Page 17 of Shattered by Grace (The Locke Empire Duet #1)

Chapter Thirteen

T wo agonizing hours later, Victoria finally stepped through her front door, her body aching with exhaustion. The moment the door clicked shut, she threw the deadbolt and slumped against the wood, her forehead pressing against the cool surface. A shaky breath escaped her lips.

Did I just stumble into the underground empire my father died for?

Her father had died trying to take down the underground fight circuit and the empire built on blood money, drugs, and corruption. The Lockes had always been at the center of it. She’d spent years trying to forget that name, to erase the memories that came with it.

Now she had seen it. Been inside it.

Her stomach twisted as the night’s images flooded back. The blood on Tyson’s hands. The fear in his eyes.

The way Tristan had gone completely still, as if— no. She shut that thought down before it could settle.

Justin… nope. Nope, not going there either.

Pushing off the door, she kicked off her heels and dragged a hand through her hair, pacing. I always knew the Lockes ran that world, but how deep are they in? How deep are Tyson and Tristan?

She’d assumed they were just heirs to the empire, distant shadows of the real monsters pulling the strings. But tonight, Tyson hadn’t looked like a detached observer. He’d looked desperate. Terrified.

And Tristan?—

Her chest tightened.

I should walk away. I should forget I ever saw anything.

But she couldn’t. Because if Tristan and Tyson were more than just names tied to the underworld, if they were active players, then she was in more danger than she ever realized.

And worse?

A part of her didn’t want to run.

She sank onto the couch, her hands gripping her knees. What the hell am I doing ?

Victoria let her head fall back against the couch, eyes shutting as a bitter laugh slipped past her lips.

Fuck.

She should be furious. The Locke family had taken everything from her, ripped her life apart in ways she could never undo. She’d sworn she would never get caught in their world, never let their name be anything more than a dark stain in her past.

And yet here she was, shaken, restless, and—damn it—worried.

I hope Tristan is okay.

The thought hit her like a slap, and she sat up straighter, her jaw clenching.

No.

He was a Locke. One of them . Whatever mess he’d gotten himself into, he deserved it. That’s what she should believe, what she had to believe.

But then she saw it again, playing in her mind. The blood. The panic in Tyson’s voice. The way Tristan had gone completely still.

With a frustrated groan, Victoria pushed off the couch, pacing back and forth in her living room. She needed to shake this off, to clear her head. But no matter how hard she tried to shove it down, a nagging question kept digging its claws in.

She couldn’t stop thinking about the club.

Was the fighting ring really in the basement, like the rumors said?

Her father had kept so much from her, and now, staring at the wall where his pictures sat, the weight of it all crashed down on her.

How deep into this mess were the twins? She knew the underground fighting wasn’t just a game to the Lockes.

It was a cover for something much darker, something her father had clearly been involved in.

Frustrated and unable to sit still, she dragged herself to the kitchen.

Her hands were shaky as she grabbed a glass from the cabinet, filling it with cold water.

She hoped the liquid would cool the restless energy that thrummed beneath her skin, but it did nothing to ease the knot of tension in her chest.

Leaning against the counter, she stared blankly at the wall, but her mind was miles away.

On Tristan, on Tyson, on the club, on everything.

Every detail of the night, every unanswered question, swirled together in a tangled mess she couldn’t undo.

No matter how hard she tried to piece it together, one truth haunted her: She was in too deep.

Deeper than she ever planned to be. And no one else had a clue.

Setting the empty glass down with more force than she meant, she exhaled sharply. How the hell did I let it get this far?

Still in her dress, her nerves crackling with unresolved tension, she stalked over to the corner of her living room where the punching bag hung. The soft sway of it in the dim light was like a silent sentinel, but it did little to calm her mind. If anything, it only made her more agitated.

With practiced precision, Victoria slipped on her gloves, the leather biting into her hands with an almost desperate energy.

Usually, the familiar rhythm of wrapping her hands brought a sense of calm, a brief moment of focus but tonight, it did nothing.

Nothing could untangle the mess of thoughts spiraling out of control in her head.

The Lockes. She knew better. I knew they were trouble and needed to avoid them at all costs . She’d told herself that. Over and over. Yet here she was, tangled in their world, suffocating in secrets, with no goddamn idea how to untangle herself from the mess.

With a furious snarl, she threw her first punch, the satisfying thud of impact reverberating through her arms. The bag rocked back.

Again. Another hit, harder this time. Her body moved on autopilot, the burn in her muscles distracting her from the storm that raged inside.

The rhythm became her anchor, the only thing holding her together as she threw herself into each punch.

Each strike was a release, a way to channel the mix of fear, anger, and confusion swirling inside her. But no matter how fast she hit, no matter how much force she put into it, the thoughts wouldn’t stop.

Tristan’s body. Lifeless. Tyson’s unreadable expression. The blood that stained everything like a dark omen.

Her punches came faster now, the force of her blows quickening, growing more brutal with each strike. The sound of her gloves slapping against the bag echoed through the empty room, drowning out her racing heart, the pounding in her head.

“Why did it have to be them?” she hissed between clenched teeth, the words a bitter, jagged release. Her fist connected with the bag again, so hard it made the whole thing swing violently. Why the hell did it have to be them?

Suddenly, a loud banging on her door shattered the intensity of the moment.

“Hey, knock it off! It’s three in the morning!” her neighbor’s voice rang out, frustration clear.

Victoria paused, chest heaving as she glared at the door. For a second, she considered snapping back, but instead, she gritted her teeth and muttered under her breath, “Sorry.”

With a deep breath, she turned back to the bag, determined to finish what she started.

“Just great,” she muttered. “As if I didn’t have enough problems already.”

Ignoring the grumbling outside, she kept going, but the neighbor’s interruption dulled her focus. The images of Tristan’s blood, Tyson’s cold gaze, Razer’s booming voice…each one lingered.

With every punch, the tension eased a little, but she knew the real fight wasn’t over. Then came the pounding again, harder this time.

“Knock it off! I’ll call the cops if you don’t!”

Victoria ripped off her gloves, tossing them aside. “Fine, I’m done!” she snapped, then added under breath, “I need a shower anyway.”

The adrenaline still buzzed in her veins, but fatigue was creeping in, dragging her limbs into sluggishness.

She glanced at the clock, debating a trip to the gym to burn off the rest of her energy.

It was tempting. There, she could drown out the noise in her head, lose herself in the rhythm of it all.

But sleep was calling. Her eyelids felt heavy, and no matter how much she resisted, her body demanded rest. “Yeah, right,” she scoffed. “Like I’ll get any decent rest tonight.”

She exhaled, running a hand through her hair. Overthinking wouldn’t change anything, tomorrow would bring its own problems. Right now, she needed sleep. She couldn’t face the Lockes, Razer, Justin, or whatever mess she’d fallen into if she was dead on her feet.

Leaving the punching bag behind, she dragged herself to the bathroom. The shower was waiting, but her mind was already racing with unanswered questions, buried secrets, and the impossible task of staying above it all.

The scalding water poured over her, stripping away the night’s tension, the sweat, the weight of the past, and the unraveling mysteries she couldn’t quite piece together. It was just her now, the hiss of the water, the illusion of solitude.

But solitude was a lie.

Because in the quiet, her mind drifted back.

Back to him.

Tristan.

The way he had moved against her, firm and unyielding, his body pressed into hers, dictating the rhythm of every roll of her hips. The heat of him, the raw, intoxicating power he exuded, pulling her deeper into something she had no business craving.

Her fingers trailed down her own body, tracing the memory of his touch.

“Why do you tease me?”

His voice ghosted through her mind, dark and smooth, a dangerous whisper against her ear. She had felt the smirk on his lips, the heat of his breath, the slow burn in his words as they wrapped around her like a velvet chain.

God, his hands.

The way they had gripped her waist, fingers digging in just enough to make her breath hitch, holding her in place as he led her through every sinful movement. His touch had been deliberate, teasing, just rough enough to leave her breathless.

She mimicked the way he had held her, palms sliding over her curves, nails grazing her damp skin. A soft, shuddering sigh escaped her lips.

She could still feel the control, the way he had barely done anything at all, yet unraveled her with nothing more than his presence. His grip. His voice.

Her hand dipped lower, fingers brushing against slick heat, and her breath caught as a jolt of pleasure shot through her.

“ Why do you tease me?”

His words curled through her mind, thick with unspoken promise, and she swore she could feel his lips brush the shell of her ear, the warmth of his breath melting into her skin.

Her other hand dragged upward, her palm sliding over her stomach, across the curve of her ribs, before she reached the soft swell of her breast. The water-slick skin was sensitive beneath her touch, her nipple pebbling as her fingers closed around it, tugging, testing her own limits.

A sharp gasp.

Slow, torturous movements, circling, teasing…her body responding as if he were still there, as if she were still lost in the pulse of the music, grinding against him, desperate for more.

She twisted her wrist, rolling her nipple between her fingers, sending another pulse of heat straight to her core. The pressure between her thighs built, tight and demanding, her fingers pressing deeper, chasing that slow, aching friction she had been denied.

Her breath hitched. Her body trembled.

The tension coiled tighter, pleasure cresting higher with every flick of her fingers, every arch of her hips, every rough tug against her breast. Every touch was deliberate, teasing, dragging her deeper into something she had no business wanting.

She was close, so close she could taste it.

A low moan slipped past her lips, her head tilting back against the tile as the tension snapped, sending her spiraling into that perfect, fleeting oblivion.

For a moment, she just stood there, panting, letting the water wash away the evidence of her surrender. But even as her body sagged against the shower wall, spent and trembling, the satisfaction was tainted with something else.

A dangerous truth.

Tristan Locke wasn’t just under her skin. He was in her veins.

And no amount of pleasure would ever be enough to purge him.