Page 63 of Don't You Pucking Dare

The gunshot comes from nowhere and everywhere. Rick Kemper—the untouchable crime lord, the monster who broke my brother—drops to his knees. Blood bubbles from his lips, staining his perfect suit.

"Oh, fuck!" The words escape me as Lola's scream fills the chamber.

She runs toward her father as hell breaks loose. Gunfire erupts from every direction—Rick's men caught in a crossfire as Nico's soldiers emerge from the tunnels they thought were escape routes. Bodies fall like dominoes, blood painting the stone floors.

Jack pulls Lola back from her father's body, sheltering her from the carnage. It should be me there. It should be my arms keeping her safe. Instead, I'm trapped watching through screens like a coward.

When silence falls, it feels absolute. Nico kicks Rick's corpse, confirming what the growing pool of blood already tells us. The great Rick Kemper, ended with a single bullet.

"Noah!" Nico's voice bounces off the walls.

We emerge from our hiding place into the aftermath. The metallic stench of blood mixes with cordite, making my stomach turn. Bodies litter the ground like fallen chess pieces in a game I never understood.

Lola sits in the corner with Jack, her face blank, eyes fixed on nothing. When I reach for her, she lets me help her up, but then shoves me away like my touch burns.

"Don't you fucking dare." Her voice cracks. "Don't you fucking come near me!"

"Lola, please." I hear the desperation in my voice. "I told you it would make sense—"

"Fuck you, Brody!" She runs for the stairs, leaving me in this tomb of her father's making.

Behind me, Nico and Noah discuss their victory like this was all business. But Lola's rejection cuts deeper than any bullet. I have to follow her, have to make her understand that everything I did—the torture, the manipulation, all of it—was to protect her from something worse.

I chase her up the stairs.

Chapter 27

I run until my legs give out, but I can't escape the images—men dropping like marionettes with cut strings, blood painting stone walls, my father's life draining onto the floor. The mansion's opulent halls blur as my stomach revolts again. I collapse, barely registering the expensive carpet I'm ruining.

Brody appears like a shadow, gathering my hair back as I retch. My hands find his chest, trying to push him away, but my arms feel like water. Everything hurts—my head pounding from whatever drugs they used, my throat raw from screaming, my heart shattered into pieces I can't count.

"Please." The word comes out broken. "Leave me alone." He wipes vomit from my face with gentle hands that hours ago held instruments of torture. "Just go. Leave me alone!" Tears burn tracks down my cheeks, hysteria rising like a tide.

His fingers cup my face, forcing me to look at him. "I'm not going anywhere."

Something snaps inside me. My tears dry up, replaced by a rage that tastes like blood. "Don't." My voice shakes. "Don't you fucking dare play protector now. You don't get to be my hero when you chose to be my villain."

He pulls me to my feet like I weigh nothing. "I told you everything would make sense in the morning."

"No!" I shove against his chest, but my body betrays me—too weak from the night's horrors to fight him. He lifts me into his arms, and I hate how safe it feels, how my body remembers trusting him before I knew what he was capable of.

He carries me through a bedroom I barely register, into a bathroom. Steam rises as he starts the water, the sound of running water almost drowning out the echo of gunshots in my head.

When he reaches for the disgusting clothes on my body, I flinch away. But his touch is different now—gentle, careful, nothing like the man who hurt me in that chamber.

"You––" My voice cracks, high and broken. "Made me trust you, then—" The words catch in my throat as he eases the ruined top from my shoulders.

He tests the water temperature, adjusts it without looking at me. Like he can't face what he's done. "There's more to this than you know, Duchess." The nickname hits like a blade. "But right now, you need medicine and rest. The truth..." He finally meets my eyes. "The truth will only hurt worse."

His hands hover over the last of my clothes, waiting for permission. I hate that even now, covered in blood and vomit and betrayal, part of me wants to let him take care of me.

I stand naked before him, but his eyes hold nothing but regret. My arms cross over my chest as I step into the shower and wash off the worst day of my life.

Brody washes my hair, takes the loofa, and scrubs my body, and then he shampoos my hair again, followed by conditioner.

When I’m done, our eyes meet. "Tell me everything," I ask. Another tear tracks down my cheek. "And my mom—I need to know she's safe."

"I'll have someone check on her." He hands me a towel, which I wrap around myself like a shield. "You deserve the truth about tonight."

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