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Her eyes flare angrily. “Those things have been trained into you by a madman.” She pulls me to her, moving us both to the center of the bed, until we’re lying, facing one another, nothing between us but her round belly. “You’re a good man, Lex, despite the blood that runs through your veins.”

My eyes flutter at the feel of her fingertips against my face. “You don’t know that.”

When I blink them open, she’s watching me unflinchingly. “I do, because the blood that runs through my veins belongs to that madman. If you’re lost, then so am I.” She touches my lips. “So are Wicker and Pace. And this baby? He’s ruined before he takes his first breath.” She stares at my mouth, eyes shining. “You’re the one who told me he was created from something good—even if it was just a glimmer of connection between me and Wick. I believe that, Lex. I have to.” She lifts my hand and flattens it over her stomach. “There are times when I’m not sure how you all feel about me—whether or not you still hate me for upending your lives—but there’s no doubt in my mind that you love this baby, and I have to believe that he feels it.”

I reach for her—not the baby, but Verity—twisting her around to cradle her back against my chest. “I don’t hate you, Verity. Not even fucking close,” I whisper in her ear, but I can’t articulate what Idofeel. I’m exhausted but raw with the uncertainty of our lives caught in eternal bedlam. Violence and death. Creation and hurt. It claws at my chest like a wild animal threatening to get loose.

“What does that mean?” she asks, fingers stroking the fine hair on my knuckles.

“It means I’ll always protect you and our child. I’ll take care of your family, East and West.” I swallow the emotions close to the surface. “Just promise me that you’ll always be here. That you won’t get taken away, severed, like a…”

She twitches. “Like a tether?”

“Yes.” The word emerges in a gust of breath, a sudden urge to be connected to her consuming me in a maelstrom of need. I run my hand down her hip to the hem of the loose dress and push it up, finding cotton panties underneath. “Let me inside, Verity,” I tell her, reaching into the flap of my shorts. My cock is hard, pulsing, the tip slick. Desperate, I shove her panties aside and nudge against her pussy, almost slipping inside. “You’re wet,” I tell her, knowing it’s too much to be just from her own desire. “He was in you?”

“Before he left,” she says, arching back into me with a hitched breath. “He filled me up, told me to wait for you.”

With an exhale, I sink in, engulfed like a warm hug, understanding that my brother knew what I needed before I did. That I was too tired to fight anymore. To fight her. To lash out with the darkness I feel inside.

After the blood, stress, and fear, I neededthis.

A tether.

Rising up, I fuck into her, plunging in as deep as I can go—as deep as she’ll take me. Her fingers curl into the sheets, her breath coming in hot, rapid bursts. I drop my hand between her legs and find the spot I know will set her loose, rolling my fingers across the volatile nerves.

“Right there,” she cries, face burying into the pillow as I fuck her slow, drawing this out as long as I can make it last. “Don’t stop, Lagan. Don’t stop.”

“Never,” I tell her, realizing that I mean it. I amneverletting this woman go.

8

Wicker

The bow feelsgood in my grip as I run through the chords of the song. It’s been weeks since I’ve played. Typically, my performances are scheduled, pretentious events set up by Father—usually, a precursor to nights I’d rather forget. If not that, they’re somber hours down by Michael’s grave. Rarely do I play for myself, and even this isn’t exactly for fun.

Indulgent, but not fun.

I glide through the string work ofKashmir, a pace so furious that my forehead beads with sweat. I’ve adapted it for a cello-only piece, and judging by the expression on my father’s face across the room, he isn’t impressed.

Good.

I finish with a dramatic flourish, using the bow and my fingers to extinguish the resonance. The small stone room almost vibrates from the silence that follows.

Setting my cello on the stand, I rise, walking over to the worktable against the back wall. I don’t reach for one of the dozens of sharp objects. Instead, I pour myself a glass from theexpensive bottle I took from Father’s collection and then pick up the bowl and spoon.

Carrying both back over to my chair, I muse, “It’s weird. I never thought sixty-year-old Scotch would pair so well with banana pudding.”

Father stares at me from behind the bars of his cell. He looks smaller every time I come down here, the weight slipping off him with each passing day. Despite the indignity of it all, he never loses the smug mask of pompousness. He’s perched on the edge of his cot, posture perfectly straight, the scrubs Lex gave him to wear hanging from his frame.

Finally, he asks, “Are you enjoying yourself?”

I scoop a glob of the pale yellow pudding onto my spoon, making sure to get some of the cookie, and shrug. “This isn’t my first choice, but if I have to sit down here and babysit you, I may as well add a little pleasure to my pain.” I swallow the spoonful of dessert and groan. “Fuck me, those West End women know how to cook.”

I’ll admit that when Pace rushed over there to assist Lex in some 237 crisis, I wasn’t happy about it. The higher level PNZs can run things upstairs, overseeing the final stages of construction and keeping security tight, but onlywecan deal with Father and Danner.

So I figured if the cats are away, the mice will play, and here I am playing classic rock on my cello, drinking Father’s Scotch, and enjoying this banana pudding that Verity’s mother must lace with Scratch.

“I’m aware of what you’re doing, you know.”