Martin’s smile falls. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Scoffing, I tear my gaze from Story to look at him. “Why do you think she didn’t bring her own gun? Who else do you think she’s going to pin this on? Her own daughter? For a lawyer, you’re pretty fucking thick. This is textbook Daniel Payne.” I lift my chin to my stepmother. “You paid attention.”
Posey isn’t like her daughter. She reacts instantly, lifting the gun and bolting forward to press it right to my forehead. It’s how Rath and I know we’ve hit the bullseye. “I’m going to enjoy snuffing you out, Killian,” she grits out, fingering the trigger. “Just like I did your hapless, insipid mother.” I feel the blood draining from my face, because she must be lying. My mother left, but she didn’t die. Posey gives a wide, manic grin. “Oh, you didn’t think the great Daniel Payne would marry just anyone, did you?” She looks at Story over her shoulder, eyes flashing proudly. “It’s how kingdoms are won, you know. The blood price isn’t just about exterminating the competition. It’s a test of will and commitment. It’s also mutually assured destruction. Daniel had to know my crimes before I could be privy to his.” She rattles this off like it’s a lesson, and from the slack part of Story’s mouth, she’s almost as shocked as I am.
I look up at this woman who’s orphaned me, beyond the barrel of the gun, past the features that she passed onto the girl I love, and all I feel is a sick, black hatred. “I knew from the start you were trash. Nothing but a saggy pair of tits desperate for a crumb of relevance in a world that never wanted you.” I flick my eyes at Story. “If that’s the kind of person you made, then put the bullet in me and get it over with.”
Posey fingers the trigger, eyes tightening.
Story shouts, “No!” and lurches between us, knocking the gun away. She looks at her mother with eyes of steel, shoulders rising and falling with short, hard breaths. “It has to be me. You said it yourself. Kingdoms are won with blood. You’ve passed your test.” Story nods at me, gently prying the gun from her mother’s grip. “This is mine.”
Posey searches her eyes for a long moment, but ultimately gives a slow, meaningful nod. “You’re right.” She lets Story take the gun, reaching out to cup her cheek. “Earn this, so you’ll know it’s yours.” With that, Posey steps back, her eyes pinging from the gun to the three of us. “Go on.”
Story takes a visibly deep breath before turning to us. She looks at Tristian first. He’s managed to get on his knees beside me, but he’s leaning against the wall now, and from the way he’s gazing up at her, so still and blank, I’m guessing he’s come to the same conclusion as I have.
What happens here, happens.
“Over here,” she whispers, waving her gun between Rath and the space on my other side. He complies limply, crossing the distance to crouch beside me. I can’t help but notice his shoulders have stopped their deliberate wriggling from the zip ties. Either he’s gotten his hands free, or he’s given up, and Rath’s a lot of things, but he’s no quitter.
Until now.
“Look at me, baby.” Rath’s voice is gentle, placating as Story meets his gaze. His right eye is even worse now, puffy and purpling. “Just be quick. Don’t blink.” He gives her a slow, encouraging nod, but it’s Posey who steps up to help her raise the gun.
Story squares her shoulders, and even after all this time, she still has flawless trigger discipline—just like I taught her—finger resting over the guard.
“First rule of gun safety: Never point a gun at something you aren’t looking to kill…”
“It’s easier than you think,” Posey says, eyes alight with excitement as they pass over the three of us, all lined up for our execution.
An image flashes in my head of the girl who tied me up and enacted her revenge. My memory is still fuzzy from the drugs that night, but I recall the tremor in her hand when she pressed the gun to my head. When she forced herself onto my cock. When she destroyed my secret, sacred things.
Not tonight.
This Story Austin keeps her chin up and her eyes hard. Confident. Unfaltering.
We made this girl—through tenderness and blood, ecstasy and tears—and when she lowers the barrel to my forehead, pressing the cool steel against my skin, I know I deserve it.
“Just take a deep breath,” Posey says, coaching her, “and count to five.” Story’s chest expands, and then slowly contracts, eyes falling closed. Posey counts for her, “One…”