Chapter 43
ELLIE
SIX MONTHS LATER
Six months. It’s been six months since Aria’s blood stained the marble of her throne room, and the scar on my stomach is a pale, silver whisper, a reminder that I survived.
I sit at the vanity in the master bedroom of our new house, a place with too many windows and not enough shadows, carefully drawing a sharp wing of eyeliner. My hand is steady. It’s a skill I’ve had to relearn, this simple, domestic act. For months, it trembled uncontrollably.
The door clicks open, and Landon leans against the frame, arms crossed over his chest, a lazy grin on his face. He’s wearing dark jeans and a simple black T-shirt that does nothing to hide the lean muscle beneath.
“Trying to achieve sainthood with that halo of light around your head, or are you just getting ready to smite some sinners in a courtroom?” he asks, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through the floorboards.
I meet his gaze in the mirror, a smile touching my lips. “Both. Now, don’t come any closer. You know the rules. No touching the face until the masterpiece is complete.”
He pushes off the doorframe and saunters toward me, his grin widening. “A masterpiece, huh? I’d say you’re a work of art right now, especially when you’re flustered.” He leans down, his breath warm against my ear. “But I think I can improve upon the canvas.”
“Landon,” I warn, but there’s no heat in it. I set my eyeliner pen down with a deliberate click. “I’m serious. We have to be at the courthouse in an hour.”
“Plenty of time,” he murmurs, his hands finding my waist. He spins my chair to face him, dropping to his knees so we’re eye level.
His gaze is intense, a fire that has always been able to burn away every other thought in my head.
“Let me mess you up a little first. Just a little. So you remember who you belong to when you’re in there, playing the hero for a bunch of suits. ”
I should argue. I should push him away and finish my makeup. But I don’t. I can’t. Because this fire between us, this desperate, consuming need, is what kept me alive. It’s what keeps me breathing now.
I nod, my consent a silent, breathy thing.
His mouth is on mine, claiming and fierce.
His hands are everywhere, tangling in my hair—ruining the perfect waves—and sliding up my thighs, pushing the silk of my robe aside.
He lifts me effortlessly, my legs wrapping around his waist as he carries me to the bed, not even bothering to close the bedroom door.
He lays me down gently, his body covering mine, and the world outside this room—the courtroom, the trials, the past—all melts away into nothing but his touch, his name whispered against my skin, the sharp, delicious pleasure that borders on pain, the way he takes and takes until I’m utterly spent and remade in his image.
After, when we’re tangled in the sheets, my makeup a smudged, sweaty mess and my hair a disaster, I trace the lines of his chest. “I love you,” I say, the words feeling small and inadequate for the ocean of emotions inside me.
He kisses the top of my head. “Love you more, kitten.”
A glance at the clock on the nightstand sends a jolt of panic through me. “Shit, Landon! We’re going to be late!”
He just laughs, a deep, satisfied sound. “Worth it.”
I scramble out of bed, rushing back to the vanity. With practiced speed, I repair the damage, wiping away the smudges and reapplying my lipstick with a steady hand. As I blend my foundation, my mind drifts, the levity of the moment evaporating under the cold reality of the day.
This is the first of many trials. Dozens of mid-level Paragon members are being prosecuted, and my testimony is a key part of the prosecution’s strategy. The FBI calls it “dismantling the network.”
I call it hunting.
And then there’s Fischer. He’s been working with them, a ghost in their machine, feeding them every secret he ever kept for Aria.
He’s been more valuable than they ever imagined.
But it might not be enough. Agent Harding warned me that, even with his full cooperation, he could still face prison time, though she’s hoping his cooperation will influence the judge’s decision when it comes to sentencing.
The thought of him—my gentle, flawed brother—wasting away in a cell makes a cold, heavy stone settle in my gut.
He doesn’t deserve that. Not after everything.
I finish the last swipe of mascara and stand up, smoothing the lines of my severe black pantsuit. It’s a suit of armor.
In the mirror, I don’t see a victim. I don’t see a survivor.
I see a weapon, honed and ready.
They can think this is about justice. They can believe that these trials will heal the world, that they are reforming a broken system.
They are wrong. The Paragons of Prosperity, the rot that festered at the heart of it, doesn’t get to be reformed.
It doesn’t get a second chance. It gets to be excised, cut out, and burned until there is nothing left but ash.
This isn’t about justice. It’s about vengeance.
And I will devote the rest of my life to making sure they pay for their sins.
All of them.