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We all know that’s not true. We caved for Ivy—her peace of mind and the consent to shroud her in an extra provision of protection—which is the opposite of nothing. But we’ll let the Big Guy have his win.
There’s a crackling tension in the truck, like the static crinkling the air before a strike of lightning. It’s all so palpable that none of us speak.
It isn’t due to the tracking issue. The doctor stopped by before we left, and in fifteen minutes, we were all linked to one another.
But the rest of our meeting was fruitless. Ivy and I are at a crossroads over this execution nonsense. I’m irate KORT laid this on her. It isn’t the privilege they see it as—not for her. It’s a shackling. She hesitantly revealed that she believes they want to see her in action as further proof of her competency. I assured her I can work around that, but it didn’t matter.
She refuses to share her plans.Unacceptable.The guys backed me up, which pissed her off more, so all of us are quietly seething, releasing jagged breaths to the cadence of the windshield wipers scattering the freezing rain.
Ivy’s been bestowed the honor of killing, in any manner she chooses, the women responsible for hunting her, women who masterminded years of terror. My team and I may have thwarted them, but they robbed her of freedom all the same—freedom she’ll neverhave. And most recently, they nearly stole her life, which makes this my prize too. Maybe even more so.
They tried to take my wife from me.
My fingers cramp at the thought, molars grinding the enamel off.
This woman is my everything, my existence—the reason for every breath I take.
My Little Storm.
Mine.
Personally, I want to see them suffer through a gory and excruciating disembowelment, but even staring down the barrel of my pistol while they sniveled and pissed themselves would be satisfying.
As long asI’mdoing it. Ivy is built for many things, stronger than most, but it’s her benevolence, her humanity, that makes her so much better than the rest of us.
For the virtuous, every kill chips away at their essence.
She’s a little like Ty in that way. It’s why he prefers the position of sniper—so he can remove himself. Disassociate. He isn’t weak. In fact, his ability to analyze all the angles from his perch in the sky is much like how he handles his fragile abuse victims. Scrupulous. Never overlooking a scar. But that meticulous nature can be a detriment when ripping out someone’s tongue. Sometimes, it has him tunneling rabbit holes—wondering who first wronged the asshole before him.
That viewpoint is rooted in his own inner war.
He told me once that he had been one decision away from becoming a monster after his mom and sisters were murdered. He could either burn the fucking world, breathing the tormenting fire eating him from the inside on anyone in his path, or join the Navy and let his kills mean something.
Freedom for others.
There have been times when we had to torture some scumbag to obtain life-saving information, that I’ve witnessed Ty wrestling—tamping down the demon who so wants to gain purchaseover the compassion he fights to preserve. Every close encounter inflames his inner beast, so I try to keep him in roles that encourage his gentler side to shine.
Ivy has a similar inner battle. I won’t allow her to make choices that will permit her demons to procure a part of her soul.
Me, on the other hand? I’ll stare those bitches in the eye and lodge a bullet in their brains without a second thought for what they did to my wife. And I’ll sleep all the better because of it. No one will ever look at my girl cross-eyed and live to tell the tale. Maybe that makes me soulless. Maybe that makes me a villain in her story instead of a hero. I can live with that.
A hero sacrifices for the greater good, saving the world before the girl. But the villain? That woman he craves, who lights up the sinful, blood-lusting, Hell-damned embers of his fractured soul—he’ll sprinkle the forests and mountains and fields with gasoline, strike a thousand matches, and dance with her amid the flames.
That’s why Ivy is perfect for me. She’s not afraid of fires.
She sets her own.
But I’ll gladly burn in Hell before I let my stormy angel become a devil too.
Gage and I went round and round with her over it, but she insisted she had her own idea, one she wasn’t sharing. After two hours of fucking the brat out of her, she had the audacity to stick with that answer.
My dick was so sated that I’d lost my edge by then, which is precisely when I realized that the Little Storm had played me.
Again.
When we load onto our plane, bound for the induction ceremony in Chicago, Ivy yanks my tie and hauls me into the bedroom. I quirk my eyebrow, curious if the tension in the truck convinced her to share her plans, but my cock twitches in the hopes she’ll play me once more.
She hangs her purse on the bathroom door hook and turns back to me, her face twisting as though she’s nervous. But then shesmiles, biting her lip in that impish way that unhinges me. As she sits on the bed, she smooths out her royal-blue dress—a seamless mannerism, full of her natural elegance. She’s still my obsession, still the vision I can’t peel my eyes from.
