Page 65 of Always A Villain

“I can walk,” I murmur, even though I don’t mean it, burying my face against his chest.

“Shhh,” he hushes, his voice low and soothing. “Go back to sleep.”

And I almost do. His chest rises and falls, strong and steady, and I let myself melt into it. Somewhere in the haze, I hear the door open, feel him carrying me up the stairs. When he lays me down, the sheets smell different.

“Is this your bed?” I mumble, barely awake.

“Yes,” he says, fingers brushing over my cheek, and there’s something about the way he says it, like I belong here. With him.

He carefully peels off my shirt, slips my leggings down, and I snort through a sleepy smile. “Not gonna cut them off this time?”

A smirk tugs at his lips. “No, not this time.” His voice is softer now, and the bed dips as he stands. “I’m going to take a shower. Rest, little siren.”

I hear him walk away, his footsteps fading, and thescent of his sheets pulls me under. For a moment, a fleeting moment, I let myself believe—maybe he really does love me.

And that thought is enough to let sleep finally win.

Istep out of the shower, water still clinging to my skin as I roughly towel off. The mirror’s fogged, but I don’t bother wiping it. My reflection doesn’t matter. The only thing clear in my head is the burning rage from today, a fire that refuses to die down. I need an outlet, and there’s only one way I know to get it.

Throwing on a pair of jeans and a black tee, I move silently through the room. Rory’s still curled up in bed, peaceful for once. She doesn’t need to see this side of me right now. Leaning down, I press a quick kiss on her forehead, then leave her to sleep. Kane slips past me and jumps onto the bed beside her.

As I descend the stairs, the house is dark and quiet. Griffen’s slouched on the couch, laptop balanced on his stomach, eyes barely registering as I pass.

“Where you headed?” His voice cuts through the silence.

“Out,” I snap as I grab my keys and jacket.

“You’re not going after him, are you?” He shifts, setting the laptop aside, that damn knowing look on his face.

“No.”

“Then who?” he presses.

“You don’t want to know.”

“Probably not.”

Too tired to push, he rubs a hand over his face.

“Keep her safe,” I bark, already heading for the door. “I’ll be down in the basement later.”

He knows what that means. The routine's familiar.

Tonight’s going to be bloody, and I need to get my hands dirty.

“You sure that’s smart?” he calls after me, but I’m already halfway out the door.

“It’ll clear my head.”

“Well, have fun.” He’s resigned, grabbing the remote, already switching back to whatever mindless show he was watching.

I stalk to the garage, each step deliberate. The rage is still there, but it’s focused now, controlled. I pull the tarp off the Honda—plain, forgettable. It’s my ghost car, built for nights like this. No VIN, no electronics, fake plates. A stripped-down shell, as hollow as I am.

I don’t fuck around.

Midnight’s close when I finally park, deep in a secluded ditch. Gloves on, each finger slides into place like a second skin. The adrenaline surges, heightening everything. Tonight, it’s not about Conrad. He’s hiding at the Iron, likethe spineless bastard he is, but I’ll hit him where it hurts. While he thinks he’s safe, I’ll tear apart what he loves.

Something he’llneverget back.