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“Alright.” She zipped her suit the rest of the way up, until it was snug at the top of her throat.
“Please, you don’t have to do this,” Santos begged. “I’ll tell you everything.”
“You will,” she agreed.
And then she stabbed him through the thigh.
He let out a scream, and Kennedy winced, pulling away. But she still reached for another knife.
"Enough," I said quietly, taking the knife from her trembling hands. “You’ve done more than anyone could ask. You’re one of us, Kennedy. You don’t have to prove that.”
She never had to prove herself to us. She looked up at me with wide eyes. As much as I wanted to gather her in my arms and take her away from the dark side of our world, I just offered a tight nod of respect.
Kennedy stepped back, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, and I saw the glint of tears threatening to spill over. She was strong, impossibly so, but even the strongest have their limits.
“You’re stronger than you know,” I murmured, my compliment laced with an ache for the innocence she had just shed.
And while I was talking to her, Carter stepped up to continue the work.
Behind us, Santos had begun to repeat himself. “It’s Borovsky...he orchestrated everything. The threats against Kennedy—it’s all a ploy to break you, to distract you, to bring you into a trap!”
“Go on,” I prompted, my voice cold as ice.
“Your weakness is her,” Santos spat, venom in his gaze. “Borovsky knew that. He’s targeting Kennedy to get to you, to take advantage of the fact you can’t trust anyone?—”
Kennedy wiped her trembling, bloody hands on her white trousers, but squared her shoulders, ready to listen to anything.
“Thank you, Santos,” I said, although gratitude was the last thing I felt.
I leaned in close to him. The dim light from the single bulb overhead cast shadows across Santos’s pain-wracked face. His eyes, bloodshot and filled with resignation, met mine one last time. “Where is Borovsky? And Velasco?”
Santos coughed, a trickle of blood seeping from the corner of his mouth. “Borovsky…” he rasped, “hiding out...old distillery...east side.” Another labored breath. “Velasco’s gone underground since…”
I nodded, etching the location into my memory, ready to unleash hell on those who dared threaten what was mine. But a crooked smile twisted Santos’s lips.
“Doesn’t matter now,” he whispered, blood bubbling with the words. “You’re already distracted, Greyson—fixated on the girl, on us. We’ve won…”
He didn’t understand what Kennedy did for me. She wasn’t a weakness. She was my greatest strength.
“What would you know about winning, Santos?” I asked, my voice low and dangerous. “When you’ve definitely lost.”
He let out one final shuddering breath, his body slumping. I stood back, watching the light fade from his eyes, feeling nothing but cold satisfaction. He had made his choices, and in this dark world we navigated, every choice had its bloody consequence.
“Greyson?” Jack’s voice cut through my thoughts, a concerned edge to it as he watched me closely.
“Let’s clean this up,” I commanded, my focus already shifting to the hunt for Borovsky. “We have a distillery to case and a visit to plan.”
As we moved to clean up, I felt Kennedy’s gaze. I turned to her, and for a moment, the world narrowed down to just the two of us.
Her eyes were wide with a mix of fear and admiration.
“Let’s go home,” I said softly, offering her my hand.
She took it, her touch igniting a warmth that contrasted sharply with the chill of the steel room and who I was now.
11
It was strange to return to the normal world—at least, comparatively normal—world of hockey, but the guys had a game the next day. They played fiercely, clearly out to prove themselves after the debacle the other day, and they led the Devils to victory. They always seemed like they didn’t really want to be at the parties afterward, but the party that night was raucous.
