“Mom!” Story barks, pulling her back. “We had a deal.”
In my periphery, I see Rath’s shoulders moving again. I see Tristian looking back and forth between me and Posey. I see Ms. Crane cross her arms, as if she’s waiting. But we all notice the same thing.
Story isn’t taking the gun from her.
Posey backs off, and I look at Martin, bloody and pale, so sweaty that it’s dripping down his temples. He’s shaking, but it’s hard to know if it’s from the injuries, or if he’s just coming down from whatever drugs she probably pumped him full of.
“You’re such an idiot,” I tell him, distantly tracking Rath’s movements in the corner of my eye. “You realize she’s using you, right? Just like she used my dad. She’s a gold digging whore who’ll fuck anything for a taste of power, even a sorry-ass simp like you.”
He reacts with incredible speed, flying off the desk and dropping before me to shove the tip of the knife under my chin. “Don’t you fucking talk about her like that! This woman,” He points at her, even though his crazed eyes stay on me, “is a goddess. Your father never appreciated her. Never understood how smart she is, how fucking genius! He never deserved her, and neither did you!”
I don’t give away that a tingling sensation is traveling through my limbs, like they’re finally awakening. I keep myself carefully still, unflinching at the blade beneath my chin. “And you do, because you’re a nice little lapdog, huh?”
“You’d know all about having a lapdog,” Posey snaps, yanking Martin away. She takes the knife away from him and slides it into the cargo pocket of her pants. “You think I’d overlook the way you treat my daughter?” She turns to Story, her eyes swimming with anguish. “You took my sweet, precious baby, and you abused her. Humiliated her. Defiled her!”
I look at Story, waiting for her to set the record straight, because—well, yeah. We did all of that. We hurt her and debased her. But we also saved her. We cherished her. Loved her.
Story meets my gaze, but she doesn’t hold it.
She looks away, silent.
“I’m here to give her the one thing I know she wants most,” Posey continues, pulling Story to her side. “Justice.”
“Bullshit,” Tristian says, staring at the two of them—mother and daughter—with a tight, outraged expression. “Story, tell her that’s bullshit!”
“She won’t.” My voice is low but certain, because I can see it in her eyes. Less than an hour ago, those eyes were staring back into mine as the water beat down on our heads, and it was warm—even when the shower ran cold. I want to believe it was real. That Story couldn’t kiss me like that, touch me like that, look at me like that, and then turn around and be a part of our demise. I want to believe I know her better.
But I also know myself.
I know the shit I’ve done to her. I remember every cruel word and bruising touch. I remember the stroke of my pen as I bound her to us in this house. I remember her tears that night. I found her upstairs with a shard of glass pressed to her wrist. I remember breaking her.
“If she wants justice,” I offer in a bland tone, “then it’s hers to take. I won’t stop her.”
Posey raises an eyebrow, mouth caught halfway into a smile. “Is that supposed to sway her or something?”
“It’s just the way it is.” I shift my gaze to Story, making sure she hears every word. “If she wants me dead, then there’s no point in living, anyway.”
When Story first came back, she was scared and angry, so nervous that it fell off of her in waves. I don’t know how it was for the others, but for me, being around her was damn near over-stimulating, like standing next to a superconductor. But as time went on, she grew into someone new, and this person—this woman who finally came to love me back—wasn’t so easy to read.
Right now, she’s giving nothing away. Not blinking. Not frowning. Not smiling.
This must be what other people feel like when they’re talking to Tristian.
Tristian’s blue eyes peer up to search hers, and when he says, “Sweetheart?” It's painful to hear. Too tender, too exposed to these intruders. I know that tone—that word. It’s only ever been meant for her.
Martin lets out a loud, harsh laugh. “This is the best part of all of this. Watching her bury the knife into your backs.”
“The best part will be the police report,” Rath says. He’s in fine form, chin lowered to glare at Martin through his lashes. “Male suspect, two stab wounds to the torso. Multiple contusions. Victims found with defensive wounds, tied and executed. It still hasn’t hit you yet.” His lip rings catch the light with a tepid, cruel smirk. “You’re the fall guy, Martin.”