Page 61 of Breeding Justice

Her answer was a broken sob, a sound of pure, unfiltered need. I pulled back to see her face, contorted in agony and bliss, and it pushed me over the brink. With a final, brutal thrust, I emptied myself into her, every muscle in my body seizing with the intensity of it.

The world went white for a moment, as if someone had struck a match in a dark room. When I came back to myself, I was still inside her, our bodies fused together by sweat and semen. Justice's eyes were glassy, unfocused, like a doll's. I kissed her forehead tenderly and withdrew, leaving her empty and aching.

Skylar, Zane, and Hassan watched with a mix of reverence and envy as I stepped back. We all loved her, each in our own way, but we understood that this was something deeper. Something primal.

Justice lay unmoving, her chest rising and falling in exhausted yet steady breaths. This was the moment that always struck me—the fragile human softness that settled over her after we had taken her to the limits of her endurance. It was in these moments that I believed I could see her soul, raw and unclothed.

I turned to the others. "Give her a minute," I said, though they already knew. They weren't savages. We weren't savages.

This was good. It was what we needed, a good reminder of what was at stake.

But now it was over.

And we had to find Vito De Luca. And we had to kill him.

Chapter Twenty-Four: Justice

The boys had let me sleep in. But now my head was pounding, and my side was screaming.

There was no time to celebrate the little victories.

The sofa’s rough fabric imprinted patterns on my skin as I rolled to one side, trying to find a position that didn’t scream. Every muscle protested, a chorus of aches and twinges that told the story of the night in vivid detail. Sunlight trickled through the blinds, casting lazy stripes across the living room. It caught on the pile of clothes in the corner, on empty bottles, on the curve of Bash’s shoulder where he lay, blissfully unconscious.

I tried to sit up. The pain in my ribs was a knife, sharp and immediate, and I sucked in a breath through clenched teeth. My hand went to the wound, feeling the heat of inflamed flesh. It was healing, but not fast enough. I glanced toward Zane. He andSkylar were a heap of limbs on the loveseat, Skylar’s blond hair spilling over Zane’s chest. He’d yell at me for moving too much if he were awake. Probably.

I could hear the shower running. Hassan had slipped away at some point and I hadn’t noticed him.

I lay back, just for a moment, letting the memories of the night and the morning wash over me. We’d needed the release, all of us. The tension, the fear, the constant edge of violence—it had to go somewhere. The tenderness between my legs was a welcome counterpoint to the rest of my body, a reminder that I was still alive, still capable of feeling something other than dread.

With a groan, I swung my legs off the sofa and stood. The room tilted, then steadied. I picked my way through the wreckage. Bash stirred as I walked by, muttering something in his sleep, but didn’t wake. I paused at the loveseat, watching the rise and fall of Zane’s chest, the way Skylar’s fingers twitched as if dreaming of a fight. We were a mess, but we were together. For now.

The bathroom was a stark contrast to the rest of the house—clean, bright, almost sterile. I closed the door softly, not wanting to wake the others, and looked at myself in the mirror. A stranger stared back. Her hair was a wild tangle, her eyes two dark hollows. A bruise blossomed on her cheek, and her lips were swollen, bitten raw. I touched a finger to my mouth, then to the bruise, tracing the path of the morning’s rough affection.

I unwrapped the bandage around my torso. The skin was angry and red, a puckered line where the bullet had torn through. Zane had done good work, considering the circumstances, but it would be weeks before I was whole again. If we had weeks.

The shower knobs were encrusted with lime, and I had to wrestle them to get the water going. Hot steam billowed around me as I stepped in, and the first spray was like needles. I flinched, then forced myself to stand tall, letting the heat work its way into my bones. It hurt, but in a way that was almost comforting, like prodding a bruise just to feel something.

I closed my eyes and let my mind wander. It went straight to SJ, as it always did. His little face, so scared, the last time I saw him. The guilt gnawed at me, a rat in my chest. We’d made the choice to save him, knowing it would put us all in Vito’s crosshairs. But what kind of mother was I, enjoying my men instead of checking up on him? I hadn’t wanted to disturb him. I hadn’t wanted to wake him. I had been hurt and frightening him was the last thing I wanted for Sebastian, who had already lost his real parents—at our hands.

The water traced lines down my body, carving temporary rivers. I thought about Vito, about what he wanted. About SJ. He wanted an heir, he didn’t care about the fact that he was just a little boy.

I turned the water off and stood dripping in the tub, the cool air biting at my skin. We needed a plan. We needed time. We needed a miracle. But we couldn't afford to wait. Vito was stillout there, and SJ was still in danger. Every moment of calm was a borrowed one, a temporary reprieve from the storm that was coming.

I toweled off and looked at the mirror again. The glass was fogged, but I could still make out the silhouette of the woman I used to be, overlaid on the wreck I was now. She had a purpose, a direction. She knew what she was fighting for.

I wiped a streak through the condensation and met my own eyes. They were empty, like two bullet holes in a corpse. But beneath that emptiness, there was a spark of determination. I refused to let this moment of calm trick me into thinking we were safe. I refused to let Vito win.

I dressed slowly, every movement a negotiation with my body. The clothes felt strange against my skin, like an actor putting on a costume. But I wasn't just an actor; I was a fighter, a mother, a leader. And I would do whatever it took to protect my family and bring Vito down.

I stepped out of the bathroom, ready to face whatever came next. The others were still sleeping, unaware of the storm brewing in my mind. But they would wake soon, and when they did, we would move. We would fight. And we would win.

In the kitchen, I found an empty glass and filled it with water from the tap. The cool ceramic felt good in my hands, and I held it to my cheek before taking a sip. My eyes wandered to thebackyard, where overgrown grass swayed gently in the breeze. The rusted swing set had long been removed, a reminder of the transient nature of our lives.

I turned away from the window and made my slow, painful way back to the living room. The Knives were still there. They were still sleeping.

I thought about waking them, about rousing the whole crew and getting us moving. We didn’t have the luxury of time, and every second we spent here was a second Vito could use against us. I refused to let this moment of calm lull me into forgetting what was coming next. But I couldn’t do it. Not yet. We were all so frayed, so close to snapping. A few more minutes of stolen calm might make the difference between breaking and bending.

I sank back onto the sofa, slowly, carefully, and closed my eyes. The sounds of the house seeped into me: the soft whir of the fridge, the occasional groan of wood, the rhythmic breathing of my men. I let myself drift, not to sleep, but to that hazy place where thoughts are dreams in waiting.

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