Chapter 7
Blake
I’ve found myself in an uncomfortable position.
And I hate it.
We spend the rest of the day at the safe house planning for the Kingsley Christmas gala–exits, contingencies, backup plans for when the primary plan inevitably goes to hell.
My sister arrives around three with a few shopping bags of clothes and essentials I asked her to pick up and a grim expression that says the situation's worse than we thought.
“Why do you look like the Grinch who stole Christmas?” I say to her.
“Because somebody has me out shopping for couture when we have more important things to worry about.”
“I’m sorry,” Peyton apologizes. “But he won’t let me go home to get my stuff.”
“Don’t mind me. I’m just worried,” Talia replies.
“Edmund Kingsley doesn't do personal invitations," she says, handing Peyton the bags.
“Make sure I got everything you needed,” she tells her, then goes back to talking about Kingsley.
“The fact that he's reaching out directly means he's either desperate or confident. Maybe both."
"What's his play?" I ask.
"Best guess? He wants to control the narrative. If Peyton shows up at his gala, on his territory, it looks like she's seeking his approval or that they’ve come to some mutual agreement.”
“So it’s optics," Peyton says flatly. "Everything's always about optics with men like him.”
“You’re right. Just like in politics, optics are everything in Wintervale.” Talia pulls out her laptop and shows us surveillance photos from the Evergreen event. "The HC council will be there, every founding family, and Silas."
"Of course he will." My jaw tightens. “So, Nonno has actually given that clown full control of the family?”
“Silas wasn’t given anything. He just took it.
He's been making calls all day, consolidating support, calling in favors.
Word is he's planning something big." Talia looks at me with concern.
"Blake, he's positioning this as a loyalty test in an effort to ice you out.
He's telling people you've either gone rogue or you're playing a deeper game.
Either way, the gala is your chance to prove which side you're on. "
"I'm on her side." I don't look at Peyton, but I feel her presence beside me like gravity. "That's the only side that matters."
The weight of my words doesn’t go unnoticed by Talia, who looks between me and Peyton with a raised eyebrow. She shoots me a silent sisterly look of warning that she’s only given me a few times in our lives.
“That's what I more or less told Silas,” she finally responds. “But he didn't take it well."
We work through scenarios until my head hurts, and Peyton's yawning into her coffee. Talia leaves around eight, promising to have additional security in place, people she trusts, which in Wintervale is a very short list. When the door closes behind her, the silence feels heavier.
“You and your sister have an interesting relationship.”
“Meaning?”
“Who’s older? I can’t tell.”
“I’m the oldest, but she thinks she is.”
Peyton yawns again, and the circles under her eyes are deeper than they were yesterday.
"You should sleep," I tell her. "Tomorrow's going to be brutal."
"So should you."
"I don't sleep much."
"I've noticed." She moves to where I'm standing by the window, looking out at Wintervale's lights. "You've been watching that building for the last hour. What is it?"
I point to a structure three blocks south, which is abandoned and boarded up. It’s in a part of town that the city neglects because tourists never see it. They promised to demolish it, but it never happened. "White Ember or what's left of it."
Her hand finds my arm. "That's the warehouse you burned?”
"Yeah." The word comes out rougher than I intend. “I’m thinking they left the building standing as a reminder, maybe. Or a warning."
"Of what?"
"That some things can't be burned away." I turn to face her. "I saved six girls that night, but there were others. Ones who'd already been moved, ones I didn't know about, ones I couldn't reach in time. They're still out there. Still being trafficked. Still suffering."
"That's not your fault."
"Isn't it? I knew what Silas was doing. I knew for weeks before I acted.
I told myself I needed proof, needed to be sure, needed a plan.
" My hands fist at my sides. "But the truth is, I was scared. Scared of what walking away would cost. Being in this family is all I’ve ever known.
But while I was being scared, girls were suffering. "
"Blake." Peyton steps closer, frames my face with her hands. "You were one man against an entire system. You did what you could. You saved the ones you could reach."
"It wasn't enough."
"It was everything to them. To Sophia. To the others.
" Her thumbs brush my cheekbones. "You're not responsible for your uncle’s sins.
You're only responsible for your own choices, and you chose to fight.
That's more than most people do. I've spent my whole life watching powerful people, including my own father, choose comfort over courage.
Choose silence over action. Choose themselves over everyone else.
" Her eyes are fierce, unwavering. "You're not like them. "
I want to believe her. I want to accept the absolution she's offering, like it's that simple. But my guilt doesn't work that way. It doesn't care about logic or perspective or how many people tell you it's not your fault. It just sits in your chest like smoke, poisoning everything.
"Come here," Peyton says, taking my hand.
"Where—"
"Just come."
She leads me away from the window, away from the ghost of White Ember, to the couch where we've been working all day. She guides me down on the couch and straddles her deliciously thick thighs across my lap, facing me.
“Talk to me," she says. "Not about tomorrow. Not about strategy. Just talk."
"About what?" I lay my hands carefully on her hips.
"Anything. Everything. I want to know who you are when you’re not being a weapon or a protector or a Delano." She settles herself, lying on my chest like she belongs there. "Tell me some real shit. Something you've never told anyone."
It's a dangerous request. The kind that opens doors I've kept locked for good reasons. But sitting here with Peyton warm against me, her faith in me unshakeable and probably undeserved, I find myself answering anyway.
“When I was a kid, I wanted to be a teacher," I say quietly.
"Before I truly understood who my family was in this town, I wanted to teach history.
Help kids understand that the world they inherited wasn't inevitable.
That people made choices that led here, and different choices could lead somewhere else. "
Peyton's quiet for a moment. "What changed?"
"My father supported my dream and let me go to college. I honestly believe he didn’t want this life for me, Talia, or Lucas.
But then my father unexpectedly died. I was nineteen, halfway through college in Syracuse, and Silas took my father’s place as the heir apparent to the family business.
I remember it like yesterday. He called and said the family needed me.
That teaching was a luxury we couldn't afford.
" I stare at the ceiling. "So I came home like a good son.
I learned the business, and I learned how to fight because that's what Delanos do.
And I told myself it was temporary. That I'd go back eventually. "
"But you didn't."
"No, because somewhere along the way, I stopped being the person who wanted to teach kids about history and became the person making it. The violent kind. The kind that gets reenacted on crime shows instead of textbooks."
Her head lies on my shoulder, and her arms circle my waist. "You could still teach one day.”
"No one wants to hire a teacher who's killed people."
"Maybe not. But they might want one who understands that history isn't clean. That progress requires people willing to fight for it. That sometimes doing the right thing means getting your hands bloody."
My hands settle on her ass. "That's a dark philosophy for a senator's daughter."
"I've spent my whole life in rooms with men who keep their hands clean by paying others to do their dirty work. At least you own what you are."
"And what am I?"
"Dangerous. Damaged. Determined to save people who don't even know they need saving." She smiles. "Also kind of heroic, but don't let it go to your head."
"Heroic." I almost laugh. "That's not the word most people use."
"Most people don't know you like I do."
"You've known me three days.”
"Longest three days of my life." She's teasing now, but there's truth underneath. "And in those three days, you've protected me, taught me, trusted me, and kissed me in a hallway like the world was ending. That's more honesty than I've gotten from people I've known for years."
"Peyton, tomorrow night is going to be dangerous. Kingsley didn't invite you to make peace. He invited you to assert dominance. To remind everyone in that room that he controls Wintervale."
"I understand that.”
"And Silas will be there. My family. People who want to use you or kill you or both." My hand tightens on hers. "If something goes wrong, if you're in danger, I need you to promise me you'll run. Not fight. Just run."
“Why would I run? You literally just taught me how to fight,” she grins.
We both laugh.
Then she studies my face for a long moment. “I know we’re walking into a lion’s den, but I’m not worried. Your uncle asked you to protect me for a reason.”
“Yeah, for his own fucked up reasons.”
“Sure, but think about that. Protecting me is worth millions of dollars to him, so he asked the best man for the job to do it. I’m going to trust that.”
“You shouldn’t trust it.”
“Too late.” She shifts her hips, hands on my shoulders, face inches from mine. “If I’m in danger. You’re my best chance at surviving it. Running isn’t.”