Chapter 39
Bastien Montclaire
Every girl should get what she wants for her birthday.
The morning light cuts through the kitchen window in sharp angles. Laurette sits at the table, hair pinned back, coffee going cold beside her.
She doesn’t say his name anymore. But I know she thinks of him. Too often.
She wanted justice for Emily Westbrook. For Hannah Sorensen. For every girl the law forgot the second it became inconvenient.
Now she wants something else. And today, I’m going to give it to her.
She watches me over the rim of her coffee cup, her eyes tracking my movements.
I don’t say happy birthday. Instead, I kiss the top of her head. “Get dressed, Babygirl.”
“Where are we going?”
I let the question hang a beat before answering. “Somewhere quiet.”
“Okay.”
Ten minutes later, she slides into the passenger seat without a word. The road ahead unfolds. Halfway there, she reaches over and rests her hand on my thigh.
The warehouse waits at the edge of the river—steel bones, cracked windows, rust creeping up from the foundation.
I park near the back, where the ground turns soft with river mist and gravel crunches under the tires.
Laurette steps out, scanning the place. She’s piecing something together, but the shape isn’t clear yet.
“Well, this is definitely somewhere quiet.”
I step forward, reach for the steel door, and pull it open with a groan that echoes down the length of the dark.
She hesitates at the threshold. Not a full stop—a pause—enough for me to step back and place a hand against the small of her back.
“You’re safe. I promise.”
My girl looks at me. “I know. I’m always safe with you. That’s something I never doubt.”
She steps in, and the vibe changes immediately.
Inside, everything’s ready. Plastic on the floor. A single chair under a hanging bulb that sways back and forth.
Laurette stops when she sees what’s waiting. And everything in her goes still.
He’s there, tied to the chair. Wrists bound behind him. Ankles secured. Fresh bruises tell me he struggled to free himself while I was gone.
As if…
Evan lifts his head when we enter, defiant, even now. I don’t glance his way. Instead, I wait to see Laurette’s reaction.
There’s no gasp. No step back. No flare of shock. Just a stillness that settles into her spine.
Her breath evens, and her shoulders square.
I’ve seen her this way before—in court, when the room turns hostile and she stops trying to persuade anyone. This is the same calm.
Over the past months, her words have come back to me.
I wish I could watch him die.
I wish I could be there.
Each time she spoke, I listened.
I step closer to her now and ask it plainly. No games. No theater.
“Do you want to watch?”
She doesn’t look my way when she answers. She keeps her eyes on him.
“Yes.”
No hesitation or doubt.
I don’t touch her. I don’t lead. Because this is her moment.
So I step back into the shadows and let her walk forward—measured and composed—sneakers padding against the concrete.
Evan tracks her like prey, pretending to be a predator. He’s unaware she’s already made peace with what’s about to happen.
Laurette stops just short of him. No theatrics or emotion. Her voice is flat when it comes.
“You drugged Emily Westbrook. You took her into a room, raped her while she could not speak or fight, then you left her to bleed on the floor.”
Evan smirks.
“Hannah Sorensen. Same drug. Same m.o. Same lies when her body was found in a dumpster with your DNA inside her.”
He snorts and doesn’t deny it.
“And the worst part? You didn’t even bother changing your pattern. You never needed to. Because you were so confident that you’d get away with it again.”
“And I did.” Evan laughs, shaking his head. “All I did was fuck a few party girls. You’re the one who built a career out of it. So answer this question, ADA. Who’s really exploiting whom?”
My hands curl into fists, but Laurette doesn’t flinch.
“Did you get off when you watched the video, or did your psycho boyfriend have to help with that part?”
He smiles as though this is sport to him. Like we’re not here to end his life. And that’s when I see him clearly. He’s not just entitled and dangerous.
He’s evolving.
Evan isn’t impulsive. He isn’t stupid. He’s patient and adaptive. Waiting for the next loophole to crawl through, the next girl to silence, the next opportunity to graduate from rapist to killer.
Emily probably wasn’t his first.
Hannah definitely isn’t his last.
And suddenly this isn’t about revenge anymore. It’s prevention.
I reach for the knife. No ceremony or speech. Just cold steel drawn from its sheath.
He watches it with bravado that’s thinning.
“This is cute. Real dramatic. But we both know it ends with me walking out of here.”
“Does it?” I ask.
I step in front of him and position the tip of the knife over his heart.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Evan shouts.
This was always meant to be mine while Laurette watches. But then she moves forward.
“Whoa, man, hang on. What is happening?”
Laurette doesn’t flinch or ask what I’m doing. She places her hand over mine.
A decision.
Our skin meets. Blood-warm. Breath synced.
“Together?” I ask.
She nods. “Together.”
She presses. No hesitation. No words. Just pressure.
“Are you insane? Stop! Somebody help!” Evan screams.
I let her guide the blade. Not because I need help. Because I want this to be hers, too.
The knife sinks in smoothly—deeply—straight into the chest through the heart of the man who thought he could survive us.
The breath goes out of him in a single, wet exhale. And it’s done.
I lock eyes with her, and she doesn’t flinch. And in that moment, I see her completely. Not broken. Not healed. She’s aligned with me, with the dark, and with the kind of justice no system could ever give her.
There’s shared blood on our hands now.
My strong girl doesn’t look away or tremble.
She’s stepped into my world, and it doesn’t show on her like it should. The kill hasn’t stripped anything away. Instead, it’s given her something back.
We’re both breathing hard, but not from panic. It’s certainty.
“Thank you.”
“Happy birthday, Babygirl.”
She tilts her chin up, and I kiss her. Not desperately or wildly. It’s slow and claiming. A seal pressed into flesh. A vow.
When we part, her eyes stay on mine, steady and unrepentant. And I’m certain of one thing with brutal clarity. She’s not the woman I protect from darkness. She’s the woman I want walking through it with me.
Laurette Devereux is the perfect woman for me.
But until then… turn the page and enjoy an excerpt of Her Debt. Tristan is waiting.