Chapter 41
The wait is unbearable.
My nerves fire beneath my skin restlessly, impossible to escape, no matter how many times I tell myself Damon knows what he’s doing. Because he does.
Knowing what he’s capable of is mildly terrifying, actually.
Damon, Hawk, and Jagger walked out of this house, looking like men marching into war, calm and focused in a way that only made the danger feel more real. There had been no hesitation in any of them. Armed with plans for violence, and not an ounce of uncertainty among them.
And all I can do is wait.
I pace the living room again, my bare feet silent against the marble floor as Gunnar sits sprawled across one end of the couch, watching me with the exhausted patience of a man dealing with a feral animal.
Every vibration from a phone or crackle of comms static sends adrenaline surging through me hard enough to make my hands shake all over again. I glance toward the clock for what has to be the hundredth time tonight.
It’s been almost two hours. Two long fucking hours.
I tighten my arms around myself and turn again, pacing across the living room.
Toward the windows.
Pivot.
Back toward the kitchen.
Again.
Again.
Again.
“You keep that up, and you’re going to pace a hole through the floor.” Gunnar’s voice cuts through the silence.
I stop long enough to look at the stretch of marble beneath me and realize I actually have been walking the exact same route repeatedly. My entire body feels wired too tight, alive with nervous energy that has nowhere to go.
“I can’t help it,” I exhale.
His tone softens slightly. “I know.”
I glance at him. He sits leaning back against the couch cushions, one ankle crossed over his knee, broad arms folded loosely across his chest. Unlike Damon’s intensity or Hawk’s sharp edge, Gunnar carries a strange kind of steadiness about him. He’s solid and grounded, like nothing rattles him.
“They’re good at this,” he shares after a moment. “Scary good at this. It’s why we do it.”
There’s absolute confidence in his voice.
While it could be conveyed as arrogance, it’s not: it’s certainty.
Coming from someone like Gunnar—someone who has seen Damon in situations like this for years—grants me the permission my body needs to relax a little.
My eyes drift toward the dark windows overlooking the compound grounds. “That doesn’t mean I’m not going to worry.”
“No,” he agrees calmly. “It doesn’t.”
Silence stretches for another few seconds before he adds, “Just know, I don’t envy any man who tries to keep Damon from coming back to you.”
The words bloom warm in my chest, because I know exactly what Damon looked like when he thought he’d lost me.
I’ve seen the violence in him, firsthand.
It was a primal level of terrifying devotion.
I know in my heart that, if it came to it, Damon would crawl back to me with his last breath.
Somehow, that thought both comforts and devastates me.
Suddenly, Gunnar’s phone rings, buzzing across the table. The sound slices through the room so sharply, I nearly jump out of my skin.
“Oh my God,” I gasp, already rushing toward him before he even checks the screen.
Gunnar grabs the phone quickly, and his entire posture sharpens before a momentary relief flashes across his face. “It’s them.”
My heart slams violently against my ribs as he answers and puts the call on speaker.
Static crackles first.
Then Damon’s voice.
“We’ve got him.”
“Oh my God.” The breath leaves my lungs in a sharp rush, relief crashing through my chest so violently, it almost hurts as I squeeze Gunnar’s arm in excitement. “Dad?”
“Mackenzi.” His voice sounds rough and weak.
Tears burn instantly behind my eyes.
“How soon until you get home?” I ask quickly.
My question is answered with silence. While it doesn’t stretch on for minutes, it’s long enough that dread begins crawling back up my spine.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart…” he apologizes shakily.
“Dad…” My voice cracks. “You don’t need to do this for my forgiveness.”
Opposite me, Gunnar’s expression tightens slightly, like he understands where this conversation is going.
And deep down, so do I.
My father huffs a sigh on the other end of the line, pain audible in every breath. “I know,” he says quietly. “This isn’t about forgiveness anymore.”
I close my eyes tightly, dreading what’s coming.
Seeing my father tied up in that basement changed things. Not because it erased what he did. Because it definitely didn’t. There are still years of lies, corruption, and blood attached to his choices. People were hurt and died because of him. I can’t magically forgive him for all of that.
But seeing him bound to that pipe—bleeding and terrified—made me finally understand what he had been trying to protect me from all this time. The monsters are real, not theoretical. They are real men capable of torture, murder, retaliation, brutal enough to haunt someone for a lifetime.
I don’t forgive him, but I do understand why fear consumed him, and why he kept making one terrible decision after another, trying to outrun consequences that were always going to catch up with him eventually.
There were better choices—God, there had to be better choices—but I understand now that not once, since this started a decade ago, did he ever stop trying to protect me.
If anything, maybe that was the problem.
“I need to atone for what I’ve done.” My father’s voice strains, and his breathing falters briefly. “The years of harm I caused. For myself. For you… For your mother. I’m going to do the right thing. I love you, Mackenzi.”
My throat tightens painfully as I try to swallow the lump rising in it. Fresh tears spill down my cheeks. “I love you, too.”
I’m met with silence and look down to see the call has disconnected. I stare at the dark phone in Gunnar’s hand as the reality finally settles fully into my chest.
He’s not coming home.
He might never come home.
A broken sob tears out of me before I can stop it. Gunnar pushes from the couch and wraps his arms around me before he fully makes it to his feet. “Easy,” he murmurs quickly, pulling me into his chest as the first real wave of grief crashes over me.
I can’t stop crying. I bury my face in his shoulder as sobs wrack through me violently, every emotion from the last two days finally detonating at once inside my chest.
Fear.
Relief.
Anger.
Loss.
Love.
“We’ve got you,” Gunnar soothes quietly, his hand cradling the back of my head as I fall apart against him. “Just breathe.”
But breathing hurts. My heart hurts.
Everything hurts.