Chapter 36
Thirty-Six
River
I don’t know what time I fall asleep after the round two extravaganza that left us both limp and sated, and for my part anyway, practically comatose.
But it feels like only minutes later that I hear the knock.
Groaning, I roll to my side, burrowing into Thorn’s chest, heart squeezing when his arms immediately tighten around me, as I start to allow sleep to draw me under again.
Knock. Knock. Knock!
My eyes fly open, sleep suddenly very far away as I realize exactly how close that knock is.
I sit up. And gasp.
Thorn is on his feet a second later, his body between mine and the intruder.
“What the fuck, Angela?” he growls.
I relax enough to suck in a breath, to realize the danger isn’t as grave as I thought…except that relief only lasts a heartbeat.
Because then I remember the last time Angela snuck into an apartment, she held Briar at gunpoint.
I throw back the covers and stand, bringing the sheet with me because…
Neither of us had bothered to dress after round two.
“Stay there,” Thorn orders as I move, proving he’s got eyes in the back of his head.
“No,” I say sharply, ignoring him—and those hidden eyes—as I move to his side.
Never again will he face this shit alone. Never.
Angela eyes are amused as I wrestle with the sheet before I wrap my hand around his, but she doesn’t comment further.
Probably because Thorn is glancing down at me, his gaze full of fear and disapproval. “Little hen—”
“No,” I repeat, more gently this time.
He studies me for another second then sighs heavily, and I know I’ve won.
I tighten my fingers around his, lean against him.
“What do you want, Angela?” he grits out.
“Get dressed”—a smirk—“and I’ll meet you in the kitchen.”
Then she’s gone, disappearing down the hall.
“I thought Pascal’s men—”
“Me too,” he mutters, moving to the dresser and pulling out a pair of sweats. He passes them over to me. They’re huge but they have a drawstring, so I’m able to make it—and the oversized tee he hands me next—work.
By the time we make it out of the bedroom, Angela’s standing in the kitchen, the bright overhead lights flicked on. She’s pale, pressing a bloodied towel to her arm, her features turned sharp by exhaustion, and she wavers slightly as we move over to her.
Well. That’s concerning.
She glances between us and smirks, her expression turning carefully blank. “And another one bites the dust,” she quips.
“What do you want?” Thorn asks.
A brittle laugh. “That doesn’t matter now, does it?”
I frown. “What’s wrong?”
Now her laugh is sharp, her voice taking on a shrill edge that seems oddly incompatible with how everyone normally describes her—confident, self-assured, annoying as fuck and determined as a dog to a bone.
And…a survivor.
Somehow, above all odds, Angela always survives.
“What isn’t wrong?” she says when she stops laughing, pulling back the towel to look down at her arm.
The way she says that? It sends chills down my spine.
Because Angela looks terrified. Panicked even.
She shoves back her hair with a shaking hand then reaches into her jacket and pulls out a folder, dropping it onto the kitchen island.
Violet jumps up, sidestepping it, then cautiously sniffs Angela’s hand.
Smart cat to be cautious.
But then she surprises the heck out of me by rubbing her head against Angela’s arm, her purrs beginning to rumble through the air.
What the—?
Even more surprisingly, Angela gently strokes a hand over Violet back.
Gently.
Thorn moves forward and scoops up Violet, cradling her close…and well away from Angela. Who just smirks and taps the folder. “The Lyons know they’re losing control.”
I feel a blip of victory. All this work that everyone’s been doing, all this time they’ve been putting in finally means something.
“Why does it feel like there’s a but coming?” Thorn asks.
The words settle heavily on my chest.
Angela meets his gaze. “Because there is.” She slowly turns toward me. “Brace yourself,” she says, almost gently.
As though she’s trying to protect me from what’s inside that folder.
“They’re going public,” she says. “And they’re going to drag every dirty secret they can find into the light.” A pause. “Including the ones you most want to hide.” She flips open the folder.
Thorn jerks then goes completely still.
I slip my hand into his, hold tight, but I don’t look. Not yet.
Angela’s eyes flick to our interlaced fingers, something unreadable flickering across her face. Then she’s back to placid, calm, unfeeling as she sets a hard drive beside the folder. “If you don’t do what they want, they’ll release it all.”
The warning hangs heavily between us as Angela moves to the elevator, as she disappears from our lives again.
I take a breath, brace, and…look down.
The pictures—
God, they’re horrible.
Thorn stares off into the distance, his jaw clenched, the memories riding him hard as I retrieve my phone, as I call Pascal, as everyone assembles here at the apartment to review the latest bomb Angela’s dropped.
But the video of him and Claudette is even worse.
He’s not the only target—Brooks and Briar, Chrissy and Jean-Michel, Tiff and Jace and Marie, even Rory, King, and Rome aren’t unscathed. Though, aside from the files chronicling Brooks’s father’s illegal activities and those awful pictures and videos, none of the other material is true.
It’s the perfect con.
A mix of truth and lies so that any denial will ring false.
And apparently, we’re running out of time until it all comes out.
Until the world learns secrets that should have stayed buried.
Until Thorn’s worst fear is exposed.
“What are we going to do?” Chrissy asks, tears streaming down her cheeks. “The rescue. The charities. All of your guys’ businesses. Even the Eagles. And Thorn—” A sob hitches through her chest and she drops her face into her hands. “God, I’m so sorry my mother is part of this.”
Thorn finally moves from where he’s spent the last hour staring out the window.
But he doesn’t come to me.
He moves to Chrissy, takes her hands in his.
“None of this is your fault. None,” he repeats when she starts to protest. “This is my childhood, my father, the fucked-up situation I grew up in. This is bad people doing bad things and not giving a damn who they hurt along the way. And this…” He takes a breath and makes me so damned proud by saying, “And this is us standing in defiance of their violence and cruelty by living long, beautiful lives.”
“That all sounds well and good, but it doesn’t answer the question.” She sighs heavily, wipes away her tears. “What are we going to do?”
He finally looks over at me, his eyes locking onto mine.
Then—somehow—he smiles and says, his words for the room, but mostly for me,
“We’re going to fight, little hen.”