29. RYAN
RYAN
Clarence keeps looking at me from the driver’s seat as if he thinks I’m going to do something.
What does he think I can do, bundled away in this fucking thing?
Nice touch. I’m sure Father was the one who told him of my aversion to straitjackets—although is anyone into straitjackets?
Never mind, no one answer that. It’s probably someone’s kink.
If it is, go you, but also fuck this thing.
Besides physically constraining me, it holds my mind hostage, too, and I can’t move, doing my best to prevent a panic attack.
It’s not even as tight as Father’s men usually buckle it.
We were in a hurry and … well, I get the impression Clarence doesn’t have a lot of experience in the abduction arena.
He really gives first-day-at-work vibes on that one.
Except I don’t think it counts as abduction when you willingly give yourself over. I borrowed a phone and called Clarence. Stole his number from Tate’s phone while he was out cold. It was a bitch to get the face ID to work, but I managed.
Father wasn’t going to make deals with me, but I knew Clarence would.
As soon as I saw the straitjacket, I knew he’d involved my father.
But it didn’t matter. I didn’t have much leverage other than myself.
I had Clarence transfer all of Tate’s portion of the inheritance and the money he stole from Tate to Gideon, who will then hand it over to Tate.
I took a page out of my husband’s book and used the fact that Gideon would feel like he owed me for stalking and lusting after Cooper, my other fucking half-brother.
I might not know Cooper or have an attachment, but he looks like Griff, and my brain can’t seem to wrap its head around there being a difference.
When Tate finds out that I recovered the money he’s been after for so long, he’ll be pissed that he wasn’t the one to do it.
And maybe about a few other things, too.
But I’ll be far away by then. I don’t know where. I couldn’t negotiate the same deal Tate had. My guess is it’s back to Father’s conditioning camp until they can figure out how to sever Tate’s and my marriage, and I can marry Kline.
I won’t be lucky enough to enjoy conditioning at home this time, though. He’ll probably send me somewhere remote where no one, not even Tate, can find me.
My heart threatens to crack.
Can’t think about that right now.
But no matter how much I push the thoughts away, my body refuses to relent. It’s wrung out, insides like they’ve been twisted until they tore, plagued with the exhaustion you get from emotional fatigue. It has me on edge, gut rot churning my stomach, and an ache for Tate so bad I want to die.
Maybe I will.
So, no. I’m not going to do shit. Clarence can stop fucking looking at me.
“Is it working?” I ask.
“Is what working?” he snaps.
“The revenge. Do you feel better?” Tate won’t be happy that I’m gone, at first, but just like with his doll, he’ll come to a place of acceptance that I’m gone.
He’ll move on with his life. He won’t go off the deep end because he’s obsessed with me.
He’ll never be forced to choose between his brother and me again.
“How can I feel better? Jasper’s gone. Tate murdered him. I’ll never feel better.”
“Then what’s the point of all this?”
“Justice.”
That’s what I thought I was doing on the ice. I already did what I had to do; the money was in Gideon’s account. I’d bargained for that last game with Shadowridge, because I’m weak and had to see Tate one last time, even though I couldn’t touch him.
Then McKinnon was there, and he became the symbol for everything I should have had. Loving, functional family, perfect hockey career, that stupid never-falter smile. He even got a happily ever after with his very own VanCourt.
That was supposed to be my future.
I had to smash it into the ground.
Justice.
Not gonna lie. Punching McKinnon felt good for a minute. It was a hockey game after all—the perfect place to take out your life on willing human punching bags—but I crashed out. Went too far.
Then I just felt like shit.
I close my eyes, trying not to think, letting numbness take over my body. When I open them again, it’s work not to let cloying terror take over. The car’s curling up a long driveway, approaching an old wrought iron gate.
We’re at Kline Manor.
Iwas given a set of beige scrubs. The hazard-free kind of garments you wear in a psychiatric hospital. Then I was told to shower. The door had to stay open while a few of Kline’s guards and Clarence waited outside.
As soon as I was clean and dressed, I was hobbled with a set of ankle shackles, so I couldn’t run, and chain handcuffs to bind my wrists.
Clarence made a show of tucking the key neatly into his pocket.
Not ideal, but better than that fucking straitjacket, though I’m sure I haven’t seen the last of it.
I’m led down to the dining room, even though it’s got to be somewhere around midnight. The game ended sometime after ten p.m. It’s the world’s worst dinner party.
Kline, of course, ghastly scar on his face, red and angry. Tate couldn’t have fed him much either, a shell of who he was when I was here months ago. But otherwise, he’s cleaned up. He seems to have kept his hair longer, but the rest of him is decked in his usual suit and tie.
Griffon is next to his twin, Cooper, dressed in matching green polo shirts and black dress pants. Did someone make them do that? Diabolical.
My father and Clarence are here, of course, seated at the end of the table. But it’s the surprise guest that fills my veins with raging hot anger.
“What the fuck is Luke doing here?” He wasn’t supposed to know. “He was supposed to be left out of this.”
“Oh, was he?” Clarence says. “I forgot.”
“You lying fucking bastard.”
“Sit down, Ryan,” Father says. “You’re embarrassing yourself.”
Luke’s slumped in the chair at an awkward angle. What the fuck did they give him? His arms aren’t tied down, but I can’t see his feet. Unless they went with a horse tranquilizer, if they don’t have him restrained in some way, they’re cooked. I don’t think the laws of bullets apply to VanCourts.
I do sit down, because if I don’t, I’m going to do something stupid like attempt to finish what I started on McKinnon on someone else. They’d all deserve it, but it probably wouldn’t go well for me. My knuckles still throb from pounding on his cage. Not my brightest.
“What’s the big plan?” I ask.
“We’re going to eat,” Father says.
“This supposed to be a last meal kind of thing?”
“Yes.”
“Wow, didn’t think you had it in you to be kind.”
He scrunches his nose and massages his forehead. I can practically hear his thoughts. He only has to endure my disobedience for a few more hours.
“I don’t. You don’t deserve it. As your future husband, Kline insisted. You’re getting picked up tonight. And your retraining begins.”
“Do I get to know where I’m going?”
“No.”
“How long?”
“As long as it takes. When you’re ready to come back, you’ll marry Kline.”
“Good luck getting Tate to sign divorce papers.” I’m hanging onto that. It’s the one thing I’ll take with me. Tate is my husband. Forever.
Father smiles. “That’s easy, Ryan. I’m the only one who’ll know where you are. He can comply, or things get worse for you.”
“You really don’t learn any new tricks, huh? Can I drink this?” I reach for the wine with both hands since they’re chained together. Not supposed to have alcohol, but it’s my last dinner before I’m shipped off to hell, and it’s in front of me.
“It’s for you,” Father says.
I catch the smallest headshake from Griff.
There must be something in it. Wow. Wherever I’m going, they want me knocked the fuck out.
Or high. I pretend to take a sip. A little remains on my lips, which I’m forced to lick away.
Hope that’s not enough to do anything. If I’m being sent to hell, I’ll go with my dignity while I still have it, thanks.
Fuck, though. Anything could be drugged. The food, the water. I guess they can just pin me down and shoot me up, but this is easier. Something I wouldn’t have noticed.
Luke stirs. But his eyelids droop, having a hard time dragging himself out from under the drug.
“C-Clarence?” he slurs. “What’re? Where am I?”
“We’re having dinner, Luke, remember?” Clarence says.
Luke’s brow furrows. “I … no. Where’s McKinnon?” He looks for him, gears turning. When he doesn’t find him, he tries to stand. Ah, so he is tied down.
“Ace is fine, Luke. He’s at school. We were here to discuss Tate.”
There’s a sharp grunt and then another from the direction of the door. Breath leaving lungs. A choked sound. Something heavy drops to the floor outside, and then another, a body, one of Kline’s guards, slumps halfway inside.
“Rude,” a voice says from the doorway. Tate steps over the body, sauntering in. “If you’re going to discuss Tate, you should at least pour him a glass of wine.”