Chapter 3 #2
This one's harder. I’m sure the truth about Peyton’s parents is complicated, bloody, and tied to family secrets that predate me. But I nod anyway.
"I'll tell you what I know. And what I don't know, we'll find out together."
"Together." She tests the word. "That implies a partnership."
"It does."
"I don't do well with partners. They tend to have their own agendas."
"So do I."
"Which is?"
"Keeping you alive. Everything else is negotiable."
A knock on the door interrupts whatever she was about to say. Three sharp raps, a pause, then two more.
A family code.
I move to the door, check the peephole to make sure it isn’t Silas, then curse under my breath.
"Who is it?" Peyton asks.
"My brother. Luca." I unlock the door, open it just enough to see him. "Bad timing."
Luca Delano stands in the hallway looking like a mini-me in a designer suit.
Twenty-seven, reckless, with our father's eyes and our mother's tendency toward self-destruction.
He's got a split lip and bruised knuckles, which look fresh, probably from tonight. I haven’t seen him since I left town, and for a moment, I feel like a shitty brother.
"Silas is looking for you," he says without preamble. "Wants you at the estate. Now."
"I'm busy."
"He knows." Luca's gaze flicks past me to where Peyton's standing. Something changes in his expression. There’s a recognition, calculation, and something else I can't read. "He knows that she’s here and what you're doing. And he's pissed."
"He'll get over it."
"Blake." Luca's voice drops, urgent. "He sent Domenic and six guys to Talia's place. They tore it apart looking for the Kingsley files.”
The hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention. If anyone lays a hand on my sister, I will fuck them up.
“Dude, she’s my sister too, and she’s fine; she wasn't there, but Silas is serious. This isn't just about control anymore. He wants the girl, and he's willing to destroy everything to get her."
Ice slides through my veins. "When?"
"An hour ago. Maybe less." Luca glances at Peyton again, then back to me. "Look, I don't know what's going on. Don't want to know. But whatever you're planning, do it fast, because Silas isn't playing by family code anymore. He's playing to win."
"He always was."
"Yeah, but this is different. He's scared. And scared men do stupid things. Especially scared Delanos.”
“I’ve never seen a scared Delano,” I scoff. “Sometimes, I wonder if that fucker is actually related to us.”
My little brother touches his split lip and winces. "I tried to slow them down. Told them you were following orders and doing your job. But Domenic didn't buy it, and neither did Nico."
"Nico was there?"
"Nico's been in Silas's pocket since you left. You know that."
I did know that. Doesn't make it easier to hear.
"Thanks for the warning," I say.
Luca nods, starts to leave, then stops. He looks at me with something complicated in his eyes. My kid brother, who used to follow me around, who learned to fight because I taught him, who still carries the weight of the choices I made that affected him.
"Whatever happened at White Ember," he says quietly. "Whatever you did or didn't do. I never blamed you for leaving. Just for not taking me with you."
Then he's gone, footsteps echoing down the stairs.
I lock the door and turn back to Peyton. She's standing exactly where I left her, glass in hand, expression unreadable. I reach for my own glass. If she weren’t here, I’d probably down the entire bottle.
"White Ember," she says. "The warehouse you burned?”
"Yeah."
"Your brother knows about it?”
"Everyone knows about it. They just tell different versions depending on who's listening."
"And the true version?"
I move to the window, look down at the crowd below. Bodies moving, drinks flowing, people forgetting their problems for a few hours before the morning reminds them why they came here in the first place.
"The true version is that I was supposed to look the other way," I say. "Silas was moving girls through a fight logistics network. Trafficking them under the cover of a legitimate business. I found out. Confronted him. He told me to stand down or I'd regret it."
"You didn't stand down."
"I burned the warehouse. Got six girls out. A man died in the fire—Merrick Vale, Silas's accountant. The one who kept the books clean." I turn to face her. "I didn't mean to kill him. But I'm not sorry he's dead."
"And Silas?"
"Silas wrote a different narrative, which made me the villain, and put a price on my return. The only reason he let me walk away was that killing me would have started a war Nonno didn't want."
“Nonno?”
“My grandfather.”
"But now you're back."
"Now I'm back. And Silas thinks I owe him for letting me live."
Peyton sets down her glass, crosses to where I'm standing. Close. Too close. The kind of distance that means something.
"You don't owe him anything," she says. Her voice is quiet, certain. "Men like that, they take and take until there's nothing left. You don't owe them. You survive them."
"So did you."
"Not yet." She looks up at me, and her eyes are dark, fierce, full of something that looks dangerously like trust. "But I'm planning to."
The space between us feels charged, dangerous. Like standing too close to a fire you know you'll get burned from, but the warmth is worth it.
I should step back and put a respectable distance between us. I need to remember that she's a job, a responsibility, and a line I can't cross without consequences.
Instead, I reach up and brush a strand of hair from her face. My fingers have a fucking mind of their own. I graze her cheek just barely, just enough to feel warm skin and the sharp intake of her breath.
"You will," I say. "Survive, I mean. I'll make sure of it."
"Why do you care?" The question's barely a whisper, and I swear I notice her pupils dilating.
Do I affect her?
"Because someone should. And because—" I stop, trying to find words for something I don't fully understand myself. "Because when I look at you, I see the fight I walked away from. The one I should have finished. And maybe keeping you alive is how I finally do."
She doesn't move away or tell me I'm wrong or that I'm making this about me instead of her. Instead, she leans into my touch, just slightly, just enough to matter.
"Blake Delano," she murmurs. "Reluctant hero with a martyr complex. This should be interesting."
"I'm not a hero."
"Good." Her lips curve. "I don't want to be rescued. I want someone to teach me how to fight just as dirty as they do. If I’m going to claim my spot in this town, I want to be ready to battle for it.”
Damn, this woman is sexy as fuck.
And man, that’s going to be a problem.
"I can do that."
"Then we have a deal."
She offers her hand, and I take it. Hold it. Feel the warmth of her skin and the steady pulse at her wrist and the particular electricity that comes from touching someone who might destroy you and deciding you don't care.
Outside, Wintervale celebrates the height of the Christmas season. Inside, we shake hands on a war neither of us is sure we can win.
But we'll fight anyway.
Because that's what survivors do.
We fight. We bleed. We refuse to break.
And sometimes, if we're lucky, we find someone willing to fight beside us.
I'm starting to think I might be that lucky.
Or that damned.
With Peyton Quinn, it's probably a bit of both.