CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
TY
You’re more than one day, one choice, one monster’s assault on your family.
XO,
Little Moon
A smile creeps up my cheeks as I stare at another Post-it Note. Rena leaves me notes. All day. Everywhere. Because sometimes, my soul won’t accept the truth she speaks—her explanation, not mine.
That morality fence I straddled for years has shifted. Or fucking weathered. I’m not sure. My toes are no longer stretched between right and wrong or whatever fucked-up, twisted, moral philosophy was ruling my life. It’s far more complex now. Maybe it always was, and I was too close to see it.
This isn’t a my-head-is-finally-on-straight awakening though. My sanity is just as heavily at stake.
My intuitive wife has simply illuminated my stance so that I clearly see how stretched I am. On one side, there’s the shame. Tormenting guilt for what I didn’t do, for what I have done, and for all I’m about to thrust Rena into.
The other side is new. Brand-fucking-new. It’s a reprieve. Relief and gratefulness for a fortune of happiness I don’t deserve, but am all too eager to plunder.
I used to think there was a moat between Rena and me, one without a drawbridge. One that would forever keep me from her. Anytime I felt the urge to cross it, the conclusion—that not being with her was a justified atonement for all I’d done—would crash through the fleeting notion.
Now, I have a new vision. She’s the bridge over the moat, linking my nightmares and my dreams. They might always bleed into one another, but somehow, she’s enabled me to cross freely between the two.
That thought doubles down on my shame because I’m undoubtedly the party coming out on top in this arrangement—being a bridge for me means she has no choice but to endure the nightmares. So, every morning, I vow to myself that I’ll make sure to earn the right to stand beside her brilliance.
Maybe I’m not making any fucking sense. Moats. Fences. Toes stretching. And I added the goddamn drawbridge. Plus, I’ve told her I’ll drown her in darkness. Who the hell knows what I’m talking about at this point? So many metaphors to try to explain the disarray that is the permanent state of my mind.
All to say, I feel both guilty and obsessed in every moment with her .
She’s … everything.
And all I want is to be hers. To crawl inside her—that’s the obsessive part. And something I do often since she obliges me, allowing me to sleep with my cock warmed in her perfect cunt every night. She enjoys it because my wife is filthy in the best goddamn way. But that’s a whole other destination that we’ll come back to.
In the meantime, if I revisit that fence analogy to expand on what I was originally depicting, it’s no longer built on warped morality. I’d say it’s composed of the rage that both my guilt and obsession fuel. Everything keeping me grounded teeters on the wrath I harbor at the mere thought of someone bringing harm to her.
I’m not sure if that’s a product of my untethered thoughts or simply an outcome of being so fucking in love with her that I can’t see straight.
Peeling another note off the bedroom door, I slide it in with the others—a drawer littered with my treasures. The first several she wrote are tucked in my wallet, but I ran out of room. I scan over the couple on top with a grin, a flutter vibrating through my chest from both her perspective and her levity.
You took your tragedy and turned it into triumph, becoming a hero to frightened and abused women. That surpasses the definition of a good man.
XO,
The wife you took roughly on a city balcony
It wasn’t your fault.
XO,
LM (Sometimes, I feel like a rock star when I sign these. Little Moon is a kick-ass stage name, even though somebody got all alpha-angry with me for using it.)
Your sisters and your mom are a part of you. So, instead of punishing yourself for them, live for them.
XO,
Just a girl who loves her brothers and would want them to live loud and boisterous for her
These little bits of her wisdom—sentiments that are challenging for me to internalize, but also beliefs I’ve been desperate for—bring everything bubbling to the surface. But thankfully, this afternoon’s note is of a feistier nature. As I set the latest one on top of the others, a chuckle spills out of me—a taste of the reprieve she offers.
Sometimes, after wallowing, you need to do something crazy or fuck somebody up. I totally support that.
XO,
The one who will bail you out
After tucking it safely away, I saunter out to the kitchen, where my favorite scene is underway.
It’s been three weeks since the wedding. Three weeks spent growing closer, learning one another, training and preparing for the impending loyalty test—although I’m hopeful we’ve circumvented the bulk of it.
Rena is a force. Since we don’t know what we’re up against yet, we’ve focused primarily on shooting, stamina, conditioning, and fighting techniques. And she aces them all. She claims her skills are all derived from her circus-like upbringing. That method should not be discounted. She’s impressive, to say the least.
Her brothers stayed with us for a couple of days, but they had to return home to run the resort. It was for the best. Rena was on edge while they were here. Tense during every conversation, even when we were all getting along fine. Hopefully, that will lessen in the future.
It’s possible it was simply her coping with all the bombs that had been dropped on her. We haven’t talked much about it. She shared what Axel had told her and insisted that she didn’t want to dwell on it. We have so much headed our way that I’m not going to push her now. Once things simmer down, I’ll encourage her to face the complex emotions that must be gutting her regarding Balzano and her mother’s death.
We assured her brothers that she’d be back to take an active role at La Lune Noire after we honeymooned here. I’m not sure that’s an accurate depiction of what this time represents. But there’s nothing else we can tell them.
The modicum of acceptance they offered is in part because they had no choice. Axel is aware of KORT simply because La Lune Noire provides the shadows for all sorts of corruption.
And when Ivy was roofied the night of her and Wells’s wedding, Wells asked him to keep his ears open for anything regarding KORT. Based on small comments made over the past year and a half, I’m guessing it all started coming together for Axel and Ryker after that. To my knowledge, they’ve never poked around because they understand the implications of knowing too much, but the awareness is there.
Regardless of the reason, the homicidal edge toward our union waned.
I thought they may protest us staying here, but they responded far more amicably than expected, which was good because my mind was made up. We briefly considered returning to New Orleans, but Wells argued that owning the whole Vegas wedding and needing-a-respite-from-her-brothers angle was the best play with KORT. That way, if Balzano crafts a claim about Rena or us, regarding his loss of men, it will seem like he’s reaching. If he slings an accusation, no one will buy that we did what he claimed and stuck around to vacation.
The proximity to Balzano was my primary objection to remaining here. But only the Noires and KORT know we’re here. So, an attack on Rena would be far too risky.
My family has stayed with us, and we’ve settled into a comfortable rhythm. It’s a daily reminder that Rena was always meant to be with us. She fits. Because she’s always fit.
Ivy and Gage are dancing around while they cook. One of Ivy’s magical powers is getting the Big Guy to forget he’s pissed off at the world. Even considering his penchant for baked goods, it’s astounding. Although so are the historical romance shows Celeste has him addicted to.
So much of our bonding time transpires in the kitchen—that arrived with the freckled ginger too. Before her, we spent our nights drinking on the patio, convincing ourselves that we weren’t lonely souls.
The glass doors are wide open for indoor-outdoor living, permitting the comfortable May temps to filter inside. The sun is shining. Some ’90’s rock is trilling from the speakers. Celeste is pouring drinks for everyone at the island, where my wife sits in her cropped T-shirt and itty-bitty shorts. Her hair is twirled into a knot atop her head, and her nipples are announcing their presence loud and clear. Maybe that should bother me, but all I can think is that she’s fucking mine.
And the tiniest doll enriching my view is Felicity, bopping her little limbs and cooing to the beat of the music while dangling from the papoose on Liam’s chest.
Wells glances over at me as I enter and dips his chin, indicating that he’s reading all the sappy shit swarming me. It’s likely flooding him just as much. The man is a big softy, and all of this is beyond what he ever thought he could offer us.
This whole damn scene is so picturesque. All that life should be.
If it wasn’t for—
“Whatcha making for dinner?” Rena asks, swigging one of Liam’s Modelos, which has surely solidified her spot in his heart. No one ever drinks beer with him .
“Meatloaf,” Ivy says to which Liam muffles a laugh in Felicity’s full head of hair, Gage arches his brow, and Wells clears his throat.
Rena glances at me with a quizzical tilt of her angelic face, but I have no desire to share the reason everyone reacts that way.
But Liam? No fucking qualms. He leans in and whispers in her ear, probably offering up the intel that we’re pretty sure meatloaf is Ivy and Wells’s safe word. Or something else sexual. I really don’t want to know.
But much to Liam’s delight, Rena claps with a whoop, hops off the island stool, and prances over to Ivy’s phone—the one controlling the playlist.
After a few seconds, Rena beams as she skips past the opening of a song and belts out the lyrics corresponding to the title for Meat Loaf’s “I’d Do Anything for Love (But I Won’t Do That).” Ivy’s face brightens, joining her to scream the latter portion of that phrase into a spatula.
Celeste barely misses a beat, throwing her arms into the air as she bounces over to meet them. “Oh my God. How did I not get that? Fucking Meat Loaf!”
I glance at Wells, whose creased, glowing green eyes confirm that Rena was correct and that is indeed the root of the safe word, which is so Ivy.
Liam, Gage, and I all bust up laughing while the three girls flit around, crooning the song.
And that’s when it all slams into me, maybe stronger than ever before, the significance in the simple. The four of us are in utter awe. Sharing yet another moment that tethers us to one another. The girls have infused joy into our home far greater than we ever anticipated.
Life was so fucking hard. And heartbreaking. For all of us. The traumas we each endured before we found one another. And the god-awful hell we encountered side by side. But, fuck, they make breathing easier. That first second when my eyes fly open and I realize that my horrors aren’t nightmares, but are, in fact, my reality has gotten more bearable with each of them .
And now? Rena—my girl, my wife, my bright Little Moon—how did I wait so fucking long to claim her? One part heroic self-control and three parts a goddamn moron. If I had gone after her years ago, we could have avoided all this KORT bullshit. We could simply be basking in the contentedness that we’re experiencing right now, without a gloomy cloud of doom hanging over our heads.
Another example of my noble hesitation resulting in life-altering shambles.
Pushing that thought aside, I smile, pour myself a drink, and soak in the blithe spirit the girls are casting on the room.
This is the miracle of the mundane. The humdrum days that most probably take for granted. But after being propelled from one tragedy to the next, year after year, day after day, these are the trite experiences I want to bathe in—making dinner and washing dishes, dancing in the kitchen and rocking babies.
Dreams that are far too hazy in the world I’ve chosen.
Crunch. Squeak. Blood. One wrong choice.
“Fucking Christ,” Gage bellows, glaring at the jolly trio while biting back his amusement. “You’ve ruined meatloaf for me. I’ve got these goddamn visions …” He trails off, rubbing his temples, which is mainly to razz Wells.
Liam hops on that. “So, on nights we eat meatloaf, Chief, what kind of kinky-ass shit are you doing to High Society?”
Ordinarily, that would irritate the hell out of Wells, but his features are etched in adoration for his dancing Little Storm, so all he does is smirk and swill his scotch.
The evening continues much the same way. Rena commandeers the music selection, Gage and Ivy cook up a storm, Celeste kicks our asses in a poker game while we’re waiting for dinner to be done, and even Felicity beams through our meal.
While we’re all pitching in for cleanup, Wells gets a call right as I notice a missed one.
“Vargas?” I ask, shooting a look over at him.
His eyebrows pinch as he glides his fingers over his lips. “Yeah. ”
Calling both of us within minutes is never a good sign. My chest tightens. It’s been three weeks since Vargas covered up the houseful of burned foot soldiers. No way he’s run into a problem now. If he has, it’s because someone knows something.
Wells answers with a, “What’s up?” His mind is surely swerving to the same concern mine is.
“I’m with Ty. Give me a minute.” He waves a hand and ushers me to follow him into an office down the hall, setting the phone on the desk and switching Vargas to speaker. “Go ahead.”
“I’ve got a girl,” Vargas says, surprising me. “She’s … in bad shape. It’s a fucking mess, and I shouldn’t be doing this, but I’d like you to take her for me.”
The relief I should feel for this call not having anything to do with the unfortunate night I took out the wrong guys doesn’t come. Stabbing pain lances through my lungs, my fists tighten, and my heart pounds—the aching reactions my body always assumes when we field these requests.
“Why can’t you handle it?” Wells asks, which is valid.
Vargas has the resources to erase someone, just like we do. We’re better, and we have the means to harbor her in the shelter, but he’d handle it fine.
A tremulous sigh precedes his explanation. “She’s connected. And wanted by the Bureau. It’s too risky for me. And frankly, for her. It’s not a cut-and-dry case. I’m a logical lead for the motherfuckers hunting her, so …” He hedges a second before tacking on, “I got a goddamn agent dead.”
“Shit,” I mutter as Wells’s alarm coats his features.
Connected. Wanted. Agent dead.
Messy doesn’t cover it. Sounds like she’s a snitch, which means we’re stepping onto a battlefield. It also insinuates we’re up against someone with hefty resources, or Vargas wouldn’t be reluctant in managing this himself.
“And we’re not in conflict?” I probe .
There isn’t much to keep us from extricating a woman in trouble. But if she’s somehow at odds with KORT, our hands are tied.
“No,” he responds. “All clear.”
Cognizant that we can’t ask much more over the phone because you just never fucking know, Wells jumps to expectations. “Time frame for retrieval?”
“Next twenty-four hours would be appreciated.” Vargas’s voice has anxiety woven through it, elevating mine.
What the hell is he looking at?
“Fuck,” I hiss, wishing I could be there, but this is the worst fathomable time. My teeth chomp into my cheek as my hand drags down my face. “I’ve got—”
Wells throws his palm up to me. “I’ll get her.”
That’s unusual. Even in our erasing days, pickup was primarily my domain for these cases. It’s often like coaxing a wounded animal into safety. If they’ve been beaten or battered, it’s inconceivable for them to believe we aren’t a predator who will become yet another villain in their story.
I’d like to object, but we’ve got a week or less until the shitstorm of Rena’s loyalty test for KORT. This isn’t the time to be globetrotting for a rescue mission.
“She’s a rough one,” Vargas adds. “She … I’ll prep her, but it won’t be easy.”
That only compounds my conflict. I bury my face in my hands, vanquished by a phone call. This is as good as it fucking gets with us. Singing in the kitchen to abandoning a battered woman because I have to put my own girl through hell.
“Send me an encrypted link with the location,” Wells orders. “I’ll head out tonight.” He ends the call, the rustle of his crinkling Skittles bag filling the room.
“I should be the one going,” I murmur, watching him pluck out the reds and yellows.
It’s odd, the things we attach ourselves to so we can harness little nuggets of peace. The sour treat is only part of it for him. I think he enjoys the sifting just as much. An element of control when everything else is spinning out of reach.
His head snaps up after he pops a few in his mouth. “We’re a fucking team, Ty. I’m taking Celeste. She’s great with the girls who come to us.”
He brushes the sugar crystals from his hands and texts something on his phone without waiting for my response.
“Retrieval is more complex than when they see the safety of the shelter,” I argue. “I trust Celeste, but …” This feels like failing.
“And she’s ready. I’m confident.” His insistence is interrupted by Ivy peeking her head into the office.
“What’s going on?”
“We have to pick up a girl,” Wells informs her. “Can you pack up Felicity and tell Celeste to get ready? I texted Liam too.”
“Wait,” I grit out, panic creeping into my veins because so much is still unsettled. “We haven’t talked about the loyalty test. What they decided. Did you—”
Before I can finish, the entire damn family waltzes into the office. One after another.
“You’re taking my girl, Chief?” Liam says, but he’s got a smirk on his face. That’s fucking odd too. He’s planning to let Celeste go without him?
“Yes,” Wells states firmly, abandoning his candy. “I need her help with a retrieval. I’ll have Rex and the security team meet us.”
“Can we all just slow the hell down for one goddamn minute?” I snipe. “If you’re all leaving, I need to fucking know what I’m dealing with.”
Ivy blows out a breath and bites her lip, instantly filling me with dread.
“Liam and Gage will stay behind to assist,” Wells offers, which makes no fucking sense.
Assist?
Rena’s eyes narrow at me, but it’s because she sees my anxiety. Not because she has any comprehension of what this means. I sure as fuck don’t. But I sense it. The bomb seconds away from detonating.
“Assist with what?” I growl the words in a rumble that billows from the depths of my lungs. “What the fuck am I missing?”
Ivy’s ocean-blues brim with regret, her chin quivering. “We did what we could, and some of what you requested will be granted, but—”
“You’re rambling, Freckles.” My voice isn’t even recognizable because all I feel is trapped, caged, sucked into a reality again and again that I can’t escape.
“You’ll get to be with or near her, but …” Ivy trails off, and I know this is killing her too. None of us have control over fucking anything. But she and Wells had the best shot at shaping Rena’s test.
“Just say it,” I demand.
She nods while Rena scurries to my side, tucking herself under my arm as Ivy’s words penetrate the explosive tension. “They’re treating it more like a trial.”
“Fuck that shit,” I bark, flinging my hand into the air. “She doesn’t even want to work with us. It’s never enough with them. We sent that recording. Why the fuck …”
Loyalty tests are perilous, but they’re designed for a spouse—a measure to be certain that the outsider being brought in is fully devoted to the marriage and will abide by spousal privilege should anything nefarious come into question.
Trials are for those who will be privy to the inner workings of KORT. The stakes are far higher because those who attend The Table—the meetings with the chairs, also known as knights—have the ability to sink the organization.
“It doesn’t matter.” Ivy shakes her head, guilt coasting across her face, which guts me. “It’s not about her choosing to stay with us. There’s more to it. The black book and … her connections are just …”
“The book?” Celeste gasps. “That’s the same page … I thought th at was destroyed, that you were just telling Axel what you found. How could that have any relevance here?”
“Never claimed it was destroyed,” Liam corrects her. “Ripped out, Ace.”
Celeste plants a hand on her hip, rearing for a fight. “So, the shit about my father … who the hell knows about that?”
I stayed the fuck out of all that drama, but on the same page that held the dirt about the Noires was the information that Celeste’s father, Frank, had buried Ivy’s birth mom, Eleanor Healy, who had gone missing from the O’Reilly family. There were discussions on how to handle that during Celeste’s loyalty test. It was Ivy’s call. She heads the O’Reilly Mafia, but understands Frank was simply doing his job—a cruel reality that we all face since no one in this life is sinless—so the information was negligible. We still did what we needed to do to protect Celeste and her father, just in case. But none of that is relevant now.
“It’s been addressed with KORT. Over and done with. No one fucking cares,” Liam assures her.
Celeste only ruminates on that briefly before deciding to let it go. She’s strategic, so she is no doubt picking up on the fact that what was important on that page has nothing to do with her family and everything to do with the Noires.
“What’s happening?” Rena wheezes, clearly catching that she’s the star of this merciless turn of events. She steps away from me, surveying my face before she peers at the rest of the family.
“Ty,” Wells says in his calm, authoritative tone, “you’ll have to trust us. We did what we could, and it should be smooth. But we need to tag her.”
“Tag me?” Rena spins, glowering at every last one of us. “Trial, recording, book, connections? Someone needs to start fucking talking to me. Not only Ty. Me. ”
“A tracker,” Celeste supplies. “No sense in objecting.” She throws her thumb toward her husband. “This one drugged me and injected it into my neck on a plane. ”
“Oh my God.” Rena’s hazels blow as wide as a full fucking moon. “Somebody tell me what the hell is going on.”
Wells takes that. “The connections should be obvious to you. Don’t overthink that point. We can’t divulge what’s in the book because you do not yet have KORT-level clearance, and the book is property of KORT. The method of you learning that information is more incriminating than you knowing it.” He pauses there, brows arched, waiting to see if she picks up on his subtlety.
“So, I might already be aware of what the book detailed?” she ventures.
“It’s quite possible,” he says, tipping his chin, and the goddamn impasse he’s navigating is evident. He always carries so much for us, careening in and out of pitfalls with more finesse than most could ever exhibit.
But that look passing between him and my wife tells me all I need to know. He’s suggesting the tracking for a good reason. He’s fucking worried.
“If we tell you too much,” he goes on before flicking his gaze to me, “it’s an automatic failure. You know this, Ty. All of us will be held accountable for going against orders and disregarding the confidentiality clause.”
“Fine.” I reach for Rena, dragging her back into my arms, needing to wrap myself around her like armor. “What can you tell us?”
“From what we know—which, of course, some of it was kept from us due to our relationship—it’s not so terrible,” Ivy starts in a serene warble. “In the next few days, you’ll both receive instructions. The trial is used to test loyalty to the organization and conflict resolution in stressful situations. That’s all I can say. You’ll need to comply in order to pass. If you do, you’ll be free and clear with KORT, and we can put all this behind us.”
All we need to hear to know how fucked up we’ve all become is the if you do part because there’s a possibility she won’t.
I bark a sardonic laugh. “That is a vast downplay of whatever the fuck we have coming. Do you not remember our trials, Freckles? ”
“Of course I do,” she whispers, tears finally dripping. “It was awful. But I got you all back, and I’d do it again in a heartbeat for that. And other than this shit, we have a pretty good life. I know this sucks, Ty. I wish I could change it. Wells and I tried. But there are three other chairs on that board, and if we had pushed too much …”
I hold out my arm, urging her to dive against my other side and planting a kiss in her hair when she does. “It’s not your fault. I just—”
“There’s a silver fucking lining,” Gage croons as Wells kicks up his chin to me in respect for comforting Ivy. “You were permitted assets.”
“Assets?” I parrot above both girls’ heads.
“Yep.” He grins, cracking his knuckles. “Whatever mindfuck they have in store, Liam and I are along for the ride.”
That’s why Liam wasn’t surprised to be staying back. They all knew about this.
“We don’t know precisely what that entails,” Wells clarifies. “But I suppose you’ll have a clearer picture when the instructions arrive. I’d anticipate some retribution for the request to be with Rena. It wasn’t appreciated . Regardless, you’ll all be together. And should you need to flee, Liam and Gage will be ready. And I’ll take care of the girls and meet up with you.”
They have it all fucking planned. If I had any doubt about how treacherous they expect this to be, Wells decimated it with that statement. This is a far cry from a loyalty test, which was already a precarious undertaking. I should’ve known when he so easily volunteered to go get the battered girl. And Liam not minding Wells taking Celeste makes a lot more sense. She’ll be safer getting the hell away from here.
“Was it planned for you and the girls to be away from us?” I ask.
“Somewhat,” Wells answers. “Ivy and I were prohibited from being with you during this. Celeste coming with us was already a consideration, so with the girl needing picked up, it makes sense. Because of your request, you’ll be tested too. ”
We’ll both be tested but remain together. That could equate to any number of ordeals.
“And my brothers?” Rena finally mutters. “I still don’t understand what the hell you’re all talking about. But if things go south—if we need to flee—what happens to them?”
Wells strides forward and lifts Rena’s chin. “I won’t make you promises I can’t keep. We love your family and will always do what we can for them. But if things go south, you are our priority. We will do whatever is necessary to get you out, take care of our family, and go from there.”
Whatever is necessary is code for erasing ourselves and being reborn. No one outside this circle joins us for that.
When Wells steps away, welcoming Ivy into his embrace, Rena hangs her head. The same shame I’ve worn for thirteen years blankets her. Hopelessness. Like a traitor who made the wrong choice.
While my heart is warmed because Wells made it abundantly clear that my wife is more important than KORT or anything else—she’s one of us, and they’ll risk everything for her—her pain is distressing. He can’t make the promises she wants to hear most. I shouldn’t either. But I won’t let her beat herself up, believing she didn’t do the right thing. Or wage the right fight for the people she loves.
Because while bloodline and last name aren’t an integral part of who Rena is—contrary to what she’s been fretting about—her brothers are at the core of everything she values. She would be shattered without them. Like how Jax stated that if I broke Rena’s heart, she’d never be the same, that applies to her connection with them too. And I’ll blitz every last motherfucker who’s ever even heard of KORT before I let anyone break her.
“You’re such a good sister,” I whisper, pressing her against me and speaking into her hair. “I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.” My eyes flit to Wells so that he understands the deeper meaning of what I’m spelling out here—family goes beyond those present in this room now. “I’ll figure it out, baby girl. Whatever it takes.”