How could he? No one knew.
“When Linwood said you were in trouble, I didn’t think it’d be this. Or come back on us.”
Tilting my head, I ignore the crushing guilt. It’s always been my job as the oldest to protect everyone else. I kept Sloane from overdosing. I fought Collins’ bullies. I kept Briar hidden.
I let Michaelrape meso he would never touch them.
And yet? It’s all coming back on them. All my plans, all my failures, are piling up, and my family is being taken down for it. Who will die next if I don’t get a handle on my problems?
You could never lead. Not like a man.
“What did Linwood tell you?”
He glares at me dryly. “Whatever you two have?—”
“Which is nothing?—”
“Is none of my business. I won’t be dragged into it.”
Sighing, I lean forward. “I still have my knives, and after the shit night I’ve had, I will use them.”
The capo rubs his cheek, stubble darkening his face. “Christ, fine. He came to see me. Wanted me to keep an ear open for suspicious talk. Said you were in trouble.” He scans the office, frowning. “Would’ve been nice to know what kind of trouble. Remind me to punch the Reaper for this.”
“Use a gun. It’ll make a bigger impact.” Thatbastard.
Did he not think I could do this on my own? Did he not trust me to be the captain and to lead my fucking family?
But there’s a part—a stupid, flickering flame of warmth that breaks the coldness around my heart—that’s relieved. For the help. For another set of hands—another person who is in the middle of this.
I’ve been alone, leading this clan, protecting my siblings, for years. I almost forgot what it was like to have someone there, helping in the dark, holding my problems so I could rest.
You’re too weak to lead.
My mind spins, and I clutch at my temples, mood souring. Who can I trust—my mind? No. Reese? Hell no. He’s a puppet for the Board, and I’m trying like fuck to figure out the connection.
I can’t trust Lex’s family—they let Nico be attacked, and Maria died on their watch.
Can I rely on Killian? The Reaper working behind the scenes, moving pieces without my knowledge? Maybe. That’s where I’m stuck, torn.
If I trust him again, will he leave in the night? Or will he finally stay?
Lex shifts in front of me, glancing at my gun on the desk. “Your eyes are doing that thing that makes me want to say a few ‘Hail Marys’.”
Shoving from the desk, I snag my Eagle on the way out and ignore his questioning look. I don’t know if I’ll kill the Reaper or if he’ll kill me, but I don’t need to explain myself to Lex.
I know where he is—where he always is if he’s not stalking me. He might be my ever-present shadow, but I know being at the hospital wore down his patience, and he needed to find a way to let out the nervous energy.
He’s in his room. Sketching, painting,something.
At the end of the third-floor hallway, overlooking the dark forest, is a simple wooden door. I don’t knock—no, I kick the fucking thing in, mind a mess, rage the only thing I can understand.
Rage at myself. At the ghosts. At the Reaper for leaving. At making me love him again.
The asshole has the nerve to shoot me a bored look, hunched over his canvas, a pair of low-slung sweats on his hips, and nothing else. Charcoal darkens his fingers, smudging them like his devious deeds, blending whites and blacks together. Whatever it is, he hides it, scrubbing at the edges.
“Did you want to paint?” he asks, scrutinizing the paper. “You used to love it when you couldn’t sleep.”
Fury courses through my veins, and my hands shake. I used to love painting with him—when the nightmares were too much, he’d hold my hands and glide them over the paper. He taught me—showed me—beauty in color, in the way a brushstroke would cross a paper, a floating wish lost to time. Then he’d cover me in paint and fuck me until I couldn’t remember my bad dreams.
