Page 84 of Heist in Paradise

I stepped forward, ignoring the gun, and reached for his collar, giving him a rough shake. His teeth clicked, and he winced. “Why, in all fuck, didn’t you tell me?” I growled at him.

His eyes widened. “I couldn’t.”

“Jesus.” I scrubbed the back of my hand over my face. The constant surge and dip of adrenaline was making me woozy.

“I’m sorry,” Nate said again.

“Shut the fuck up.”

He slumped against me, looking resigned to whatever punishment I inflicted on him. For a second, I considered it. The prick more than deserved it. But he wouldn’t fight back, and the idea of breaking him while he stood there, already broken, made me hesitate.

That didn’t mean I wasn’t going to murder the fucker later.

I shoved him hard, and he stumbled back awkwardly, clutching his side. The gun dropped to the ground between us. Quickly, Ryle dipped around and scooped it up.

I inhaled sharply. “You’re out,” I said.

Nate went rigid. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“Jax, please—”

“The second we return to the mainland, you’re on your own.”

Nate’s knees buckled, and he went down, hunching over on himself. His face contorted in agony. “Just shoot me,” he spat. “I’m nothing without the crew. I’ve got no one, Jax. You know that. Please, please.”

“You had a choice.” My voice cracked, but I forced the words out. “You could’ve told me the truth. We could’ve handled it together. You chose wrong.” The lump in my throat swelled, choking me. “You don’t betray family.”

“Jax.” He moaned my name like a hymn.

“Good luck, Nathanial.” He flinched at the use of his full name, which felt just as wrong and tacky on my tongue. “I never want to see you again.”

And then, because I needed some outlet, some way to ease the rupturing in my body, I smashed my fist into his face. He went down easily, crumpled on the dirt. Ryle made a pained noise but didn’t move, remaining loyal by my side. I needed that. Now more than ever.

We stared down at our lost brother for a long moment.

When I moved, it was like wading through wet cement. My body resisted, but my mind was quiet. I walked out of the clearing and didn’t look back.

OLIVIA

Molly didn’t shoot me.

She didn’t let me go, either, despite my broken pleas, my begging for her to snap out of it. To wake up. I remained kneeling for so long that my legs pricked with needles and a deep ache settled in my hips.

The beach was a graveyard, the boat a forgotten battlefield. Every time the water lapped softly at the sides, I jolted, hoping it was Madoc.

If anyone could rise up from the dead, it was him.

The radio silence in my ear was just as devastating. Where was Jax? Was he hurt? Was he also dead?

Molly shifted, alerting me to a new threat. I looked up and squinted blearily across the beach. A lone dark figure emerged from the treeline and raced toward us. It wasn’t a man I recognized, and by the time he pounded across the dock, I knew I was in trouble.

He came to a wet, skidding halt in front of us, panting and cursing. He snapped something at Molly in a language I didn’t recognize. She responded in a dead voice as she jutted the gun at my temple.

The man was bleeding from his nose and a deep gash on his chin. There was a wild, fervent desperation to him, an unhinged panic that poured out around us. He gestured to the beach, then back at the cabin of the yacht.

Molly said drolly: “No. All dead.”