That millisecond of stone-cold serenity in her eyes is gone in a blink.
I see it for what it is. Delores is sick of hiding. She’s done with a life of laying low, watching the clock tick toward her end years. She’s finished with being the defenseless old lady who lives behind our pantry, and oh, most of all…
She’s done being a victim to stupid, cruel men.
Even with his hands bound and kicked off-kilter, Rath almost gets there before it happens.
Almost.
Ms. Crane moves so fast that I doubt even Tweaker Ted sees it coming. A lot of people don’t know this about Delores Crane, but she’s actually a pretty proficient fighter when it comes to self-defense. They think because she got her teeth kicked in by her old man all the time that she’s just some frail little doormat with a bad attitude.
They’re wrong.
She snatches his wrist and twists, jamming the blade right into his gut. “Eat shit, you motherfucker!”
“Ah!” he howls, lurching forward to grab for her, but the sound of a metal click stops everyone where they stand.
We’d know the sound of a hammer being cocked anywhere.
“What in the heavens is going on in here?” a voice rings out, footsteps thumping into the room. I have to blink through the rush of receding panic to make out a face. When I do, I don’t feel relieved. I don’t feel afraid.
Mostly, I just feel really fucking confused.
“Posey!” Tristian works his way to his knees, nodding at the guy, still hunched over and panting. “Shoot him! Quick!” He tosses me a glance, and I see the same hope in his eyes. Story is still safe upstairs behind that locked door.
Posey’s face sets into a deep frown as she approaches the intruder, and it clicks for me before she even rests her palm on his back. She’s wearing black, from head to toe, hair mussed—probably from the mask.
She gives the guy an affectionate little pet.
“Son of a bitch.” I watch, stunned and off balance, as she raises the gun—not to the guy, but at me. “You’re together.”
Tristian and Rath catch on next, both collapsing in disbelief against the wall. “What the fuck,” Rath breathes.
“Put the knife down, Delores,” she says serenely.
Ms. Crane stares at my stepmother for a long beat, then throws the knife to the ground with a defeated clatter. “Well, this just turned into a different fight.”
“She fucking stabbed me!” the masked man exclaims through gnashed teeth.
Posey carefully lifts his shirt, cooing, “Let’s have a look.” This wound is a hell of a lot gushier than the first one, and from the way Posey pauses at the sight of it, she’s probably not expecting something this severe. Sighing, she slips off one of his gloves and presses it into the wound. “You know better than to let Delores Crane near a knife, sweetie.”
He grunts, pressing his bloody hand over hers. “Can we kill them now?”
Posey looks at him. Throughout the whole exchange, she’s kept the barrel of that gun fixed on me, but now she lowers it, saying, “In a moment. First, you should be thanked for a job so well done.”
I scoff, because this guy’s one good stiff breeze away from collapsing.
But then she works her fingers beneath his mask, slowly lifting it. When his mouth appears, she tilts her head to kiss it. It’s during that disgusting moment that the three of us look for a new angle. She’s distracted. The gun is down. We could probably rush her, get it away, and then—
And then she rips the rest of the mask off.
It’s not the shock that it should be, but maybe I’m reeling from both being tased and my stepmother holding a gun at me.
When his face connects to the voice, the shoes, the luxury watch, the build, it makes perfect sense. He’s such a fixture around here, as invisible to me as the grandfather clock in the hallway upstairs. As unassuming as the empty vase on the mantel. As innocuous as the rug below our feet.
Martin.
“You’ve got to be fucking with me,” Tristian says, sneering as Posey breaks away. “How the hell did you even get in here?!”
“Oh, I never left,” Martin says, tossing his mask aside. He leans back on the desk—the same desk he was standing in front of eight hours ago as I rattled off a list of duties—and grunts as he inspects his shiny new stab wound. Breathlessly, he adds, “You really had this place locked down tight, Mercer. I waited weeks to finally get an in after I left that finger upstairs. Must have really shaken you up.”
I frantically think back to the meeting, leading out Tristian’s dad, Lionel Lucia, and the mayor. That’s the problem with Martin. He’s fucking wallpaper—there, but not. In the company of Kings, he’s so easy to overlook. I invited him in and never escorted him out.
Goddamn it.
But there’s one thing I’m almost sure of. “You’re not Ted,” I say, giving him a derisive look. Martin was still a little law school peon when Story began getting his letters.
“No, he isn’t,” a voice rings out.
Tristian, Rath, and I have known each other for a long time, and we’ve done a lot things together. There’s almost nothing we haven’t been through. We’ve even been inside of the same girl, at the same time, and still.
I don’t think we’ve ever been as connected as we are at this moment, hearing her voice.
The heart pounding relief flows between us like an avalanche, like marionettes having their strings cut, and even before we look to the door to set our eyes on her, the rhythm of our exhales is its own language, and it’s saying she’s okay.
It’s begging, run.
She coolly enters the parlor, dressed in a plain t-shirt and jeans, her feet bare. Her gaze passes over us, one by one, taking us in. Her hair is still wet from our shower, but it’s hanging in a smooth braid over her shoulder, and when she extends her arm, lifting a finger toward her mother, she doesn’t even look surprised at the scene in front of her. “She is.”
Tristian’s jaw works around the same panic I’m feeling. “She’s what?”
“Ted,” Story clarifies, watching her mother dab at a cut on Martin’s forehead. “It was her all along. She was just trying to protect me. I see that now.” She pauses, eyes growing tight at the corners. “Although, I wasn’t expecting Martin to be here.”
Ms. Crane snorts, propping herself in the far corner. “Any port in a storm, right, Posey?”
Posey straightens, swinging the barrel of the gun to her, but Story steps in front of it, batting the gun down. “No. We’re not going to hurt her.”
The back of my teeth ache from how hard I’m grinding them. “Bit late for that, little sister.”
She tilts her head just-so—just enough for me to make out the curve of her cheek. “Killian, please.”
A sick realization builds in my gut, and I glare at Posey. “This fucking bitch tried to kill me. She killed Viv.” Rage wracks though me. “She killed my dad.”
“And then she tried to frame us for it,” Rath adds, edging toward Ms. Crane.
Posey lowers the gun, narrowing her eyes as she skirts around her daughter. “This should have gone a lot smoother, you know. I wanted you out of the picture before I got rid of Daniel. I didn’t particularly care how.” She flings a hand out, which is when I notice the gun. Silver. Small. If the light were better—if I were closer—I bet I could make out the engraving. Lady’s Choice. “If Ugly Nick had aimed a little higher. If Daniel had blamed you for Vivienne and he’d had the balls to do something about it. If he’d connected your threat on that video from Thanksgiving and the severed finger…” She lifts the gun again, pointing it right at my head. Her face hardens, eyes surging with bright fury. “If you hadn’t gone to that goddamn awards banquet!”
“Mom!” Story barks, pulling her back. “We had a deal.”
In my periphery, I see Rath’s shoulders moving again. I see Tristian looking back and forth between me and Posey. I see Ms. Crane cross her arms, as if she’s waiting. But we all notice the same thing.
Story isn’t taking the gun from her.
Posey backs off, and I look at Martin, bloody and pale, so sweaty that it’s dripping down his temples. He’s shaking, but it’s hard to know if it’s from the injuries, or if he’s just coming down from whatever drugs she probably pumped him full of.
“You’re such an idiot,” I tell him, distantly tracking Rath’s movements in the corner of my eye. “You realize she’s using you, right? Just like she used my dad. She’s a gold digging whore who’ll fuck anything for a taste of power, even a sorry-ass simp like you.”
He reacts with incredible speed, flying off the desk and dropping before me to shove the tip of the knife under my chin. “Don’t you fucking talk about her like that! This woman,” He points at her, even though his crazed eyes stay on me, “is a goddess. Your father never appreciated her. Never understood how smart she is, how fucking genius! He never deserved her, and neither did you!”
I don’t give away that a tingling sensation is traveling through my limbs, like they’re finally awakening. I keep myself carefully still, unflinching at the blade beneath my chin. “And you do, because you’re a nice little lapdog, huh?”
“You’d know all about having a lapdog,” Posey snaps, yanking Martin away. She takes the knife away from him and slides it into the cargo pocket of her pants. “You think I’d overlook the way you treat my daughter?” She turns to Story, her eyes swimming with anguish. “You took my sweet, precious baby, and you abused her. Humiliated her. Defiled her!”
I look at Story, waiting for her to set the record straight, because—well, yeah. We did all of that. We hurt her and debased her. But we also saved her. We cherished her. Loved her.
Story meets my gaze, but she doesn’t hold it.
She looks away, silent.
“I’m here to give her the one thing I know she wants most,” Posey continues, pulling Story to her side. “Justice.”
“Bullshit,” Tristian says, staring at the two of them—mother and daughter—with a tight, outraged expression. “Story, tell her that’s bullshit!”
“She won’t.” My voice is low but certain, because I can see it in her eyes. Less than an hour ago, those eyes were staring back into mine as the water beat down on our heads, and it was warm—even when the shower ran cold. I want to believe it was real. That Story couldn’t kiss me like that, touch me like that, look at me like that, and then turn around and be a part of our demise. I want to believe I know her better.
But I also know myself.
I know the shit I’ve done to her. I remember every cruel word and bruising touch. I remember the stroke of my pen as I bound her to us in this house. I remember her tears that night. I found her upstairs with a shard of glass pressed to her wrist. I remember breaking her.
“If she wants justice,” I offer in a bland tone, “then it’s hers to take. I won’t stop her.”
Posey raises an eyebrow, mouth caught halfway into a smile. “Is that supposed to sway her or something?”
“It’s just the way it is.” I shift my gaze to Story, making sure she hears every word. “If she wants me dead, then there’s no point in living, anyway.”
When Story first came back, she was scared and angry, so nervous that it fell off of her in waves. I don’t know how it was for the others, but for me, being around her was damn near over-stimulating, like standing next to a superconductor. But as time went on, she grew into someone new, and this person—this woman who finally came to love me back—wasn’t so easy to read.
Right now, she’s giving nothing away. Not blinking. Not frowning. Not smiling.
This must be what other people feel like when they’re talking to Tristian.
Tristian’s blue eyes peer up to search hers, and when he says, “Sweetheart?” It’s painful to hear. Too tender, too exposed to these intruders. I know that tone—that word. It’s only ever been meant for her.
Martin lets out a loud, harsh laugh. “This is the best part of all of this. Watching her bury the knife into your backs.”
“The best part will be the police report,” Rath says. He’s in fine form, chin lowered to glare at Martin through his lashes. “Male suspect, two stab wounds to the torso. Multiple contusions. Victims found with defensive wounds, tied and executed. It still hasn’t hit you yet.” His lip rings catch the light with a tepid, cruel smirk. “You’re the fall guy, Martin.”
Martin’s smile falls. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Scoffing, I tear my gaze from Story to look at him. “Why do you think she didn’t bring her own gun? Who else do you think she’s going to pin this on? Her own daughter? For a lawyer, you’re pretty fucking thick. This is textbook Daniel Payne.” I lift my chin to my stepmother. “You paid attention.”
Posey isn’t like her daughter. She reacts instantly, lifting the gun and bolting forward to press it right to my forehead. It’s how Rath and I know we’ve hit the bullseye. “I’m going to enjoy snuffing you out, Killian,” she grits out, fingering the trigger. “Just like I did your hapless, insipid mother.” I feel the blood draining from my face, because she must be lying. My mother left, but she didn’t die. Posey gives a wide, manic grin. “Oh, you didn’t think the great Daniel Payne would marry just anyone, did you?” She looks at Story over her shoulder, eyes flashing proudly. “It’s how kingdoms are won, you know. The blood price isn’t just about exterminating the competition. It’s a test of will and commitment. It’s also mutually assured destruction. Daniel had to know my crimes before I could be privy to his.” She rattles this off like it’s a lesson, and from the slack part of Story’s mouth, she’s almost as shocked as I am.
I look up at this woman who’s orphaned me, beyond the barrel of the gun, past the features that she passed onto the girl I love, and all I feel is a sick, black hatred. “I knew from the start you were trash. Nothing but a saggy pair of tits desperate for a crumb of relevance in a world that never wanted you.” I flick my eyes at Story. “If that’s the kind of person you made, then put the bullet in me and get it over with.”
Posey fingers the trigger, eyes tightening.
Story shouts, “No!” and lurches between us, knocking the gun away. She looks at her mother with eyes of steel, shoulders rising and falling with short, hard breaths. “It has to be me. You said it yourself. Kingdoms are won with blood. You’ve passed your test.” Story nods at me, gently prying the gun from her mother’s grip. “This is mine.”
Posey searches her eyes for a long moment, but ultimately gives a slow, meaningful nod. “You’re right.” She lets Story take the gun, reaching out to cup her cheek. “Earn this, so you’ll know it’s yours.” With that, Posey steps back, her eyes pinging from the gun to the three of us. “Go on.”
Story takes a visibly deep breath before turning to us. She looks at Tristian first. He’s managed to get on his knees beside me, but he’s leaning against the wall now, and from the way he’s gazing up at her, so still and blank, I’m guessing he’s come to the same conclusion as I have.
What happens here, happens.
“Over here,” she whispers, waving her gun between Rath and the space on my other side. He complies limply, crossing the distance to crouch beside me. I can’t help but notice his shoulders have stopped their deliberate wriggling from the zip ties. Either he’s gotten his hands free, or he’s given up, and Rath’s a lot of things, but he’s no quitter.
Until now.
“Look at me, baby.” Rath’s voice is gentle, placating as Story meets his gaze. His right eye is even worse now, puffy and purpling. “Just be quick. Don’t blink.” He gives her a slow, encouraging nod, but it’s Posey who steps up to help her raise the gun.
Story squares her shoulders, and even after all this time, she still has flawless trigger discipline—just like I taught her—finger resting over the guard.
“First rule of gun safety: Never point a gun at something you aren’t looking to kill…”
“It’s easier than you think,” Posey says, eyes alight with excitement as they pass over the three of us, all lined up for our execution.
An image flashes in my head of the girl who tied me up and enacted her revenge. My memory is still fuzzy from the drugs that night, but I recall the tremor in her hand when she pressed the gun to my head. When she forced herself onto my cock. When she destroyed my secret, sacred things.
Not tonight.
This Story Austin keeps her chin up and her eyes hard. Confident. Unfaltering.
We made this girl—through tenderness and blood, ecstasy and tears—and when she lowers the barrel to my forehead, pressing the cool steel against my skin, I know I deserve it.
“Just take a deep breath,” Posey says, coaching her, “and count to five.” Story’s chest expands, and then slowly contracts, eyes falling closed. Posey counts for her, “One…”
When she parts her lips, Story breathes, “Two…” She slips her finger onto the trigger. “Three…” And then she opens her eyes, voice smooth and sure. “Seven.”
My eyes jolt up.
237.
Mayhem.
Rath springs forward, but I barely notice it beyond the blur of the gun swinging to Posey. The shot is close—too close—and I cringe at the ear-splitting crack of it going off just as much as the shriek from Posey that follows. I don’t give myself time to process the aftermath of it, because I’m too busy struggling to my feet. Ms. Crane is already lunging for the knife in Posey’s pants, so even though Rath is gunning for Martin, he doesn’t get there first. Martin scrambles for Delores, one hand clutching his side, but Tristian swipes out a leg, sending him crashing to the floor. Ms. Crane jumps on his back while Tristian hurdles toward the gun. It’s how I realize he’s broken from his zip ties, too, his hands grabbing the gun from Story’s grip in a quick, skilled motion.
Ms. Crane won the race for the knife and is shoving it into Martin’s throat, snarling, “I guess I can keep stabbing men to death.”
I’m sucking on the hind tit here, but I stumble toward Story, shoving her back to place myself between her and the mayhem.
Perfect word for it.
Rath is yelling and Story is gasping, Tristian barking at Martin to, “Get down, motherfucker!” and Posey’s on the floor making these wet, agonized noises, clutching at her thigh as she screams through clenched teeth.
But even though Delores Crane is proficient with a blade, she’s small and old and no match for a tweaker who’s fighting for his life. He snatches her hair and flips, slamming her hard onto the floor. It’s a blur of a scuffle, too fast for me to get to, but the second Martin gets the knife, all three of us are kicking into gear. It’s the flash of fear in her eyes more than anything that makes me fly toward her.
I don’t get there.
Not before a second shot rings out.
Tristian pulls the trigger mid-march, catching Martin square in the middle of his back. Even when it hits, bowling Martin over, Tristian bears down on them with a fury in his eyes that no one would want to be on the other side of. I stop short, surprised he’s not just emptying the entire fucking clip into Martin’s ass. Instead, he grabs him by the collar of his black sweater, wrenching him away from Ms. Crane.
He hauls him up, snarling into his face, “That’s the last fucking time you touch her!” But Martin is barely conscious now, head flopping back with a sickening gurgle, so he throws him aside like the discarded meat he is, huffing.
Ms. Crane stares up at him, wide-eyed and breathless. “My big dumb goddamn hero,” she gasps, accepting his hand when he gingerly lifts her to her feet.
“I’m sorry.” Story’s voice draws our attention to where she’s standing, staring down at her mother with a lost expression. She wrings her fists, eyes wide with distress. “I’m sorry, mom. I had to.”
Posey tries to sit up, but she slips in the blood pooling beneath her. “You stupid girl!” she cries, writhing around, eyes clenched shut. “You stupid, stupid—I’m your mother! What are they?! They’re nothing!”
Story’s eyes swim with tears, but they don’t fall.
Not when she raises her gaze to us.
There we stand, three Lords and their cranky housekeeper—bloody, beaten, and exhausted, but too full of adrenaline to think of dropping our guard. I know we don’t look like much. Certainly not Kings.
But when Story speaks, her voice is even and sure.
“They’re mine,” she answers.
