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The eyes on this woman. They fucking slay me. Big, wide, full of innocence and fear, terror and pleading. They’re enough to bring me to my knees. Slay a dragon. No, fuck slaying the dragon, I want to kill her monsters and lay their severed heads at her feet in a nice neat little line.

Another big breath has my chest expanding, and I blow out all of that air from my body. Unremarkably, it does nothing for my stress.

“Okay, you’re good?”

The lack of back and forth is hard, but I get it, not being able to get her words to cooperate has to be a real mindfuck for her. Stress on top of stress. Good times.

I step out of the bathroom and pull the door closed behind me.

What am I doing? How did I get here, juggling a tiny, fragile woman, a newly minted crime boss, and metric shit ton of complications?

My palm just clears my eyes as I pull my hand down my face when I see Truie. She’s standing in the bathroom, door barely cracked, as she peers through the small opening.

“Still here,” I say. “Latch the door, love. Lock it if that makes you feel better, but I’ll be right here until you’re done, just like I promised.”

Her gaze stays fixed on mine as the gap slowly closes. The click of the mechanism sliding into place is an auditory exclamation point.

That barrier is strictly for her peace of mind, to give her the illusion of safety, security, and control. Because if something happens, if this house catches fire or there is some other fucking emergency tonight, there isn’t a lock in the world that could keep me from getting to her.

Chapter 5

Blood

TRUIE

I stand in the center of Teague’s bathroom, arms wrapped tightly around myself, fighting not to come undone.

It’s hard. Really hard.

But I’m here.

And Alain is dead.

That’s one.

It takes everything I have to fight the urge to check the lock on the door for the third time. I’d happily go for a fourth. If there were a chair in here, a little stool—anything heftier than a stack of towels—I’d shove that up against the door too.

Yes. I’m broken.

I am completely and totally fucked up.

Can’t string words together anymore to save my life.

But I’ll kill myself trying to survive. Isn’t that a twist worth pondering?

Sadly, there’s nothing to fortify the door, so I have to have faith. That’s something I’m wildly unfamiliar with.

Steam swirls in the shower, spilling out into the massive bathroom and drawing me into its warmth.

When Teague offered the option of soaking in a hot bath, a part of my soul thawed. I would love to sit in hot, fragrant water. Let the scents and heat seep into my bones and melt away the tension that has become a permanent fixture in my muscles… and in my life. But I can’t.

It’s not… I don’t know… safe?

Prudent is more like it. A good idea might be even more accurate. But the real kick of it is, I would be way too exposed. Vulnerable.

So I strip off my tattered, dirty clothes and practically launch myself into the shower. I brace, expecting the water to scald but the billowing clouds of steam are just that, but the water itself is the perfect temperature—not too warm and certainly not a hint of cold.

The parallel to Goldilocks and her bears does not escape me. A giggle threatens to bubble up at the absolute ridiculousness. If I were a different person, I would let it and revel in the silly comparison. But I’m not. Goldilocks had opportunity on her side, choices when it came to tasting her porridge, and got to pick the bed she ended up in. I haven’t been nearly that lucky.