our people are close."
I kneel beside Hudson, taking his hand in my bloody one. His skin feels cold, clammy. His eyes flutter open at my touch, focusing on me with effort.
"You need to go," Rev says, his voice leaving no room for argument. "Head back to the apartment. It's not safe here."
"I'm not leaving him," I protest, gripping Hudson's hand tighter. "I'm not leaving any of you."
"Ry," Hudson whispers, his voice barely audible. "Go. Please."
"He's right," Rev insists, his hand on my shoulder. "We don't know who else Camden was working with, who else might be coming. Kai and I will stay with Hudson. The medical team knows what to do."
I shake my head, something primal and desperate clawing at my chest. "No. I can't—"
"You have to," Kai interrupts, his expression more serious than I've ever seen it.
He shrugs out of his leather jacket and drapes it over my shoulders, the familiar weight and scent of him momentarily grounding me.
His hands move to the pockets, and I feel the solid weight of metal as he slips a gun inside.
"Take this. Anyone gets in your way, you shoot first, ask questions never. "
"Take Hudson’s car," Rev adds, pressing the keys into my palm. "Go straight to the apartment. No stops, no detours. Don't go through the Lair. Use the parking garage entrance."
"They'll be watching the main entrances," Kai explains, his voice tight with urgency. "The garage is secure, and you can take the private elevator straight up."
I look between them, then down at Hudson. His eyes have closed again, his breathing growing more labored. The rational part of me knows they're right—splitting up is tactically sound, and someone needs to secure our home base. But leaving them feels like tearing off a limb.
"Five minutes," I say finally, my voice hard with determination. "If the medical team isn't here in five minutes, I'm coming back with reinforcements."
Rev nods, relief flickering across his battered face. "They'll be here. Now go."
I lean down, pressing my lips to Hudson's forehead. "Don't you dare die," I murmur against his skin. "I haven't finished making you pay for choking me out."
Then I kiss Rev, hard and desperate, before turning to Kai and doing the same. "Keep him alive," I order. "Keep each other alive."
"Always do," Kai says with a ghost of his usual smirk.
Then I stand, forcing myself to turn away from the three men who have become my whole world. My family. My everything.
"I love you," I say, not looking back as I walk away, knowing if I see their faces I won't be able to leave. "All of you."
I hear Kai's voice behind me, soft but carrying in the cavernous space: "Go, Ry. We'll be right behind you."
The drive back to the Lair is a blur of neon lights and deserted streets. Dead Devil's Night has driven most sensible people indoors, leaving the city to predators and prey. Usually, I'd be reveling in the controlled chaos of our creation. Tonight, I just feel hollow.
Camden's words echo in my head as I navigate the empty streets. Silas is the true devil. You have no idea what's coming.
It's impossible. There's no way he could have survived.
And yet...
My hands tighten on the steering wheel, Hudson's blood still drying under my fingernails. What if we were wrong? What if somehow, Silas survived? The thought sends ice through my veins.
I force the thoughts away, focusing on the road ahead. It doesn't matter. Either way, they've made a fatal mistake. They've hurt what's mine. They've threatened my family.
Hudson is fighting for his life because of me. Because I didn't see the danger in time, didn't protect what's mine. The thought of losing him sends a spike of pain through my chest so intense I nearly swerve off the road.
When did he become so essential? When did this gruff, infuriating man work his way past my defenses to stand alongside the twins in my heart?
I don't have an answer, but I know with bone-deep certainty that I can't lose him. Not now. Not when I've just realized how much he matters.
By the time I reach the Lair, rage has crystallized into something cold and deadly inside me.
And I will burn the world to ash before I let anyone take them from me.
I pull into the underground parking garage beneath the Lair, the security gate recognizing the car's transponder and lifting automatically. The garage is eerily quiet as I park close to the private elevator that will take me directly to the apartment.
As I step out of the car, a wave of exhaustion hits me so hard I have to lean against the hood for support. The adrenaline that's been keeping me going is finally wearing off, leaving me shaky and light-headed.
I force myself to stand upright, to walk to the elevator with my head high even though there's no one to see my moment of weakness. The twins would be here soon with Hudson. Our medical team is the best money can buy—they've patched us up from worse. He'll be fine. They'll all be fine.
The elevator ascends silently as I lean against the mirrored wall, avoiding my reflection. I don't need to see the blood, the exhaustion, the fear I know is written across my face.
The doors slide open with a soft ping, revealing the familiar darkness of our home. I step into the apartment, not bothering with the lights. I know this space like I know my own body—could navigate it blindfolded if necessary.
My mind churns with plans and contingencies as I move through the darkened living area.
We need to secure all properties, verify the loyalty of every member of our organization.
If Camden betrayed us, others might have too.
We need to find out how deep the corruption goes, who else might be working against us.
I'm halfway across the living room when a voice speaks from the darkness.
"Rough night?"
Every muscle in my body locks into place. The air vanishes from my lungs as though someone has punched me in the chest. That voice—impossible, familiar—reaches into my core and twists.
Time stops. The ground seems to vanish beneath my feet, leaving me floating in a void where nothing makes sense. I must be hallucinating from stress and exhaustion. He can't be here. He can't be alive.
My eyes strain against the darkness, finally making out a silhouette standing near the floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over the city. A tall, solid frame backlit by the ambient glow of the city lights.
"What's the matter?" the voice continues, a smile evident in its tone. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
I can't breathe. Can't move. Can't think past the roaring in my ears and the single, impossible thought circling my brain: He's here. He's alive.
My body feels disconnected, moving through molasses as the figure takes another step forward, still mostly shrouded in shadow.
"Did you miss me?"
The figure steps fully into the glow of the city lights streaming through the windows, and my breath catches in my throat.
Oliver—alive, unharmed, pristine in a perfectly tailored suit—stands before me.
Not floating face-down in the harbor, not riddled with bullets, but here in my apartment, looking at me with those familiar eyes that now hold something I never noticed before: cold calculation.
"Oliver?" I whisper, my voice betraying me with its tremor.
He smiles, that same boyish, eager smile that had made me trust him, and lifts a crystal tumbler filled with amber liquid to his lips.
I recognize the glass—part of a set we keep for our most expensive bourbon.
He takes a long, appreciative sip, savoring it as though we're at a casual social gathering rather than standing in the aftermath of betrayal and bloodshed.
"This is excellent," he comments, swirling the bourbon in his glass. "Your taste is impeccable, as always."
"You're dead," I manage. "I saw you get shot. You fell into the water."
He laughs, the sound nothing like the nervous chuckle I'd grown accustomed to. This laugh is confident, controlled—the laugh of someone who's exactly where they planned to be.
"A necessary performance," he says with a dismissive wave. "And quite convincing, apparently. The look on your face when I went into the water..." He makes a chef's kiss gesture with his free hand. "Perfection."
My mind races, trying to process this new reality. If Oliver is alive, if he staged his own death, then everything—absolutely everything—comes into question.
"Why?" I ask, buying time as I assess my options. I'm exhausted, covered in blood, emotionally drained. Not ideal conditions for a fight.
"Why?" he repeats, taking another leisurely sip of bourbon. "Because this is what I've been waiting for, Rylan. This night. This moment. Taking my rightful place."
"Your rightful place?" I echo, edging slightly to my left, positioning myself for a better angle.
"At the top," he says simply, gesturing to the apartment around us. "Where I belong."
"And where do I belong in this scenario?"
His eyes darken as they trail over me, lingering on the blood splattered across my skin. "With me, of course. Now that the twins are... disposed of… you belong to me."
Ice slides down my spine.
“Camden was quite enthusiastic about handling that particular task.
" He smiles, a predator's smile that transforms his face into something I barely recognize.
"By now, they should be cooling on a warehouse floor. Hudson too, I imagine, judging by that blood and how he isn’t hovering over you like a ghoul. "
Rage wars inside me, but I keep my expression neutral. If he thinks they are dead, I have an advantage. Let him underestimate what he's dealing with.
"You've been playing us this whole time," I say, putting the pieces together. "The sabotage at the club, the fires, the overdoses—that was you?"
He inclines his head in acknowledgment. "Not personally, of course. I have people for that. Or, Silas does."
Something about his demeanor, his confidence—it's all wrong. This isn't the nervous dancer seeking approval. This is someone else entirely.
"Why did you use the name Silas?" I ask, it’s now starting to click together in ways I don't want to believe.
His smile widens into something wicked as he raises the glass in a mock toast. "Well, that's because it's my real name," he says with a casual shrug. "Silas Oliver Holt.”