Chapter Fifty-Eight
Delilah
Rhys held me all night. Whispering sugar and filth into my hair like he’s still deciding what kind of ruin he wants to be. Tender one breath, total damnation the next.
He left with a packed lunch in one of those bougie bento boxes I found in his kitchen cabinet like he’s not a feral man with a collar kink and god complex. I made one for Benji too, extra protein, heart-shaped carrot slices, a note that just says, eat me.
By ten, I’m at the gym pretending to stretch, watching Jett help some poor bastard with his bench press. Shirtless, of course. All scowl and sinew, sweat already slicking down the ridges of his stomach like the world’s angriest Greek statue.
My life is an Olympic sport and frankly I deserve a medal. Preferably gold. Possibly edible.
My phone dings.
Group chat: Charges smarges
Who the hell named that?
Rhys: Can everyone be at the courthouse by 2?
Me: I can
Rhys: Judge is ready to sign off on everything
Me: I’ll bring Jett
Benji: Yep, I’ll be there. Ride together, doc?
I make an unholy squeak and bounce on my toes like a bottle rocket.
Freedom. Legal absolution. Court-sanctioned erasure of all my objectively bad decisions.
A signed certificate that says you were right to take a bat to the car, baby girl, next time just don’t get caught.
The full government-issued confirmation that I was never wrong, just criminally ahead of my time.
I feel like a prom queen and felon all at once.
I skip over to Jett and tap his back. “I’ve gotta go change. Be back soon.”
Because right now I’m dressed for cardio and sweaty voyeurism. Not for fuck you, Hank. Not for choke on this, Margo. Not for watch me walk into that courthouse like I didn’t dent your car, Chad.
Not for glitter bomb my rap sheet and make me a myth.
Time to glam the hell up.
When I get home, I throw open my closet like I’m raiding it for sins.
This is not a day for soft or subtle. This is not a day for forgiveness. This is a day for Hank to sit in his stuffy little courthouse seat, surrounded by beige and boredom, and know that I am still the best fucking thing he ever touched and the worst mistake he ever made.
I start with the pants. Blush pink. Tailored so tight they feel like a threat. I wiggle into them. The waistband bites my ribs and I purr. That’s right. Let the suffering begin.
No shirt. Just double-sided tape and a prayer. I shrug into the matching blazer. Cropped. Sharp. If I breathe wrong, it’s indecent exposure. If I sneeze, it’s a sex offense. This blazer is a legal liability and I love her.
Underboob. Cleavage. Suggestions of nipple. Sheer defiance.
I slip into the pink patent heels, five inches of spite and childhood trauma alchemy.
I do a test strut across the room. Jewelry next.
The earrings stay, they glint like promises I intend to keep.
The heart-shaped locket swings between my tits like bait.
I tuck a glittery purse under my arm and smirk. Full sparkle war.
I paint my lips to match my rage. Baby pink. High gloss. Wet-look. My hair matches my purse. I set it with the tears of my enemies and a hint of silver glitter.
I spritz perfume, two pulses at the neck, one between the thighs. It’s called “Sinner’s Silk.” Benji picked it.
Then I stand in front of the mirror and look myself in the eyes. I look like a scandal in progress. A pink apocalypse. A heart attack in heels.
I blow myself a kiss. Then I grab my phone and text the boys:
Me: Hope you’re dressed to match. I’m bringing pink vengeance.
Jett: On my way to your place
Benji: With Rhys on the way. Put on a tie. The one you left
I grin so hard my lip gloss sticks to my teeth. That tie is black satin and scattered with glossy pink lipstick kisses. I wore it once as a belt and then knotted it around Benji’s wrist and made him promise things I don’t intend to let him forget.
Jett: I didn’t get a fucking tie.
Me: Wear the scrunchies.
Jett: Rhys, you got on pink?
Rhys: Underwear. Hers.
Jett: Fuck me.
Me: After court.
I do one last twirl. The blazer lifts just enough to flash underboob and chaos. The boys are assembling. My harem, my havoc. The girlboss version of Voltron, but sluttier.
Then I hear the thunder of Jett’s bike rumbling up. My grin sharpens. Nothing says we won, bitch, like pulling up to court on the back of a motorcycle, dressed like a slutty Bond villain with a grudge and perfect eyeliner.
I sweep outside, sunglasses on, purse tucked under one arm. I toss it into his saddlebag. Jett’s just standing there, staring at me like I invented lust and then set it on fire.
“Fuck,” he growls. “We got time for a quickie?”
I laugh and adjust my blazer. “Not the way we fuck. I need to be able to walk into that courtroom. Preferably with all my bones still aligned.”
He watches my legs as I get on the bike like he’s reconsidering his priorities. “You look devastating,” he says. “If Hank looks at you wrong, I’m gonna be doing hard time.”
“They’re dropping the charges,” I purr, and I lean in to kiss the edge of his jaw where his tension lives. “No murder, okay?”
“No promises,” he says, but he kisses me back like maybe he’ll try.
We peel out like the finale of a girl gang heist movie. When we pull into the courthouse lot, Benji’s already there, parked neatly, pressed shirt with the sleeves rolled up just enough to flex. And Rhys is beside him, leaning in, talking to Walter, sunglasses low on his nose.
I slide off the bike with a dramatic stretch and pretend I don’t live for the way all three of them look at me, like I’m sex and sin and salvation, all poured into bubblegum pants.
“Gentlemen,” I say, and I wink. “Ready to watch me make the courthouse my catwalk?”
Benji kisses my hand like I’m royalty. Jett mutters something filthy under his breath. Rhys just smirks and opens the courthouse door, inviting me to ruin.
I strut in. The building’s never seen pink vengeance like this.
Inside, it’s like someone summoned a Wet Paper Bag Coven. Hank, Chad, and Margo are huddled in a sad little triangle around some guy in a stiff suit with dead eyes. Must be their lawyer. No aura. No sparkle. No giddy, deranged triumph humming in his bones. Just gray slacks and law school loans.
Margo’s in beige flats like her feet gave up on ever feeling joy.
Chad’s touching her back. Hank is so close to her they might as well be licking each other’s tonsils.
Poly vibes, but make it boring. How do you have that kind of spicy little throuple potential and still look like a mayonnaise sandwich in a waiting room?
Walter peels off to speak to their funeral director of an attorney, and that’s when Hank looks up. He turns. He sees me. And his jaw just... drops.
Yes. That’s right, fucker. Gaze upon what you could never handle. Look at this rhinestone reckoning in heels. I hope your dick recoils from the memory of me. I hope it sobs.
Benji’s heat is a furnace at my back, tall and solid and humming like a security system programmed to maul. He’s tense. Actually tense. Which is rare enough to make my stomach flip, so I reach back, curl my fingers around his tie, and pull him into a kiss.
It’s filthy. It’s possessive. It’s for me, for him, but it’s also absolutely for them.
I hear Margo make a noise. It’s half gasp, half whimper.
Good. Let her taste her own jealousy like battery acid in her throat.
Rhys and Jett move in, shoulders brushing mine on either side, forming a wall. A very fuckable wall of righteous vengeance and complex emotional dysfunction. My army. My terrible, beautiful boys.
Chad clocks Jett and stares. His mouth twitches.
I slide my hand onto Jett’s arm, slow and syrupy and mean. My fingers curl tight over muscle, proprietary as hell.
That’s right, Chad. No words needed. He’s mine. Every inch. Every bruise. Every beautiful, ruined piece.
It’s not long before we’re called in.
The judge’s chambers are all polished wood and fake gravitas, like a lawyer Barbie playset for middle-aged men with power complexes. We file in together, me and the boys, all in sync like some terrifyingly horny legal dream team, and take our seats.
The judge looks up, blinks once, and sighs like we’ve already exhausted him by existing. Probably fair.
Papers shuffle. Legalese oozes out like the world’s most boring incantation. I’m already planning my post-court blowjob schedule. Walter is charming and terrifying, and our side of the table smells like cologne, coffee, and a low-level threat of violence.
I sign my name like I’m autographing a glossy headshot. Big, curvy, sluttier than necessary. I dot the “i” with a heart and spite.
Rhys doesn’t stop me.
Jett smirks.
Benji signs next, and he hesitates, just a second too long, pen hovering. His knuckles are white around it. He stares at Hank like he’s picturing all the ways he could rip his spine out and turn it into wind chimes.
After he signs, he stands. Voice quiet. Flat. “I’m gonna step out. I said I wouldn’t make a scene. I’m keeping that promise. But if I look at him one more second, I might forget.”
I reach out, touch his wrist, warm and trembling.
He leans down, presses a kiss to the top of my head, and walks out. Controlled. Calm. Dangerous as hell.
The rest is fast. Jett signs with a dramatic flair like he’s sealing a blood pact.
Margo, Chad, and Hank scribble like they are doing taxes.
The judge clears his throat, sounding as if he hates joy. “This satisfies all court conditions. Charges dismissed. File will reflect compliance across the board.” Which is a boring way to say, Delilah, you win.
I smile at him like I’m not thinking about fucking one of the men at this table on his desk.
We stand. We file out. And I’m already planning what to do with the rest of my terrifying, beautiful, completely unhinged life.
Spoiler: it’s slutty, glittery, mildly illegal, and 100% unapologetically mine.