Chapter 29
twenty-nine
The door slams hard enough to rattle my insides.
I’m shaking. Brain splitting into seven directions so fast I can’t capture one thought. But I’ve heard enough.
I believe Scout about the dean. I do.
But the president planted something in my head—and I can’t dig it out.
Paranoia.
Why suggest it unless she wants me to doubt my own wife? Or unless she knows something I don’t.
I have to protect us. And right now, the safest thing we can do is to follow the orders. Not make waves. Getting married and wearing bracelets? That’s not a big deal. I’m not sure why Scout’s making it one.
If they’re tracking us…why? Is it just to monitor her cycles to alert us for the best time to have a baby? My head throbs with a deep ache. Why do they want us to have a child so badly?
I need to stop questioning this. Because questions? They won’t keep her safe.
If we don’t obey, things could get dangerous. The president could send the Amethyst Order after us.
Either way…at this very moment? Ayan Dutta’s father looks a hell of a lot like a problem. One the university won’t solve. So I’m suddenly eager to fix it myself.
For my wife.
Valen’s bored. As usual. Pacing like the walls are too close. Checking his phone like it’s got the game on. It doesn’t. I checked.
Nico’s smoking slowly. Leaning against the garage wall like he’s holding it up. Jumpsuit saturated with oil. Hands covered in thick gloves.
“You could set the whole place on fire. You know that, right?”
He shakes his head and rolls his eyes. “Sure, Dad. You want one?” Tapping the pack, he holds a cigarette out for me, but I shake my head.
“No.”
“I want one!” Oz, Valen’s cousin, bounds forward to snag it. With his eyes scrutinizing me, he wipes his hands off on his dirty jumpsuit before lighting up. As he saunters by, he gives me a wink and blows the smoke right in my face.
“These aren’t the good ratchet straps,” I grunt as I tighten the buckle.
“Why are you complaining? I hauled,” Nico snaps, looking at his soaked gloves. Cigarette perched between his teeth. “Toss me those towels.”
Oz throws him a handful of old rags.
“This is a fucking mess,” Oz spits out, waving the lit end of the butt around the dirty garage. “Not to mention, all those dark stains.”
“Peroxide.”
We all stop and glance over at Val. He shrugs. “Peroxide should work on them.”
“Do you have a vat of it?” I ask with a wry expression.
He tilts his head. “Give me five and I will.”
Oz clears his throat. “So what I was saying is that you either fish or you flop. And if a guy is a flopper? I want that d.” He skips across the room and plops on a rolling stool, a wide grin covering his pierced-up face.
I shake my head. “You fuck dudes with non-existent dicks all the time, bro.”
Oz mocks a gasp, hand to his chest. “How would you know?”
Nico nods in agreement. “Because you complain about them constantly.”
“It was like an innie.” I mimic his voice.
“Felt more like a clit,” Nico chimes in with a smug smile.
“How would you know what a clit feels like?” Valen astutely asks, his tone genuine and careful. His mask covers up his expression, but I can sense one raised eyebrow.
Oz helps me with the knot I’m working on, but quietly murmurs, “I’ve been in a few group piles. And, unfortunately, some clitties got in the way.”
I scowl in disgust at the same time as Nico chokes on his smoke.
“Dude. Please never use that word again,” I say through gritted teeth. “Gross.”
“Clitties? You don’t like clitties? Thought you liked the taste of them, Mr. President.” He laughs, tugging the band tighter.
“I do, but just… Can we drop it? Especially…” I pull on the band and tighten it, but finally give up. I sigh heavily. “Because I’m a married man. And you’re not talking about my wife. Not in that way.”
Under his breath, Nico mutters, “Should’ve gotten the other clamps.”
“Peroxide barrel on the way,” Valen says quietly. Robotically.
“Is it—” I ponder.
“Quiet, smooth, and clean,” he says with reassurance. “Should we call Lex to dispose of this when we’re done?”
I take a deep inhale of motor oil and old engine fumes. “No.” Poking the shoulder in front of me, the man groans. “This is not official Delta business. Just the four of us are involved. No more.”
“Well, five…for now.” Oz says, dramatically waving a pistol through the air.
I hold up a hand to stop him from doing something rash. “I got this.”
“Do you? Because you’re going to need these towels,” Nico says, dropping the pile and shoving them toward me with his boot.
The bandages don’t hold. Red blooms through faster than we can wrap. Dragging Dean Dutta in here left a trail that may take all night to clean. He made this happen. Getting rowdy to the point I had to pistol whip him.
I stand in front of him, my hands on my hips. His eyes are dazed but staring straight into mine. Fortunately, my coveralls protect my clothes, so my trousers don’t get blood on them.
Bored, I pull out my Glock and rack the slide. “Any final words? Oh…” I chuckle to myself. “The gag. I almost forgot.”
Without removing the oily rag from his mouth, I press the barrel of my handgun to his forehead. He cries with fear, tears leaking over his cheeks. I squeeze the trigger without a moment of hesitation, then smile.
“Never mind. No one touches my wife and speaks again.”
His head ricochets with the bullet, then hangs. Body slumps. More blood seeps through all the bandages we’d wrapped him in and tied him up with so we can put him into the acid barrels in the back.
There are advantages to owning multiple garages. Privacy is one of them.
I could’ve delegated this task away to Lex Lynx and other initiates of Delta. Could’ve made Dean Dutta disappear quietly. But if someone’s going down for protecting my wife, it’s going to be me.
I’d want them to know who did it. And why.
Fucker didn’t deserve to live after messing with Scout.
And now that he’s dead? I feel a moment of relief. At least he won’t bother her anymore.
Relishing the silence after shoving his body in the barrels and cleaning up the place, I’m the last to leave. I ditch my coveralls, burning them, then step outside. The crisp winter air scrapes my lungs clean. Peace eases the tension in my shoulders.
It was a good day’s work.
I stroll toward my loaner Lexus but pause when my phone buzzes in my pocket. Scout’s calling. Filled with hope that she’s forgiven me, I answer with a smile.
“Hey, tulip—”
“Apollo? Help me.”
My heart pounds against my ribcage. “Wha— Where are you?”
A choked reply cuts through the phone. “I’m out on state route one fifty. And…”
I can’t breathe, but am already revving the engine and pulling out on the street. Foot flooring the pedal. “And what, baby?”
“Someone’s following me.”