Then they helped me bury you for it.
“Ex-husband,” I correct myself, sweetly. “The one who’ll be found dead in a few quiet weeks…after my honeymoon. After I celebrate my freedom with my new pack, all of us masked strangers in a world made safe by some very lovely connections. Did you know, for instance, that Barney…our humble little blacksmith, serving his quiet time in Arch Hollow, is in truth the founder and chief executive of Blackthorn itself? Disguised as one of the condemned, when he’s really the cunning hand sheltering every Omega who walks through his doors craving the revenge she’s owed.”
“It’s so brilliant,” I sigh, almost wistful, “I wish I’d thought of it myself. Once I’m free, once my pack gives me full and final control of the assets you spent years trying to steal, I rather think I’ll write the man a very handsome check. To keep the place running. A sanctuary like that deserves to endure—a quietlittle academy for the next clever Omega ready to play the long game against the monster who hurt her, and collect every ounce of payback she’s due.” I tap my chin, performing thoughtfulness. “It’ll be such a perfect Bonnie and Clyde of it all. Although I’d still adore a bit of groveling first—or, oh, an Alpha realizing his deranged little queen is utterly insane and adores her for it anyway. We do love a tragic love story, don’t we, my loves?”
It is the cue they have been waiting for.
Doc comes first, stepping out from behind the gaudy black throne with the unbothered calm of a man arriving for a scheduled appointment, fountain pen still tucked in his breast pocket as though he might prescribe my husband’s death by the milligram.
Riot prowls in next, peeling out of the shadows by the torture racks where he has evidently been waiting with the cages, knife-grey eyes alight and a slow, terrible grin spreading across his scarred face.
And last, Silas—resplendent, immaculate, dressed in something exquisite and funereal, as though he has arrived for a celebration of life, which, in the truest sense, he has.
Their scents flood the cold room and braid around me like a homecoming—blood orange and old books, woodsmoke and warm iron, cold lilies and graveyard cedar—and when they reach me they each take one quick, scanning inventory of my body, checking that the blood is truly none of mine, relaxing only when they’re certain.
Then they fan out and close around the swaying man on the floor, and I watch the precise moment he registers that he is no longer the one doing the cornering.
They do not rush.
That is the most chilling part, and the part I love best.
Doc crouches and lifts my ex-husband’s wrist between two fingers, checking his pulse against the dose with the detachedinterest of a man confirming a calculation, already deciding precisely how long and how lucid he intends to keep him.
Riot simply stands over him and smiles, slow and patient and absolutely delighted, cracking a knuckle, a creature who has waited a long time to be pointed at the man who hurt his Pretty.
Silas drifts to the rack of cruel implements along the wall and trails one long pale finger across them like a connoisseur browsing a gallery, humming softly, selecting.
Three monsters my ex-husband sneered at, not five minutes ago, arranging themselves around him with the unhurried calm of professionals who have all the time in the world and every intention of using it.
“You drugged me,” he rasps, gaping up at the three of them ringed above him.
“Your first mistake,” I say, “was believing you’d cornered me.”
I shake my head, almost fond.
“Always underestimating your bride. I’m afraid that particular habit is what leads you to your grave.” I turn to my men, suddenly bright and businesslike. “I’m going to go get changed. Maybe take a little nap—it’s been a long morning. And I’d love one more date in town before we go, to say our goodbyes to everyone and properly thank Barney.”
They nod, indulgent and adoring, three lethal men agreeing to my errands as though we are discussing brunch and not the disposal of the man bleeding panic onto the floor between us.
“Take the nap,” Doc says, not looking up from his patient. “You’ve had a stimulating morning and the medication will crash hard in a few hours. Hydrate first.”
“She killed fifty men and you’re telling her to drink water,” Riot says, fondly disgusted.
“Fifty men is precisely why she needs the water.”
“He’s right, Pretty,” Riot concedes, then grins down at the man on the floor. “Go on. We’ve got a long, slow afternoon planned with our new friend here. Wouldn’t want you to miss your beauty rest on our account.”
“Do try not to make a mess Silas can’t make beautiful,” I say, and Silas presses a hand to his chest as though I’ve wounded him with the very suggestion that anything could be beyond his talents.
I clap my hands together, delighted, and crouch one final time to pat both of his cheeks. He is barely conscious now, eyelids sliding, but I know how this drug works—I designed the dose myself—and I know his hearing will be the very last thing to leave him. I lean close so he won’t miss a syllable.
“It was such fun, playing this game with you,” I murmur. “What a shame you never once realized the truth of it: that the real stalker in this little romance was always me. Stalking your every move, learning your every habit, arranging every piece, so that I would be the one standing here at the end with the last laugh.” I giggle. “I’d give you a farewell kiss, for old times’ sake. But I’m a committed woman now, devoted to a pack that loves me without conditions, so you’ll simply have to content yourself with the memory of my lips from our wedding night—and let that carry you all the way down to the grave.”
I release his chin, rise to my full height, and kick him square in the face.
He topples backward, sprawling onto the concrete, and I stand over him like a benediction.
There is a strange, clean symmetry to it.
