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GAGE
Iwatch Eric storm away. My face is no doubt expressionless, but inside, there are bombs going off. He cheated on her? Has he seen himself in the fucking mirror? What the fuck?
Stronger than my confusion, however, is doubt. If he cheated, he didn’t love her, he couldn’t, which means this entire mission is fucked. We stole her for nothing, and now we are royally screwed and we know it. Eric stomps outside, and we all watch him go before I meet Archer’s gaze. He’s already working through the problem. Snorting, I stand, the chair creaking under my weight.
“We should have killed her when I said so,” I snap before I leave.
My words don’t hold their usual weight and heat, because could I really kill her? Especially now. The woman fought so hard and was so strong, despite the pain she must be in—the same pain that lingers in Eric. I don’t want him to be alone right now. When he gets like this, he’s not just dangerous, he’s reckless.
Family protects family, especially when they are hurting.
I search the rolling fields for Eric, but he’s gone, as is the bottle he took with him. Fucking hell. His words echo in my head. I don’t want to feel sorry for the rich brat, but part of me does. She must not have known the truth about the man she was marrying, and if so, the rug would have been pulled out from under her, leaving her reeling. That’s got to hurt. Her fiancé clearly doesn’t know who she is. Not the real her. Fuck, I’m betting he doesn’t even know her real name.
She’s playing a game of faces, but I’m starting to wonder which one is real.
Is it the broken girl from the streets she tries so hard to forget? Or is it the rich, snobby bitch she pretends to be?
I fold my arms to hold in my warmth.Why do I care?
I don’t, I tell myself, stepping out into the cool night. Except…she reminds me of us. Of how we were all broken in some fucked up way before finding each other. We’ve lost, hurt, and healed together. Our pasts are our own, and the only people who know mine are the three men I trust above anyone else in the world. We all know how easily pain can turn into hate.
We know how truly messed up the world is, and that if you aren’t careful, it will spit you out and leave you dying on the streets because it doesn’t owe you a fucking thing, so you have to take it for yourself. The rich get richer by lying, cheating, and stealing, and the poor stay poor because they can’t play the game.
Us? We don’t play the game.
We destroy it and walk away with the winnings.
But we are no fucking Robin Hoods. That money lines our own pockets. Some, of course, we share and send back home, but we stay rich. We stay powerful and hidden because we understand that.
Under everything, under the veil of sophistication people try to cover themselves in and the material items they hide behind, we are all the same—greedy bastards willing to do what it takes to survive.
Including Genevieve.
My eyes go to the window of her room. She’s standing there, staring out into the dark, looking so alone and scared that my cold, dead heart clenches.
No.
I turn away.
I refuse to feel sorry for her, to feel drawn to her.
I can’t.
Family comes first, and she isn’t family.
