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"Stay close,” I said to Lena. “Don't leave my sight for any reason." I kept one arm around her while drawing my weapon with the other. "We need to help secure the civilians, get accountability, prepare for Coast Guard arrival."

"The police—"

"Will get a story about pirates," I said firmly. "Random attack, robbery gone wrong. Duke will handle the details. Right now we focus on the living."

We moved across the deck together, stepping carefully around bodies and debris. The fairytale lights still swung overhead, some still functioning, casting crazy shadows that made everything surreal. Blood mixed with champagne on the deck, expensive dresses torn and stained, the perfect wedding party transformed into a war zone.

Tank appeared from the pilot house, escorting Mia who looked shaken but intact. "All clear up top. Pilot took a round but he'll make it."

"Good." I did another visual check of Lena, unable to stop myself. She was here, alive, whole. Everything else could be dealt with. "Let's get below, help with triage."

As we moved toward the stairs, Cruz's boats disappeared into the darkness, running lights extinguished. But I knew hewas still watching, probably through night vision, savoring his partial victory. He'd shown he could reach us, hurt us, kill our brothers.

The war had just shifted into a new, deadlier phase.

"I'm sorry," Lena whispered again, pressed against my side.

"Don't." I tightened my arm around her. "Only person responsible is Cruz. And he's going to pay for every drop of blood spilled tonight."

The promise tasted like copper and cordite, sealed with the weight of two prospect cuts that would never become full patches. Tomorrow we'd count the full cost, plan our retaliation. Tonight, we had wounded to tend and dead to honor.

But Cruz had made one crucial mistake in his grand performance. He'd tried to take Lena.

For that, I'd paint the state red with Serpent blood.

Chapter 17

Lena

Bloodanddisinfectant.

Shock.

I sat frozen in a plastic hospital chair that had seen too much grief, still wearing the silver dress from the party. The fabric had stiffened where blood—not mine, someone else's, maybe Rico's or Johnnie's—had dried into the material.

My hands wouldn't stop shaking. I pressed them flat against my thighs, but they trembled anyway, betraying the calm I was desperately trying to project. Around me, the Heavy Kings' women moved with the kind of efficiency that came from practice. Too much practice.

"Six units of blood for Tank," Margaret reported to the room at large, her voice steady despite the fact her husband was somewhere behind those double doors. "They're optimistic about the surgery."

"Thor's getting his arm stitched," another woman added—I thought her name was Patricia, married to one of the seniormembers. "Twenty-three stitches, but he's already threatening to leave AMA if they don't hurry up."

"Duke's refusing treatment until everyone else is seen," Sarah said, appearing with a tray of terrible hospital coffee. "Of course he is. Stubborn bastard has two cracked ribs and a concussion."

They talked over and around me like I was already one of them, comparing notes and organizing care with military precision. Someone was coordinating food delivery for the brothers standing guard. Another was on the phone with lawyers, preparing for the inevitable police questions. A third was calling family members, voice gentle but honest about the severity of injuries.

This was their world. This choreographed dance of crisis management, of waiting for news while pretending their hearts weren't being shredded with each passing minute. They'd done this before. Would do it again.

But this time, it was all because of me.

Tyson hadn't left my side since we'd arrived, his presence a solid wall between me and the chaos. His hand crushed mine, knuckles split and swollen from the fight. Someone else's blood had dried under his nails—probably one of the Serpents who'd tried to take me. He'd cleaned his hands three times already, but traces remained, stubborn reminders of the violence that had shattered our night.

His eyes were dark, fierce, and tender.

"Stop." His voice was quiet, meant just for me, but carried that command tone that made my spine straighten automatically. "I know what you're thinking, and stop."

"Two kids are dead because of me." The words scraped out of my throat, raw and painful. "Rico and Johnnie. They had their whole lives ahead of them, and now—"

"Two heroes died protecting innocents." He turned in his chair, forcing me to meet his eyes. They were red-rimmed withexhaustion but blazing with conviction. "They made a choice. The same choice any of us would make. This is on Cruz and the Serpents, not you."