Chapter 35
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Lettie
The kettle was just starting to whistle when I heard his bike.
Low rumble. Familiar now. The sound settled into my bones the way morning light did. Expected, inevitable... mine.
I didn’t move from the stove. Didn’t turn around when the back door opened. Cerberus lifted his massive head from where he was sprawled across the kitchen floor, ears forward, but he didn’t growl. Didn’t stand. Just watched Brock enter my house like he belonged there.
Because he did now.
That was the thing about claiming. About being claimed. The space shifted. Rearranged itself. Made room.
His hand found my waist before I heard his boots stop moving. Warm. Solid. The kind of touch that said mine without words. He pressed a kiss to the side of my neck, brief and almost absent, and I felt the weight of him behind me. Not pressing. Just there.
“Hey, baby.”
“Hey.” I reached for the kettle, pulling it off the burner before the whistle could scream. “You want tea?”
“Yeah.”
I grabbed two mugs from the cabinet. Chamomile for me. Something darker for him. A blend I’d been working on with valerian root and passionflower. Calming, but not sedating. He’d been wound tight lately. Everyone had.
Brock moved to the table and sat down heavily. The chair scraped as he exhaled.
I glanced over my shoulder.
He wasn’t looking at me. His elbows were on the table, hands clasped in front of him, gaze somewhere distant. Not cold. Not angry. Just thinking. The kind of quiet that came before something shifted. Before a storm rolled in or a decision got made.
I knew that look.
I’d spent my entire life reading silence.
Measuring tone. Watching posture for the shift that meant something was about to turn sharp.
My mother had taught me that. Not intentionally, but thoroughly.
You learned fast when survival depended on knowing which version of a person was walking into the room.
Brock wasn’t a threat.
But he was carrying something heavy.
I poured hot water over the tea bags and let them steep. Watched the color bleed out—pale gold for mine, deep amber for his. The scent rose with the steam. Floral. Earthy. Safe.
“Long day?” I asked.
“Yeah.” His voice was rough. Tired. “Church ran late.”
I brought the mugs to the table and set his in front of him. He wrapped both hands around it immediately, like he needed the warmth more than the drink.
I sat down across from him and cradled my own mug, waiting.
He’d talk when he was ready. That was another thing I’d learned. You didn’t push men like Brock. You gave them space and let them come to you.
Cerberus padded over and dropped his head on Brock’s thigh. Brock’s hand moved automatically to scratch behind his ears, and I watched the tension in his shoulders ease just slightly.
“Something came up,” Brock said finally.
I looked at him over the rim of my mug, waiting for him to continue.
“A woman died. Outside town.” He took a sip of tea, eyes still distant. “Henderson County. Darlene Kessler.”
The name hit me like a fist to the sternum.
I kept my face still. Kept my breathing even. But my pulse spiked so hard I felt it in my throat.
Darlene Kessler.
I knew that name.
Knew exactly what she’d done.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said carefully. My voice came out steady. Curious. Nothing more.
Brock nodded slowly. He wasn’t looking at me. Just stared into his tea like it held answers. “Ran a place called the Willow Bend Girls’ Home.”
I set my mug down and pressed my palms flat against the table to keep them from shaking.
“What kind of place?” I asked.
“A group home,” Brock said. “For foster girls. Vulnerable ones.” He paused and took another drink. “Supposed to be safe.”
The word hung between us. Safe. Like Darlene had ever offered anyone safety. Like she hadn’t been a predator wearing a savior’s mask.
“That’s good work,” I said. “Places like that matter.”
Brock’s eyes lifted to mine then. Just for a moment. Long enough for me to see he was measuring something. Testing the waters.
“Coeus said she died of a heart attack,” Brock continued. “But the symptoms don’t match.”
My hands were trembling. I wrapped them around my mug to hide it.
“That’s awful,” I said.
Brock nodded slowly. “Yeah. Except Darlene wasn’t what she seemed.”
I looked up at him. Met his eyes.
He was watching me now. Not suspicious. Not accusing. Just watching.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Coeus dug into her background. Found complaints. Allegations that got buried. Social workers who said the girls came back worse than when they went in.” His jaw tightened.
“She was selling them, Lettie. The vulnerable ones. The ones no one would miss. Funneling them to buyers under the guise of helping them.”
The room tilted.
I knew there was something wrong there. Knew the place wasn’t what it seemed, and Darlene had been hurting those girls. The discipline, the trauma. But I hadn’t known how bad it had been.
“That’s—” I started.
And then I said it.
The thing I shouldn’t have said.
The thing that gave me away.
“She deserved worse than oleander.”
Silence.
The kind that crashes. The kind that drowns.
I froze.
My mouth was still open. The words hung in the air between us like smoke. Visible. Undeniable.
Fuck.
I hadn’t said heart attack.
I’d said oleander.
Brock hadn’t mentioned oleander.
Slowly, so slowly it felt like moving through water, I turned my head to look at him.
He was still watching me.
No shock on his face. No anger. No horror.
Just knowing.
My heart slammed against my ribs. Once. Twice. So hard I thought it might crack bone.
He knew.
He’d known before he walked in here.
This wasn’t a conversation. It was a test.
And I’d just failed it.
Or passed it.
I didn’t know which.
“Lettie,” he said quietly.
I stood up fast. The chair scraped loud against the floor. Cerberus lifted his head, ears back, sensing the shift in the room.
“I need to—” I gestured vaguely toward the counter. Toward the stove. Toward anywhere that wasn’t this table. “The tea. I should—”
“Sit down, baby.”
It wasn’t a command. It wasn’t harsh. But it stopped me cold.
I looked at him.
He hadn’t moved. Hadn’t stood. Hadn’t reached for me. He just sat there with his hands around that mug, watching me with those dark, steady eyes that saw too fucking much.
“Please,” he added.
I sat.
My legs felt like water. My hands were shaking so badly I had to clasp them together in my lap to hide it.
Brock took another sip of tea. Slow. Deliberate. Like we had all the time in the world.
“You want to tell me about it?” he asked.
“About what?”
“Darlene.”
I swallowed hard. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yeah, you do.”
“Brock—”
“You knew how she died,” he said. Still calm. Still quiet. “You knew the method. You knew what she did. And you knew she deserved it.”
My throat closed up. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.
If he yelled, I could fight back. If he recoiled, I could harden myself. Build the walls. Lock the gates. Become the version of me that didn’t need anyone.
But he wasn’t doing either of those things.
He was just there.
Watching me. Waiting.
“I don’t—” I tried again.
“How many?” he asked.
The question hit like a slap.
“How many what?”
“How many people have you killed, Lettie?”
The words hung in the air. Stark. Undeniable.
I stared at him.
He stared back.
And I realized, with a clarity that felt like falling, that this was the moment. The one I’d been waiting for my entire life. The moment someone saw me. Really saw me. All of me. The gardens and the poisons. The healer and the killer. The woman who saved and the woman who destroyed.
I could have lied.
I could have denied it. Played innocent. Convinced him he was wrong.
But what was the point?
He already knew.
And if I lied now, I’d lose him anyway.
“I don’t keep count,” I said finally.
His expression didn’t change. “Ballpark.”
“Hundreds. Maybe more.” I paused.
He nodded slowly. But this time it wasn’t like I’d just told him the weather. His jaw tightened. His hands gripped the edge of the table. The casual acceptance fractured for just a moment, and I saw it. The weight of what I’d actually said. The scope of it. The sheer fucking scale of what I’d done.
“Hundreds,” he repeated quietly.
“Yes.”
“And you’re sure? Every time?”
I met his eyes. Held them. “I don’t make mistakes, Brock. I research. I watch. I confirm. Then I act.”
“With plants.”
“With plants.”
He leaned back in his chair, ran a hand through his hair, and exhaled long and slow. His fingers drummed against the table once. Twice. Three times.
I waited for it. The disgust. The rejection. The moment he’d stand up and walk out of my life forever.
Instead, he said, “You’re fucking terrifying, you know that?”
I blinked. “What?”
“Terrifying,” he repeated. A smile ghosted across his mouth. Not humor. Something darker. Something that looked a lot like pride. “And brilliant. And so goddamn dangerous I should probably be afraid of you.”
“But you’re not.”
“No.” He picked up his mug again, looked at it, then looked at me. “I’m not.”
I didn’t understand. Couldn’t process what was happening.
“Why?” I whispered.
“Why what?”
“Why aren’t you afraid? Why aren’t you leaving? Why are you—” I gestured helplessly at the table. At him. At the tea. “Why are you still here?”
He set the mug down and leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. He looked at me with an intensity that made my chest ache.
“Because I see you, Lettie,” he said. “All of you. The woman whose heart is so fucking big that she takes care of everyone around her. And the woman who poisons predators and doesn’t lose sleep over it.” He paused. “And I want both of them.”
My eyes burned. I blinked hard, refusing to let the tears fall.
“You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“Yeah, I do.”
“Brock—”
“You think I’m some kind of saint?” He laughed, low and rough.
“Baby, I’ve killed more people than you ever will.
I’ve done things that would make your vigilante justice look like mercy.
The difference is, I did it for the club.
For my brothers. For power and territory and all the shit that comes with this life.
” He reached across the table and took my hand.
“You did it for people who couldn’t fight back.
For kids who needed someone to care. That doesn’t make you a monster, Lettie. That makes you a fucking warrior.”
I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move.
He squeezed my hand. “I’m not leaving. I’m not judging. And I’m sure as hell not afraid of you.”
“You should be.”
“Probably.” He smiled. “But I’m not.”
I pulled my hand back and stood again. This time he didn’t stop me.
I walked to the counter. Grabbed the kettle. Poured more hot water even though I didn’t need it. I just needed something to do with my hands. Something to focus on that wasn’t the man sitting at my table telling me he accepted the darkest parts of me.
“What happens now?” I asked.
“What do you want to happen?”
“I don’t know.” I turned around, leaning against the counter. “Are you going to tell the club?”
He was quiet for a long moment. Too long.
“Coeus is already digging,” he said finally. His voice was careful. Measured. “He’s mapped hundreds of deaths across Texas. All abusers. All suspicious. He’s looking for patterns, connections, methods.” His eyes met mine. “He’s good at what he does, Lettie. Really fucking good.”
My stomach dropped.
“So you’re saying it doesn’t matter whether you tell them or not.”
“I’m saying the investigation’s already moving.” He stood up and walked toward me. Slow. Deliberate. “I can’t stop what’s in motion. But I can control how it plays out.”
“How?”
“By being the one who finds the answers first.” He stopped in front of me. Close enough that I could feel the heat from him. Smell leather and motor oil and something darker underneath. “By making sure when the truth comes out, it comes out the right way. On our terms. Not theirs.”
“There’s no right way for this to come out, Brock.”
“Maybe not.” His hand came up and cupped my jaw. “But there’s a way that keeps you breathing. And that’s the only way that matters to me.”
I searched his face. Looking for the lie. The angle. The moment he’d turn this into leverage.
There was none.
Just possession. Just certainty. Just a man who’d already decided I was worth burning the world for.
“They’ll want justice,” I whispered.
“They’ll want answers.” His thumb brushed across my cheekbone. “And when they get them, they’ll understand why you did what you did. Or they won’t. Either way, you’re mine, Lettie. And I protect what’s mine.”
“Even from your club?”
“Especially from my club.”
The weight of that settled between us. Heavy and dangerous, and absolutely insane.
“You can’t fight Zeus and the entire brotherhood for me.”
“Watch me.” His other hand came up to frame my face, holding me like I was something precious and breakable, even though we both knew I wasn’t.
“I’ll burn that clubhouse to the ground before I let anyone take you from me.
I’ll put bullets in every brother who tries. I don’t give a fuck what it costs.”
“You’re talking about war.”
“I’m talking about you.” His forehead pressed against mine. “And there’s nothing I won’t do to keep you.”
“I made you tea,” I said quietly.
He glanced at the table. At the mug I’d poured for him earlier, still sitting there, still steaming.
“Yeah,” he said. “You did.”
“You drank it.”
“I did.”
“Even though you knew.”
“Especially because I knew.”
I stared at him. “Why?”
“Because if it came from your hands,” he said, “I’d take it. Poison or not. Death or life. Doesn’t matter.” His thumb brushed across my cheekbone. “I’d take anything you gave me, baby, and I’d thank you for it.”
The tears came then. Hot and fast, and unstoppable.
He pulled me against his chest, wrapped his arms around me, and held me while I shook.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured into my hair. “I’ve got you, and I’m not letting go.”
I believed him.
For the first time in my life, I believed someone saw all of me and stayed anyway.
Not because they didn’t know better.
But because they did.
And they chose me anyway.