Tracing Scars (KORT #3)

CHAPTER ONE

TY

S anity is a fool’s delusion of freedom, a belief that being of sound mind equates to autonomy. When, in reality, sanity is a frayed wire—taut and tattered and strung too tight. We’re all creeping along it, hoping that when it severs, we’ll manage to hang on rather than nosediving to our demise. Or getting strangled by it, like a noose.

No? Maybe that’s just me.

Either way, correlation between these two fragile concepts is a pointless conquest because they are naturally at odds. Holding on is imperative to keeping our wits about us while breaking chains is our vision of deliverance.

There might be a middle ground, but I haven’t found it. I’m a prisoner to the grip of thinning threads, always wondering if I should just let go.

Sanity should be leather. Or concrete. Strong. Robust. Tough to break.

It probably is for some people .

Like that guy cracking a whip at the girl in the cage. He looks rock solid. And she seems pretty excited to be his captive. Imprisoned but liberated. It works.

Or her wire is as tattered as mine. Maybe his too. Anybody’s guess.

What one person touts as freedom, another wears as manacles.

To be clear, I’m in the voyeur hall. It’s not like I’m just watching. Well, it’s exactly like I’m watching.

But I’m supposed to be.

Breezing on past them, I work my way through Magie Noire, weaving in and out and around half-naked women with collars and garters and 1920s feathers, alongside drooling men, who are flaunting their salacious intentions with money and luxuries and overpriced scotch.

A taste of Prohibition. Like the black-and-white photographs lining the walls, commemorating a time period when everyone banded together, affronted by an absurd rule.

Something about that is appealing.

To say fuck it . And live. To jump all the way over the fence.

I’m always straddling that proverbial barrier—the one dividing good and evil or some shade of it.

It’s a wide stance. One foot planted firmly on the side that shoots to kill without a second thought. And the toes of the other dipping into the side trying to live by some fucked-up code of moral conduct.

What a twisted philosophy.

A cackle rips from my chest, drawing the attention of a small group to my left. Three ladies encircle a man in a suit. One is in fishnet stockings and a flapper dress, another sports a dominatrix getup, and the last dons a cherry wig. I kick up my chin to the guy in reverence before knocking back another Kraken Spiced Rum and Coke.

Gesturing to the bartender, I mouth Another , so he exchanges a full drink for my empty glass.

What I need is to smash the code-of-fucked-up-morals fence and celebrate the crumbling with someone straddling me . That’s the plan—grab some masked woman in here and let her mount me.

Backward.

No faces. No names. No talking.

That’s the only way.

Unfortunately, my phone trills in my pocket. I’m late. I’m never late.

But when the wire frays, it takes a bit longer to tightrope across it.

I stare at the screen. Wells. I knew it was him, but it still pisses me off because he’ll demand that I join him upstairs.

And I’m having a fucking moment.

“Yeah?” I answer in a clipped tone.

“Where are you?” His question holds more compassion than irritation, which only twists the dagger of my current depravity dilemma. I loathe disappointing him and making him worry.

I’m the reliable one. Always reliable.

Except for the time I wasn’t.

Times.

“The club.” No sense in lying. He’d find me anyway. Damn tracker in my neck. Not that I’d force him to resort to using it.

See? Reliable.

And usually upbeat.

Unless I’m spiraling.

Which I sure as hell am.

He sighs. It isn’t disapproval. He’d never begrudge me a little action. He’d probably encourage it since he’s aware it’s been ages. It’s failure. I can envision his face, the heavy features, the worry divot.

It compounds everything.

“Why don’t you come to the penthouse? We need to work through this. If you want to go back afterward, one of us will go with you.” There’s a long pause, but it’s one of those loaded respites. The kind I hear between sniper shots. Deafening silence awaiting a kill. “You shouldn’t be alone when you’re like this. ”

Like a bullet. Crack.

“I’m fine.” Lie.

His grinding teeth grate on my eardrum. “Ty, you’re not fine. And I’m not fucking dancing around this anymore. You’re spinning out. I’m coming to you.”

The sound of a door slamming crashes through the phone. He’s all revved up now.

“Take a breath, Chief.” I swig my drink, certain to let the ice clank nice and loud. I feel guilty. Yes. And I never enjoy being the cause of his stress. But I’m also enraged—another vile fence. “I’m not spinning out. It’s not like I’m about to stab some asshole over and over until I’m catatonic. I’m just retreating into my shit.”

At the same time a bouncer wrinkles his forehead and points to the exit sign—an act of mercy because I’d probably be hauled down to counting room two for that comment if they didn’t know me—Wells grunts.

“Your flippant use of that example is all I needed to hear to know where your head is at. Don’t talk to anyone. Meet me by the elevators.”

“Yes, sir,” I spout after ending the call. It’s the thought that counts. Right?

One too many Kraken and Cokes courses through my veins. Three too many.

Whatever.

I slip out into the hallway, dropping my empty glass on the tray of a cocktail server scurrying by, and saunter through a back route to the stairwell, jazz music still crooning in my head. The elevator Wells is meeting me at is two floors up because Magie Noire only has elevator access near their main entrance, providing the illusion of being an underground club in the other areas.

It straddles spaces too.

That thought has me chuckling to myself as I enter the designated floor, fully prepared to report to my post.

But an unmistakable blur of pink and gold swallows it, devouring everything—my breaths, that jazz melody, the tinny dings from the casino.

Another familiar war, fence, stone wall.

A fucking fortress.

She makes everything fuzzy, casting a haze between what is and what never can be.

Rena Noire—the one I’m not allowed to touch.

I should walk the other way, meet Wells.

But there’s always this urge to go toward her. It’s not a simple barrier between us; it’s a moat. Too wide to cross. I could take the smashed morality fence and build a bridge to her. That’s not a drunken idea. It’s nothing new.

Neither is the other thought I battle whenever she’s around, especially when she complains about the tight rein her brothers keep on her— I hope they keep her locked up because I’ll kill anyone who touches her.

Those are usually whispers in a heavy metal concert. Barely discernible. Because the rest of my thoughts are the deafening beat.

Hammering.

Banging.

Screaming.

Reminding me she’s off-limits.

Even more so now that her brothers have insisted that I keep my distance. Well, it wasn’t directed at me exactly. It was directed at my whole family. One and the same.

But right now, seeing her here alone, near the goddamn sex club, the whispers are the only noises I hear.

She spots me before I maneuver through the guests coming and going, and she freezes. Smiling tentatively. That’s an odd look for her. She’s the freest person I’ve ever known.

Deciding it must be guilt, I waste no time getting to my point, voicing it before I even reach her. “What the hell are you doing down here?”

She huffs an indignant laugh, her eyebrow piercing twisting as she scrunches her forehead—it makes the dainty diamond chain that connects to her nose piercing graze the apple of her cheek. “I live here. What the hell are you doing here, Reynolds?”

That’s unusual. She’s never called me by my last name. It feels impersonal. I don’t like it.

And while her residence is indeed in the penthouse of this New Orleans resort—La Lune Noire—with her five older brothers, it is most certainly not on this floor.

Stopping before her, I cross my arms over my chest; otherwise, I might reach out and string my fingers through her pink-and-blonde strands, styled in soft, flowy curls today. “You don’t live down here.”

All the patrons bustling about us disappear into the speakeasy relics, ceasing to exist until I get to the bottom of why she’s here.

Her mouth curves into an exaggerated pout. “Aww. Thanks. I’m great. It’s good to see you too.” She flits her hand around in front of me—my face and chest. Always so animated. “You’ve got a whole weird vibe going on right now. I’m not sure if I dig it yet. What’s with you?”

So many god-awful things. None of which I am willing to divulge to her.

“There’s no reason for you to be on this floor.” I might be feeling off, but that’s a valid point. Not only are we by the sex club, but we’re also lingering on the outskirts of the high-rollers casino floor—neither of which she should be wandering around. No way her brothers are okay with this.

Her lips fall open to answer, full and painted a shimmery pink—always pink—but her gaze lifts to the stairwell door I just emerged from, and her face pales. “Were you at Magie Noire?”

She appears stricken. Hurt. I should tell her I was and leave it at that. Leave her with an image of me that will turn her sour. She always looks at me like I’m … I don’t even know. Something. I could squash it right here. It’s what her brothers would want me to do.

But I can’t.

So, I tell her the truth. “I was having a drink. ”

She cackles, hands concealing her porcelain face in an incredulous accusation. “Right. Because the thirty-two other bars were sold out of Kraken and Coke.”

She knows my drink. I hate how that excites me. That, and the nipple piercings poking through her thin mauve corset-like top. Those are a little over a year old. I notice things too.

Things I have no fucking right to notice.

I shake my head and drag my hand down my face. My skin is hot. The alcohol must be catching up with me. “I needed a change of scenery. It doesn’t fucking matter. Why are you on this floor?”

“And why does that matter to you?” she volleys, poking my sternum with her black-and-pink manicured nail.

No touching.

Jesus, I want to cross that moat.

Haul her into that murky water with me and bathe in it.

Shit. I’m digging a hole here.

“Because your brothers wouldn’t want you wandering around here .” Truth.

Partially.

She scoffs. “Right. On behalf of my brothers, who control every damn facet of my life. The ones who don’t even want me near Ivy and Celeste or the rest of you because of some random attack.”

It wasn’t random. She could’ve been hurt. Killed.

And I wasn’t even there.

I couldn’t breathe.

Crunch. Squeak. Blood. One wrong choice.

Our life, the life I live with my unconventional family—my three best friends, who are more like brothers, and two of their wives, who are like sisters—is complicated. Dangerous. Because Wells and his wife, Ivy, are two of the five leaders for the country’s most powerful cabal, KORT. Liam and I are their seconds-in-command. And Gage is our enforcer. Dangerous is an understatement. It’s a till-death-do-us-part role.

So, her brothers aren’t wrong .

Knowing I need to reinforce that, I switch gears. “They’re strict because they love you. They want you to be safe.”

Her green-hazel eyes soften—today, they’re green. Sometimes, they have hints of blue or gray. Darker rims and flecks of golden brown. She glances away for a beat, cataloging the flurry of activity around us, before planting them back on me. “And what do you want, Ty?”

Christ. She says my name pretty. It has me envisioning how it might sound if she screamed it. What her face would look like when she …

Fuck me.

I shove my hands in my pockets and blow out a stilted breath. What the hell am I doing?

Unable to wait for me to get my bearings, she cups my cheek with her hand, pressing into my scruff with an alluring bristle, and my whole body goes stock-still. “What’s wrong? You’re not yourself.”

I’m more myself than ever. It’s just that very few people know this side of me. I’m always in hiding.

If I dropped my shield for half a second, I’d admit that this girl has had her claws in me for years. She slips into my dreams and awakens a part of me I try desperately to suffocate.

I want to hold her, protect her, spoil her.

Own her. Claim her.

Know which song she’s been listening to on repeat and what inspired each of her piercings.

She consumes me. Which makes this innocent Noire empress the most dangerous being in my world, regardless of what my family and I do.

She has the power to revive a beast, and she doesn’t even know it. If she did, she wouldn’t be caressing my cheek. She’d be running.

That’s why I don’t allow myself to think about her. Because despite my intrusive, battering, frenzied thoughts imploring me to give up on any high road because I’m too far gone, I’d like to be a man I can look at in the mirror .

Thirteen defeating years. Hasn’t happened yet.

I try. The shelter I manage for abuse victims through our erasing business. Ivy. Celeste. Felicity.

Maybe someday.

But not with Rena.

Sliding my hand over hers, I clutch her cold, slender, ring-clad fingers in mine, lowering them from my cheek. “Bad day, but I’m not getting into that with you, Little Moon. You need to—”

“Little Moon?” She smiles, flattens her other hand under her chin, and does some sort of quirky little curtsy. “Was that a slip of the tongue, or do I finally rank high enough to earn a nickname from the great Tytan Reynolds?”

Shit. I don’t know where that came from. She’s had a lot of nicknames in my head. That’s the one I always come back to. But I don’t speak them out loud. I never nickname people I can’t keep.

Wells is going to kill me. I’m late to meet him, drunk, and I’m fucking everything up with the littlest Noire.

And still holding her hand.

My thumb sweeps back and forth over her silky skin before I muster the strength to drop it. “You are the youngest heir to the La Lune Noire empire. I wouldn’t call it a slip of the tongue or a nickname. Just an obvious categorization.”

“Right.” She rolls those sparkling green gems. “Obvious, like how you were getting a drink at Magie Noire.”

How the fuck did we get back here? And why the hell do I feel so guilty?

I lean into her, enraged. She’s making this too hard. This is why I didn’t want to come here. Why I escaped my family and ventured into that club instead of heading up to the penthouse. Because I didn’t want to see her. Couldn’t bear to see her.

Keeping my voice stern and my features harder than I traditionally would with her, I lay it out. “Where I was is not important. Where you’re going is. Your brothers are wise to not want you around me. Remember that, Rena.” Unable to stop myself, I skim my knuckles over her velvety cheek, relishing the way her breath hitches, her cleavage rises, and her eyes dance all over my face while I extend the rest of my warning. “And if you don’t want me reporting back to them, you’ll get your ass upstairs.”

Regaining herself, she scoffs, her palms sailing over my chest—a brush that radiates through every fiber of my being, zinging straight to my cock. “You’re being a total dick. But that’s nothing new for me. Ryker Noire helped raise me. With the exception of maybe Gage, there is no one who does grumpy intimidation better. I’m not sure what the hell is going on with you, but it’ll take a whole lot more than that to scare me.”

With that, she ducks away from me and struts down the corridor. In the opposite direction of the North Tower penthouse.

So, I tromp after her, avoiding a throng of blathering ladies, adorned in Mardi Gras beads and diamonds in equal measure. “Where the hell are you going?”

She whips around, face beaming like a damn supermoon. “You tell me I should stay away, but you suck at keeping your distance from me.” Shrugging one shoulder, she flutters her lashes. “But whatever. If you need me to spill the tea about my day, that I can do. I had to drop something off in the high-rollers room for Axel—highly confidential. I hung out for a few minutes with the manager and the guest concierge—silver foxes in their fifties and sixties who treat me like a granddaughter . We gossiped mercilessly about the guests and the recently widowed head of housekeeping.”

Lowering her voice, she cups a hand around her lips. “She’s just itching to be made into a modern woman. A whole tube of K-Y Jelly will be in order, for sure. If you know what I mean.” She winks and drops her hand to her hip. “And now, I’m meeting Jax in the South Tower. It’s all quite scandalous, don’t you think?”

Fucking adorable. And kind of crazy.

I’m such a moron. For engaging with her, chasing her down, forgetting that this hallway leads to the South Tower elevator too.

And touching her. I should not have touched her .

“Fine,” I say in my most stoic delivery. “As long as you’re safe.”

She laughs and flaps her hand. “I don’t need you to keep me safe, Ty. I’m a twenty-three-year-old princess, locked in a bell tower. No safer place for the Little Moon .” She sings her accidental nickname with an eccentric shoulder shimmy.

So damn cute.

It takes every ounce of self-discipline I have, but I nod and turn the other way, only to hear her call out, “I think we’re both on the cusp of a Janis Joplin moment. I can freaking feel it.”

No idea what the fuck that means, but I don’t dare look back.

Little Moon.

Jesus Christ.

I pick up my speed, rounding the corner into a semi-crowded lobby. It’s classy and quaint here—only exclusive patrons are permitted in this reception area. It’s got a whole sin-and-secrets, bootleggers-lounge vibe. Dimly lit. Dark decor with lavish chandeliers and gold-plated touches. Hushed conversations and upscale debauchery.

Wealthy and wicked.

My family meshes perfectly with the whole scene.

It nearly lifts my spirits to imagine myself as merely another visitor until I feel a death grip seize my neck. That has me cussing under my breath, but Wells is unfazed.

“I swear to fuck, Ty. You do not go AWOL on me. Understand? I’ve been searching all over the goddamn place for you.”

The chip isn’t that precise. I forgot. I could hide out here for days. Tempting.

I don’t need to look at his face to see the glare that’s marring it. I’m familiar. Only it’s rarely me who causes it. I choose silence. It’s a solid approach, especially since that little episode with Rena tells me I’m drunker than I thought.

He continues herding me toward the North Tower penthouse elevator. Bernard, one of the concierges for the Noires and their elite personal guests, presses the button upon spotting us. No doubt he senses the turmoil, but his face remains impassive .

Once the doors open, Wells shoves me inside, says something low to Bernard, passes him several bills, and piles in beside me. Three seconds into our ride, Wells presses the red Stop button.

That explains the bribery.

“I’m not sure what your plan is, Chief, and no offense, but I bet Liam and Celeste had more fun in the stopped elevator in January than I’m about to have.”

A flash of what it might be like to be stuck in here with Rena assaults me. She’s usually so tall, which I love, but she was shorter today. No heels with her casual attire—that tight little top and her baggy cargo pants, a strip of her midriff showing. So sexy. With or without the added height of high heels, she’d fit perfectly inside my arms. And she smelled good. Mouthwatering. Fruity. Berries, I think. And something sweet that I can’t quite pinpoint, like waffles. Pi?a colada? Maybe that’s the rum talking.

Wells chuckles, reminding me of the drastically different scenario I’m in. “A joke or more like a smart-ass remark, but I’ll take it. Talk to me.”

“Got nothing to say,” I assert, leaning against the wall and crossing my arms. “Aren’t we going to be late for the meeting I’m not attending?”

That decimates any remnants of his chuckle. “We’re having lunch first. Looks like food is a good idea for you since it’s noon and you’re drunk. And you are in fact going to that meeting. It’s a chance to bridge the tension. We’ll help them, and we’ll all feel better. But first, talk. Where were you?”

I’m exhausted and unwilling to lie to Wells, so I spit out the baffling encounter. “With Rena.”

He dips his chin, some odd expression coasting over him. “Rena. Okay. Not at Magie Noire, right?”

“Fuck no,” I hiss, my arm swinging out to point beyond the doors. “In the hall.”

He releases a sigh of relief, ripping his candy out of his pocket. “I had to ask to know what we were dealing with. ”

He’s always strategizing. Always taking care of someone. Right now, he’s doing it wordlessly. Patiently sifting through his Sour Skittles and selecting the reds and yellows.

His therapeutic tactic succeeds.

I need out of this hot box, so I stroke my forehead and cave. “I’ve known that girl for years, and I don’t think I’ve ever been alone with her.”

By design.

Until now.

“Makes sense,” he muses. “There are a lot of us between her family and ours. What were you doing with her?”

“Making sure she was safe.” Sort of.

“Good.” His knowing eyes squint. He makes it his mission to read all of us. It’s far more enjoyable when he’s analyzing the rest of them. “Is that all?”

“Of course.” I throw my hand out in a what-else-would-it-be gesture. “She’s off-limits.”

Ahh. Shit. That was Kraken responding. Always sinking a damn ship.

Wells snickers, so before he can feed into my intoxicated admission, I tack on, “I’m not like that. I mean, it’s not like that. Fuck … I’m not …”

“Ty,” he says, alarmed, stashing his candy bag back in his pocket. “Even if it was something, there are different degrees of off-limits. This does not rank anywhere near the same vicinity as the ones from your past. But that doesn’t even matter now because you’re in no shape.” He pauses—it’s another one of those loaded delays. Deafening. “How bad is it?”

I know what he’s getting at, but I play dumb anyway. “She’s good. Safe. On her way to meet Jax.”

He rubs his hand over his jaw. “Great. What about you? You’re getting worse.”

My mouth kinks into a grimace—it’s parched. I’d like to drown it in a sea of rum. “Depends how you look at it. ”

“Really? Am I missing an upside? You’re not sleeping. Not concentrating. Drinking five times as much as usual. You can’t disappear or shut us out.”

He’s right. Liam, Gage, Ivy, Celeste—they’ve all proffered the same concerns. I should apologize, but that’s not what Wells is looking for. He wants an explanation.

“It was a bad night. That’s all.”

Nodding, he exhales, his firm gaze never leaving me. “We’ve been here before, so we know what’s coming. We need to get ahead of this.”

I wave that off with a huff. “Sounds like we are. I’m straight. I’ll be fine. Thanks for looking out.”

He shakes his head, his emerald eyes narrowing. “Remember last year, when Ivy was battling her PTSD and she handed us oversight of her care so she could heal? That made all the difference. We’re not meant to fight these demons alone, Ty. It’s time.”

“Fuck that.” My exasperated breath crashes to the ground. I get it. He’s saved me from myself countless times. He knows when I’m spiraling, but right now, I want to.

“Have your flashbacks and nightmares started?”

“Yes,” I confess.

He already suspects. It always gets ugly once they begin. Especially when they all meld together into a torturous replay. Hard to tell where the past and present separate. Who I was and who I am. Who the real monster is.

At the mere mention, bits and pieces barrel into me.

Crunch. Squeak. Blood. One wrong choice.

Four bodies. Cold dead eyes. Ella. Audrey. Shivering outside.

Flash and fade.

Explosions. Soldiers. Bombed and captured and chained.

Flickers of torment.

Bloody brown hair. Dead leaves. That damn squeak. I should’ve fixed it. She wanted me to fix it.

Here and gone .

Avenging that little girl. Her mother’s pleas. Screams. Stabbing. I can’t stop. Sorry, Chief.

“Ty,” Wells snaps, drawing my focus back to him. “Which ones?”

Which ones? Which flashbacks—because the more I’m having, the more calamitous the outcome. Finding my family murdered. My fellow SEAL Team members blowing up. Him and Liam and Gage being tortured beside me. Ivy and Celeste missing. Beaten. Rena caught in the explosion at the dress shop. Or me losing control. Becoming the kind of crazed demon I loathe. My failures lived as an endless nightmare. A tormenting highlight reel that never fucking stops.

My eyes flick to his, my eardrums pulsate with swishing blood flow, and my jagged breaths crash through the truth. “All of them.”