Page 11 of Revenge Saints

My stomach twists.

“You knew what he’d do,” I whisper.

“I thought I could control it,” she says, eyes flicking away. “That if I played it right, no one had to die. But then Ethan… Roman doesn’t like being handled.”

I let out a bitter laugh. Blood sputters with it.

“You think you couldhandleRoman?”

Her jaw tightens. “You don’t know whathe’s like with me. I made him listen. I made him wait.” Her voice breaks. “And when I told him Aspen wasn’t just bait, that she could be something more.”

“What the hell does that even mean?” My vision is dimming.

“You all treated her like she was breakable. Like she had to be protected at all costs.” Her voice goes hard. “I saw more in her than that. I saw someone who could lead. Who couldchangethis broken fucking world with me? But you kept her boxed in. Kept her small.”

She stands, her fists clenched. “I didn’t want her dead, Dante. I wanted herfree.I wanted her beside me.”

I stare at her. I don’t recognize this girl. Not anymore.

“So you faked your death. Helped Roman take the base. Got Ethan killed.”

Her eyes glisten, but she blinks the tears away like they disgust her. “Ethan made his choice. He knew the risks.”

“You loved him.”

“I don’t love,” she says quietly. “And neither did he.”

A knock at the door.

Bryn turns, composed again. “This is Sean,” she says gently. Her fingers sweep through my hair like nothing just happened. “He’s a doctor.”

“Hello, Dante.” I force my eyes open. An older man stands at the bedside, probably in his late sixties, worn but steady. He drops an old leather bag beside me and starts pulling out tools.

“Get me that little table, my dear,” he says to Bryn. She drags it over, the screech of wood on tile carving straight into my skull.

“You might have a concussion,” he mutters, peeling my eyelid open and shining that blinding fucking light into my eye.

“No shit,” I grunt, head throbbing.

“Bryn, get him something to bite on. A leather belt would be perfect,” he adds, all calm and clinical. She disappears from the room.

I try to breathe, but it’s like my lungs forgot how to work. Everything tightens.

“I don’t have anesthesia,” Sean says as the sharp scent of alcohol mingles with the copper of my blood. “This is going to hurt, Dante.”

“No problem, just,” I cough hard. My body jerks. Trembling.

“Easy,” he mutters. “You’re going into shock.”

From the corner of my eye, I see him twist a cap off a bottle. He slides a hand behind my head, lifts it with unexpected gentleness, and holds something to my lips.

“This will help you relax.”

The whiskey burns on its way down, a fire that hits my stomach and fizzles out like smoke. It doesn’t do shit. But I don’t say a word. I just nod, breathing through the pain clawing at my shoulder and chest. I need that bullet outnow.

“Got it!” Bryn returns, holding a thick leather belt in her hands. My eyes lock on it.

Max’s belt—