Page 97 of Don't You Pucking Dare

Something snaps in my chest. The images flooding my head of what Lola had to endure because of her mother. Shooting her would be too quick, too clean. I want to watch the light leave her eyes. The gun becomes a weapon in a different way as I crack it across her face. Bone gives way under the impact.

Her boyfriend lunges for the gun, desperation making him bold. We grapple in the dirt and dead leaves, the metal caught between us. I let him think he's winning, let him put all his weight into the struggle. When I twist, the gun points straight at her mother. His eyes widen as he realizes what I've done, but it's too late.

The gunshot tears through the night. The sound bounces off trees, sending birds scattering into the dark sky. My ears ring with the echo.

"Fuck!" The boyfriend releases me, scrambling toward her crumpled form. Blood spreads across the forest floor, black in the moonlight. I wipe the gun clean on my shirt, methodical, before tucking it away.

Her mother makes wet gasping sounds as she bleeds out. Nico watches silently from the shadows, his face unreadable. This wasn't his plan, but he's smart enough to keep his mouth shut.

I scoop Lola up from where she lies. She's still unconscious, but her pulse beats steady against my chest as I carry her through the trees. Branches catch at my clothes, marking the path back to where my Range Rover sits in the empty lot.

After laying her across the back seat, I take one last look at the gun. Clean it again, just to be sure, before dropping it in the gravel. Let them find it.

Noah takes my car keys without a word. Thatcher slides into the passenger seat, and I climb in back, cradling Lola's headin my lap. Her skin's warming up slowly, color returning to her cheeks.

As we pull away, leaving the forest and its secrets behind, I run my fingers through her hair. "Wake up, Duchess. The nightmare's over."

Chapter 39

The world comes back in pieces. First, harsh fluorescent light burning through my eyelids. Then the steady beep of machines, the antiseptic smell that only exists in hospitals. When I finally manage to open my eyes, everything's too bright, too white.

An IV snakes into my arm, the tape pulling at my skin when I try to move. Something warm anchors my other hand—Brody, asleep with his head on the edge of my bed. His fingers are interlaced with mine, grip tight even in sleep.

My whole body feels like I've been hit by a truck. My head throbs with each heartbeat. How long was I out?

"Brody." My voice comes out raspy, barely there. "Brody."

"Duchess?" He stirs, voice thick with sleep. Then his head snaps up, eyes sharp. "You're awake?"

He moves fast, rolling off the bed and leaning over me. His lips find mine, gentle like he's afraid I'll break. "Finally," he breathes against my mouth. "How are you feeling?"

"My head..." I try to sit up, but everything spins. "Where... where did you find me?"

Something dark crosses his face. "In the forest. You were tied to a tree."

The memory hits like a physical blow—my mother's voice, the car, rough hands. "Do you remember anything?" he asks, watching me carefully.

"My mom." The words taste bitter. "She wanted the money so bad, so I gave it to her."

"She's taken care of." His voice goes flat, emotionless. "The money is still gone, but you don't have to worry about her anymore."

Ice spreads through my chest as understanding dawns. I don’t even care about the stupid money. It was never about the money. "She isn't alive?" I whisper.

He shakes his head once, still watching my face.

Tears spill before I can stop them, hot against my cheeks. It doesn't matter how much she put me through or all that she's done to me, this hurts more than I can fathom. My chest feels heavy like I can no longer breathe, the life in me is tearing into shreds, and I can't grasp it. I'm choking now, unable to get air into my lungs. She's gone? The mother that I love unconditionally. It doesn't matter what she's done, I will always love her more than anything. I can't explain it, but this can't be real. My life feels like a fucking joke. There was only an agenda on her end, but on my end, I loved the woman more than life itself. My chest feels hot, it's on fire

"She told us what she did to you." Brody's thumb catches a tear. "About the men, the drugs."

A sob tears out of my throat, raw and ugly. Brody pulls me against his chest, careful of the IV, as years of buried pain finally break free. The memories of those horrific years rummage through my mind, and I'll do anything to bury them deep. Out of everyone in the world, I didn't want Brody to know. It's embarrassing and disgusting. But even with all of what she's done, I’m sobbing, breaking down, feeling like my soul is being torn from my body. My mother may have been evil, but I swear it was the drugs and she would never intend to hurt me. I'd like to think the real her would never do any of it.

Brody's heartbeat is steady under my ear as I cry for everything I lost—and everything I never had to begin with.

The tears aren't just for her death. They're for all the questions I'll never get answers to. Why wasn't I enough? What made the drugs more important than me? The closure I've spent years imagining slips away like smoke. There will never be a moment of recognition, never an apology, never a chance to hear her say she was wrong.

But mixed with the grief is something else—relief. The weight of her existence, the constant fear of her showing up to destroy whatever peace I'd built, it's gone. The shadow she cast over my life dissolves with each tear that falls.

Brody's hand moves steadily through my hair, grounding me. He knows now. Knows the worst of it—the men, the drugs, the nights I spent hungry while she got high. The shame I've carried like a second skin. He knows, and he's still here, still holding me like I'm something precious instead of broken.

---