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CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

VALE

“You’re being stubborn.” Jace tosses a shrimp up, proudly catching it and chomping it down. “It’s not a good look on you.”

I roll my eyes.

He catches that, too. “Keep doing that,” he says, “and maybe you’ll find that big brain of yours back there and start using it again.”

“He’s your king.” Axel drums his inked fingers on the arm of the side chair. “You owe him an audience.”

I laugh. “Are you always such an idiot or just showing off for me today?”

Jace laughs at that, too.

I’m holding court on the sofa in Alena’s villa, where I’ve camped for three days, while she’s finally in her bedroom, trying to sleep.

Blair was supposed to come, but I told her not to. It only reminds Alena of her destroyed dream.

Alena talked to Loch, called off the wedding, made him leave, and then sobbed for hours about it. Nadine tried to comfort her, but Alena said she needed space, so Nadine quietly left, too. Then, I tried to comfort her, but I started sobbing with Alena the next day because she said she forgave me about Nash.

But what kills me is that the only reason she does is because she’s too heartbroken over Loch.

Me, screwing her dad, is the lesser of two betrayals, and that’s not the kind of best friend redemption I deserve.

No books. No vibrators. Swim lessons. A glowing tan. I’ll take any punishment to feel like I genuinely deserve her forgiveness.

And me?

Well, I told Nash to leave, too. I don’t forgive him.

Sure, he finally told Alena the truth, but only because I forced his hand.

How long was he going to lie to her? To me? And if he does it out of love like Nadine says, then I guess Nash loved me so much I would’ve never known the truth.

“He lied to protect Alena.” Sire’s here, too. He’s reading my mind, preaching, “Forgive him so that you may be forgiven, too.”

Yep, that’s my scarlet letter sin. A big S for “Slut, who was DTF her best friend’s dad many times and lied about it.”

“He was going to tell you after the wedding,” Grant adds.

“Nash is an honorable man,” Nick assures. “Once he’s your husband, there will be no secrets.”

The kings circle me like lions around a tigress.

They say, one-on-one, a tiger would defeat a lion. But five lions against one tigress?

Well, it depends on how pissed she is.

“What language are you all speaking because it sounds like Bullshit?” I lean forward, not intimidated by them. “Tell us after the wedding? So, Alena would have been heartbroken, betrayed, and divorced? And me and Nash, getting married, too? Uh-huh. I see the ‘Fuck That’ fairy just arrived.”

Jace keeps laughing, but Axel sneers with evil confidence. “You will be his wife.”

I slant my glare at his glacial eyes. “I’m glad you’re not letting your law degree get in the way of your stupidity.”

He jeers, “I don’t know what’s making you so stupid, but it really works.”

I fire, “You talk so much shit, I don’t know whether to give you a breath mint or toilet paper.”

Sire snorts, amused. “Come on, Vale. We’re sorry we didn’t tell you, but we thought it was best for Alena. Loch genuinely loves her. Even when Axel tried to beat it out of him.”

“They’ll work it out,” Grant says. “They have to because I’ve never seen our baby brother so brokenhearted.”

Every day, Loch sits on the front steps of Alena’s villa, holding a fresh bouquet of wildflowers because Alena likes nothing cultivated. I peer out our kitchen window and see the crumpled envelope in his hand, too. It’s a letter he insists on handing to her.

But she won’t see him.

So, he’s staying with Nash.

Like two beasts sharing the doghouse.

But Nash doesn’t sit on our porch. No, he sits on his and texts me pictures of the books he’s reading. Two a day from the bestsellers list on marriage.

It makes me roll my eyes, furious, because it’s so goddamn sweet. How many men crack a book open about love for their women?

Only the best ones.

“Just play eighteen holes with him.” Jace catches another shrimp. “Stab Nash with snark, beat his ass, and then make him drop to his knees and beg for you. Or,” he catches another, “stay mad at him because it’s hilarious when you are.”

“It’s not funny,” I mumble because it hurts.

I feel like a three-day-old bruise. Worse and aching. Even if I give Nash a chance, what about Alena? I won’t swoon off into the sunset with her father and leave her alone in this hot mafia mess.

“I’m sorry.” Jace sits on the sofa beside me, wrapping his arm over my shoulder and tugging me near. Not like a lover. Not like a friend. I can’t describe our bond. “I know it hurts. It hurts like hell when love lets us down.”

My lips smush against his pec. God, does he eat steel Cheerios for breakfast? “Who let you down?” I ask. “Because I’ll kill a bitch for you.”

Grant chuckles. “Spoken like one of our true queens.”

But Jace doesn’t answer, and usually, I’d dig to know his secret, but I don’t have it in me.

“Can we just have some time?” I sigh. “Just leave me and Alena alone tonight. She was supposed to get married tomorrow, and having you all here makes it worse.”

“Okay.” Sire rises. “Let’s give them some peace.”

The other kings rise, turning to leave. I close my eyes and fall back on the sofa, hearing their heavy footsteps before the front door closes, and I set a mental timer for when I’ll go check on Alena.

“You know, the other morning…” But a deep voice shocks my eyes open. It’s Axel standing over me. “After our mission. Before I drove Nash back to The Mercier. He told me to make a stop.”

Slowly, he sits beside me, tenting his inked fingers. Malice is written all over Axel’s skin, but it’s not in his eyes. They’re suddenly kind when he tells me, “Nash paid a visit to your father. He confronted him at his golf club and told him he’s a deadbeat dad. That he should be grateful to have an amazing daughter like you.”

“What?” Shock grabs my heart. “What did my father say?”

“That he agreed. That he fucked up and doesn’t know how to fix it with you. That he’s always been proud of you and ashamed of himself.”

Easily, I can imagine Nash fighting for me, but I can’t imagine my father. I can’t see his bloated ego submitting to any man.

“Did Nash punch him or something?”

Axel grins. God, he’s so beautiful when he’s not a dick.

“Never. Nash would never disrespect you like that. Instead, he told your father it’s his choice to have a future with you. But for Nash? He told him that he was going to ask you to be his wife. That he would be honored to have a future and a family with you, and it was up to your father if he wanted to be a part of it.”

I chew my lip so hard, I want to bite it. I want to bleed with the overwhelming rush of love I feel. This doesn’t erase my childhood wounds, but now, because of Nash … they can start to heal.

All we need is one person who will fight for our love.

Maybe my father will start fighting for mine.

But Nash never stopped.

I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to do.

Axel’s wintery eyes glow warm while he teases, “I love the sound you make when you finally shut up.”

I punch his arm, and he rubs it, grinning, before his face falls, casting his stare down the hall. “Is she okay?” he asks about Alena.

“Would you be?”

“No. I know what it feels like to lose love.”

Axel loved someone? Someone not blindfolded and forced to kneel on a pillow for him? “Who?”

“That’s a story for another day. Just…” he answers, rubbing his hands together. “Just tell Alena I asked about her. Tell her we love her, and it will be okay.”

I nod, expecting Axel to leave, but he surprises me. Tenderly, he cups my cheek, brushing his thumb over my new piercing. It’s not sexy or disrespectful. I can feel the reverence in his touch.

“For so long,” he says, “Nash has loved you from afar while I watched him suffer alone. I always knew you were his queen. So please, don’t throw away your love because he loved his daughter, too.”

With a chaste kiss on my cheek, he rises and silently leaves.

He leaves my world spinning. My head, too. I flop back again and close my eyes, processing all Axel shared about Nash and my father, too. And all Axel made me feel as well. Like I belong with Nash, with all of the kings and queens.

They’re my family now.

I must’ve fallen asleep, overwhelmed by it, because I awake to a crash. It startles me, and I sit up, glancing through the windows to the deck.

A violent summer storm rages outside. The extreme afternoon heat finally bursts the evening sky open with thunder, lightning, wind, rain, and then hail. The lights flicker off, and we lose power.

These storms are normal around here. It’ll pass in an hour, but it’s time to check on Alena. She loves lightning, anyway.

Barefooted, I aim down the hall. The bedrooms face the side of the house, leaving the dusk light and view to the living area. The shadows grow darker as I approach her bedroom door, but I won’t knock. I won’t wake her in case she’s sleeping through the storm.

Quietly, I nudge her door open and…

Terror seizes my heart.

A man straddles Alena, his silhouette narrow and tall. Her screams are muffled by thunder, and the sock shoved in her mouth. He’s tied her wrists to the headboard. He’s ripped her pajama top open and torn her shorts apart. The window to her bedroom gapes wide open. He crawled through it; don’t ask me how with the guard outside.

It doesn’t matter.

Hell is here.

“Daddy’s not going to like how I’ll fuck his pretty daughter up.” He holds a bloody hunting knife to her nipple. “I bet you were even prettier when you were ten.”

Lightning slashes the air, its light illuminating his face.

It’s Turner.

It’s on.

“Hey, Cyclops!” I yell. “Want another ass beating?”

He whips around, confirming my insult. The mutilated hole where his eye used to be stares me down. His flaccid eyelid is swollen and raw, like the scars that mar his face. A piece of his bottom lip is missing, too—all courtesy of Nash’s wrath for me.

“You fucking bitch,” he hisses.

“Yeah, I am. So you want another round?” Just get away from Alena. Tied up like that, she doesn’t have a fighting chance. But I do. “Why don’t you show me all your little dick stamina while you mansplain a micropenis to me?”

That’s all it takes.

Turner climbs off of Alena’s bed and stalks toward me. Instinctively, I want to run, but I wait for a heartbeat. I wait until he’ll follow me and not hurt her.

“You cheating fucking bitch,” he hisses, his lone blue eye glaring. “I’m going to carve off eighteen pieces of your flesh and then fuck them into every hole you have.”

“You couldn’t fuck a hole if you stood in one.” I whip around, running down the hall, taunting him to chase me.

Knives. In the kitchen. Go!

I race that way, sensing his heat behind me. It’s not a big house. There’s not much room to escape.

My pulse rockets to heights never known. My vision tunnels, focused on my goal. On a weapon. On a knife. The only thing I hear is his grunt as he grabs my long braid so hard, I scream. The flame of my torn flesh, of my ripped scalp, is instant.

In a whirl, I’m spun around, crashing into the wall, breath exploding from my ribs, pain ripping my vision away.

“You little, fucking bitch.” His scalding slap to my face shocks my eyes open. My world rings in my ear. “Where’s your mobster now, you cheating cunt?”

Turner grabs my chin, crushing it and forcing me to face him. His one eye is crazed as he squeezes my lips, his hot mustard breath, and Chiclet teeth nearing. The smell of his preppy cologne is repugnant, too, reminding me of…

My prom.

My nightmare.

My survival.

“Fuck you!” I scream, fighting back.

He can’t take my kiss, but he can take my goddamn knee in his balls. It’s enough to buy me a second as he stumbles back, cupping his groin.

My heart hammers. My blood seeps from my torn scalp in warm rivulets down my neck. My logic struggles. The knives? The knives?

But he’s blocking the doorway to the kitchen now. And if I escape? He’ll go back and murder Alena before he’s murdered, too.

So I circle the living room furniture, putting the sofas and chairs between us.

He stalks around, his knife waving low, as I circle right, and he tracks left to catch me.

“You watching my hips now?” I taunt, and he sneers, slowing.

He craves this chase, this hunt. He’s a true predator.

All humanity leaves his eye, and he’s a vacant animal. He can’t take his rabid stare off his prey as I dart one way, and he prowls after me. Like an evil dance, we slowly circle the room.

He licks his lips, his bloody knife dripping in one hand, and suddenly, I know it’s blood from the sweet guard at the bottom of the steps. Turner snuck up on him and sliced his throat. That’s the only way he got in.

“You pathetic two-incher,” I snarl. “Your mother should’ve swallowed you.”

“Swallowed me?” He leans one way, so I dash the other while he unzips his navy shorts. “Yeah, you’ll swallow me while you choke to death on my inches.”

It’s vile. It’s gross. It’s not sexual, it’s depraved how he pulls his dick out. It’s not big, but it’s hard. Violence arouses him, so he exposes his erection, proudly, lewdly showing me how he gets off on hunting me, brandishing his bloody knife while his fiendish eye ogles my tank top and shorts.

“Choke on you?” I jeer, “Your baby penis could barely sneeze a wad of cock snot.”

His dick stabs the air, angry and red like his snarl, but it doesn’t soften. No, it hardens at my insult, bouncing when he suddenly lunges my way, and I race around, putting my back to the front door and his toward the golf course.

His ego hungers for my fight. He’d get off on my resistance. But me? I notice his dick drip, waiting and begging, and I’ve read too many books. I have an educated guess.

“You want to fuck me with that little thing?”

His mutilated lips part with a gasp, his hand instinctively returning to fist his erection.

Now, I have a solid theory, and I test it. “You know, I’ve heard excessive masturbation shortens the penis.”

His chest heaves. He starts jerking himself off.

One more test of my hypothesis. My professors would be so proud. “Would it squeal if I squeeze it?”

“Yes, bitch,” he hisses.

Yep, SPH. Small penis humiliation. It’s a legit fetish, and many men have it, even if they aren’t small.

Turner’s a textbook case. Born into so much power and entitlement, he craves humiliation, the emotional sadism of it. It’s cathartic for him. He doesn’t even realize it; he just gets off on it.

But I know how to use it.

The violent storm outside has muted to evening rain. The yellow flag to the tenth hole flaps in the waning wind, grabbing my quick attention, reminding me…

My golf clubs.

They’re behind me, down in the foyer by the front door.

I just need a chance to get to them.

So, I lick my lips and let him relish my singular focus on his penis while I fire my over-educated snark.

“Is it cold in here, or does that little thing run in your family?” Slowly, I step back while I cuckold him, “Lucky for you, it’ll clearly be a short race. It obviously won’t take long.” Another step back. “But your little helmet does explain your huge car. A Tesla Truck, right? I bet your little man fits easily inside it.” I laugh, backing into the foyer. “But who are we kidding? Your puny prick will fit in Ken Barbie clothes.”

I could almost be wildly amused by this, but I’m not.

He’s stroking and stalking my way, clutching the blood-stained knife in his other hand. God, this explains some of his violence, too. This isn’t a fetish for him. It’s sociopathic.

A fetish respects consent. It’s harmless when all parties are respected, when it has no negative impact.

But Turner thrives on harming innocent people, on violating the most vulnerable. He has no remorse, no empathy. It’s terrifying, disturbing, and vile what he does to children, women, and others.

My educated mind labels it Antisocial Personality Disorder. But my instinct, my memory, tells me to fight, to survive.

I hope he rots in hell with Chad.

“But is it supposed to drip like that?” I point at his tip. “Careful, green semen means it’s infected.”

He falls for it, glancing down while I spin around, racing for my clubs. They stand in my black golf bag, and it’s training. It’s years of reaching blindly. I know the heavy weight in my hand. The cold forged steel. The titanium-plated front. The distinct design made for accuracy, trajectory, and control.

My nine iron.

In a fast jerk, I whip it out of my bag, my skilled hands wrapping around it. They know the grip. My shoulders know the rotation. My hips torque for maximum strength, ready to unleash pure power.

Turner charges my way, his teeth gritted, his dick raging. But his head? It’s a much larger target than any golf ball, and I swing at it with all my might, never losing focus, watching my club make full contact as it smashes his temple.

No, I don’t shout, “Fore!”

I let the sickening crack of his skull be the only sound. Instantly, my stomach lurches at it while he grunts, “Bitch.”

It’s the only word he can say, falling against the wall. But I didn’t knock him out. The permanent damage takes too long to start. It gives him too much time. He staggers, dizzy, as a crimson drop falls from his nose. His lips snarl, his eye blinking while he raises his knife.

I’m not at a good angle.

He’s too close, and this foyer is too small for me to backswing to strike again as his knife lifts with his evil, scarred smile.

Oh, god. This is it.

I raise my arms, holding my club as I duck my head to protect my neck while he sneers, “Told you.” His words slur, “Men have more?—”

BANG! It explodes out of nowhere.

I’m startled, yelping and jumping back as blood spews from Turner’s head and…

Oh my god, he’s been shot. He’s shot!

I still clutch my club as a weapon, watching as Turner collapses before me, his body almost knocking me down, so I jump back.

“Vale! Are you hurt?”

In a shocked haze, I lift my focus from Turner’s dead body at my feet, blood pooling around his shattered skull.

It takes a moment for me to focus. For me to see … Nash … with a gun in his hand.