Chapter 25
Twenty-Five
Thorn
The penthouse is too quiet.
And it’s my fault.
At least Violet is back, though she seems to be staring at me accusingly every chance she can get.
Like right now.
“Meow,” she laments, sitting on the bathroom counter, glaring at me as I brush my teeth.
“You picked me, remember?” I mutter after I’ve spit and rinsed.
“Meow,” she grumbles, spinning in a circle and curling up grumpily.
“Tell me about it.” I shove my toothbrush into the drawer, slap some sunscreen on my face, then scowl at my reflection in the mirror.
My fault.
My choice.
And now I need to finish this shit.
I get dressed, pick up my laptop, and carry it into the kitchen to go over the latest files from my team.
We’re finally getting somewhere.
River was held at a facility owned by Jardin Logistics. Jardin handled fulfillment in North America for my company’s products.
But they also had contracts with several other U.S.-based companies—including several that Jean-Michel funded.
And Jace’s.
Strings to tug. Trails to follow.
But by using Angela’s files we’ve found a whole new group of businesses.
Of course, we’re still trying to weed through a chain of shell companies, but each one we eliminate means we’re getting closer.
And add in Attie’s work with the FBI and Brooks sharing his father’s journal and the net is finally beginning to tighten.
We’re closer than we’ve ever been to permanently taking the Lyons down.
And I still can’t help but feel like it’s not going to make one fucking bit of difference.
That, in the end, I’m still going to be right here.
In an apartment. Alone.
“Meow!”
“Yeah, yeah,” I tell Violet as I reach for the bag of salmon treats. “I know you’re here too.” I pass her some and scratch her head as she gobbles them down. “I haven’t forgotten about you either.” I toss her a couple more. “You can eat my eyeballs when I die alone.”
“Meow,” she agrees, for better or worse.
Sighing, I lean back and stare out the windows.
The apartment itself hasn’t changed.
The furniture is where it always was.
The city still bustles in the distance.
Violet still loves those salmon treats.
Nothing is different. Except everything is.
Because River is gone. Because I made her go.
“So quit moping about it, dumbass,” I say as I fill my coffee mug and absently reach for the container of sugar cookies. Only—
Fuck, that hurts.
Because there’s only one left.
The extra sprinkles to make it extra good. The precisely lined petals of the daisy. I know if I take a bite, it’ll be crunchy but melt in my mouth, the perfect mix of sweet and savory…
And there’s only one left.
Christ.
I drop it back into the container, my stomach suddenly churning. I can’t eat it. Not when it’s the only evidence I have left of River existing here, existing in my life.
Her perfume has faded from the pillows in the guest room (where I’ve still been sleeping every night, like a fucking idiot).
Her books are gone, so’s the mixer and the spices and the special measuring cups she brought over.
No movies. No makeup on the counter. No purse on the hooks by the elevator.
Nothing except for that cookie.
Carefully, I snap the lid on.
“Meow!”
I lift my brows at Violet. “You already got fed. And your maxed out on treats, little cat.”
She meows again, louder this time.
I glare at her.
And…standoff.
“Fine,” I grumble. “One more treat.”
“Meow,” Violet says politely.
I can almost hear River laughing at me being a such a softie.
And that fucking hurts too.
My phone buzzes, thankfully snapping me out of my misery…for a moment, anyway.
PASCAL: Have you come to your senses yet?
THORN: No. Because I haven’t lost them.
PASCAL: Dumbass.
THORN: Go away. I’m working.
PASCAL: You mean you’re going over the same shit we’ve gone over a hundred times already.
Sighing, I ignore him and go back over to my laptop. We’re so fucking close, I can taste it.
My phone rings almost immediately.
Of course it does.
I debate letting it ring, but the fucker would probably just show up here if I do.
So, I answer with a sigh. “What?”
“What you’re doing is stupid.”
“Yes, you’ve made that clear.” I shove my laptop away. “But why do you care, man?”
“You love her.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Pascal—”
“So stop being a chicken shit.”
“I can’t be responsible for getting her killed, asshole. I won’t. I don’t care if you think it’s stupid, but I fucking won’t.”
Silence follows.
Then Pascal sighs. “You know what your problem is?”
“I’m guessing you’ll tell me.”
He snorts. “You keep acting like the Lyons are what’s standing between you and your future happiness.”
I drop my head back, stare up at the ceiling, stifling a groan.
Because I know exactly where this conversation is going. He’s given me a version of the same lecture a dozen times over the last week. “Let me guess, it’s me doing that rather than the motherfuckers who’ll hurt her the first chance they get.”
“Life isn’t guaranteed. You could lose her in a car accident, in a house fire, in a freak fucking toaster accident.
Or,” he goes on, “the Lyons could make it past all of the lines of defense we’ve put in place, they could escape the net we’re tightening, they could make you relive the nightmare of your past.”
“Exactly,” I mutter, stomach churning.
“But the thing is—if the worst does happen—the reason you lose River won’t really matter. She’ll be gone, and you’re the one who’ll have to decide if you denying you both the happiness you might have had in the meantime is worth it.”
Heart pounding, I suck in a breath.
“I know the tradeoff of that internal war. So do Brooks and Jace and Jean-Michel and Attie. Because we’re all fighting for it. Because we’re all putting everything we have into this fight. And we all know that if the worst happens anyway, at least we had this time with the people we love.”
I open my mouth.
Close it.
Because part of me knows he’s right.
Because what the fuck do I say to that?
He knows it too. Because he hangs up without another word, leaving me standing in the kitchen long after the line goes dead, staring at nothing, the horror of my reality closing in on me.
“Meow,” Violet says, bumping my arm.
I draw her close, hold her tight as the apartment settles into silence. Again.
It’s heavy. Empty. Wrong.
I pull out my phone. Open River’s contact. Stare at it for a long moment.
Then I shove my cell aside and get back to work.
Coward.
Yup.
And I can’t—won’t—do a damned thing about it.