I pulled harder. The silver buckle dug into my palms, the metal teeth of the dragon biting into my own skin, but I didn’t feel the pain. I watched the life drain out of him, the frantic clawing at my arms slowing, then stopping. His face turned a deep, bruised purple. I held the belt tight around his neck for another minute, making sure the darkness took him under completely.
When I finally let go, he slumped sideways on the floor, limbs twisted beneath him.
I stood there, my chest heaving. My knuckles were shredded, my body covered in blood that wasn’t mine. The belt felt heavy in my hand and I dropped it onto his corpse, breathing out over his lifeless body before I turned and left.
The lounge was quiet now. The goons were prone on the floor, bloody and broken. Both let out shallow snores, gurgling groans that spoke clearly for how much damage Kane and James had done.
James was leaning against the bar, catching his breath, bruises covering him. Kane was untying Camila, who looked like she was slowly coming to.
They both looked at me, then at the open office door.
“Is he—” James started, trailing off.
“He’s gone,” I said.
Kane let out a slow breath. “Only took us getting our asses kicked.” Then he looked at the thugs, his chest still heaving. “What about these assholes?”
“Leave them,” I said, wiping a smear of blood from my cheek. “They weren’t loyal. They were scared. Nothing left to fear now. King is dead.”
Kane tried to stand Camila up, but her knees buckled. She wasn’t able to stand on her own. I stepped in without thinking, shouldering her weight. She looked at me with those vacant, terrified eyes, and for a second, I saw Ingrid—I saw the woman I loved and the life I was finally allowed to have.
I wrapped my jacket around her shoulders. “It’s over, Camila,” I muttered, pulling her close to me by her trembling shoulders. “I’m taking you home.”
Chapter forty-six
Ingrid
Iwoke to silence. The apartment was still dark, the lamps in the corner casting a low, amber glow across the living room floor. Someone had draped a blanket over me at some point while I lay on the couch. Tristian, probably. I sat up slowly, letting it fall from my shoulders.
It was quiet as I stood, padding softly down the hall to find him.
The door to his room was open, just a crack. I pushed it gently and froze.
Camila.
Asleep in the bed, Tristian’s hoodie swallowing her frame, arms tucked beneath her cheek the way she used to sleep when we were kids. Her hair was tangled, mascara smudged at the corners of her eyes. Her breathing was soft as she slept.
I stood in the doorway with my hand over my mouth.
I don’t know how long I stayed watching her as relief filled me. I crossed the room slowly and sat on the edge of the bed.
She stirred almost immediately, her eyes opening and finding mine.
“Camila—”
“I’ll be gone by morning…” she said. Her voice was rough, scraped raw.
Tears sprung to my eyes. “No.” The word came out steadier than I felt. She didn’t respond. “You don’t get to do that again. Come back half-aliveand then disappear like I’m supposed to just be grateful you showed up at all.” Still nothing. “You left, Camila.”
She sat up slowly, wincing, her eyes finally finding mine. “You think I had a choice? You think I wanted any part of deciding to stay or leave?” I flinched at her words. Despite our differences, she was always there for me. Always holding me, always being there when the pain got worse throughout the years, even when she began to direct her anger at me.
“I know you didn’t,” I said quietly.
Camila’s jaw tightened. “Then you don’t get to judge me for leaving.”
I nodded. “…You’re right. I don’t.”
She held my gaze for a moment, eyes narrowing like she didn’t believe I was agreeing with her. “I didn’t ask to be a mom when ours couldn’t fucking do it. I was their kid too, Ingrid,” she seethed.
