“Please, Poet.”
I gripped the doorframe hard enough to turn my knuckles white.
“Why are you here?” I demanded. “Did Brooks send you?”
“No. He doesn’t know I came.”
Something in his eyes called to me. My heart cracked.
I stepped away from the open door and turned my back on him. I shuffled to the bed and wrapped a blanket around me. I hated that it smelled like Brooks. It only made me yearn for him, and I loathed myself for it.
Archer shut the door and sat down in one of the kitchen chairs, keeping his distance.
“So, you wanted to say some things to me? So, say them,” I snapped.
He took a deep breath. “One of our biker brothers had a middle-school-aged kid who found out his friend was raped by a social worker. When the club found out . . . Brooks refused to let it slide.”
I sucked in a breath of air.
“So, Brooks finished it once and for all. The second manhe killed was a known pedophile. He already had a record for raping a seven-year-old girl and leaving her for dead after beating her to a pulp. System went light on him and a few years later he got caught taking pictures of kids from his car outside a playground. Someone in town who knew the club came to us, and once we verified his record . . .”
“Archer—”
“The third man he killed was a drunk who nearly beat his four-year-old son to death one night for no fucking reason at all.”
Blackness swam before my eyes.
“I’m going to throw up again,” I whispered, placing a hand on my mouth and running for the bathroom. Bile and acid burned my throat as I heaved, but that didn’t sting as bad as the tears I tried to suppress.
When I came back out into the living room, Archer had a glass of ginger beer poured. Salem and Hadley had left it when they’d come over; I was glad to have it.
Now that I was pregnant.
I took the glass and gulped.
The ginger settled my stomach and parched my dry throat. When I collapsed onto the bed, Archer retook his seat as well.
“You ready for more?” he asked.
“More what?” I asked tiredly. “More explanations? He killed evil people.”
“Doesn’t that give you comfort?” he asked.
“Comfort? The man whose ring is on my finger killed vile, despicable people. People who hurt others. I’m not sure comfort is the right word.”
“He didn’t torture them. He didn’t derive pleasure from doing it. He just did what he had to . . . what society failed to do. Protect those who can’t protect themselves.”
“How do you know he didn’t enjoy it? Did he tell you that?”
He stared at me. “Because I was with him. Every time.”
“Why are you telling me this?” I cried. “How can you even be telling me this? You’re admitting tomurder. I could turn you in. I could turnhimin.”
“I’m taking a chance that you won’t.”
“That’s a big fucking chance,” I murmured. “Reallybig chance. Also, a big chance that whenever I look at Brooks all I’ll see is the darkness of his past.”
“A past he left behind. He wanted something different. For both of us.”
