Page 116 of The Arrogant's Redemption

"Athanasios, always so arrogant and self-assured . . . How did it feel to have your reputation questioned when I swapped those students’ test results? I heard that little Italian girl nearly lost her mind."

"You’re going to pay for that, Morrison," my partner growls, but the bastard already has his eyes locked on Taylor’s husband.

"William," he goes on, "you never did thank me for being the one who—indirectly, of course—inspired you to pursue your profession."

"You son of a bitch." William lunges at him, hands ready to wrap around his throat.

"Don’t," I say calmly, stopping him from killing the bastard right then and there.

"Oh, little cousin LJ. The golden boy. Always so calm, so unshakable. What are you going to do? Call the police? And say what, exactly? There’s no evidence tying me to any of the things I did to Marla. The most they can charge me with is drugging four women and pouring gasoline on the floor. But guess what? I never actually lit the fire. My lawyers will have no trouble proving I went through a temporary insanity episode after the accident. I might not even go to jail." He turns to Badger. "And then I’ll go back to her. Back to my Marla."

Badger laughs. A dark, twisted sound. But Morrison is too far gone in his spite and delusion to notice the danger.

"You’re not going to prison," my girl's stepfather says.

"That’s exactly what I just said," Morrison scoffs, then turns his attention back to us. "Now tell me—how ridiculous is your little nickname? Gods in White? Please. I am the true god. I control lives. I toyed with Marla’s existence all this time, and I’m going to keep doing it forever."

I cross my arms over my chest. "No. Your reign of evil ends today," I say, my voice steady, though rage burns hot inside me.

For the first time since we entered the room, Morrison doesn't look so confident. He tries to smile, but I see the flicker of fear in his eyes.

"I’ll take care of it," Badger says. And I have no doubt what he means—because only now do I notice the small table in front of him, and the packet of matchboxes lying on top.

I’d been so wired, so consumed by rage, that even with Badger having told us Morrison planned to burn the house down with our women inside, only now do I smell the gasoline.

The four of us exchange glances. And as if reading each other’s minds, we say at the same time, "No. We’ll do it together."

Badger chuckles again and tosses each of us a box of matches.

"What...what are you doing?" Morrison finally understands that this is the end of his evil existence. "You can’t kill me. You’re doctors!"

Badger begins pouring more gasoline across the floor in a straight line, keeping it far from us but heading toward where Morrison is sitting.

Then, he unties my cousin from the chair—but I know, after the beating he took from Alexis’s stepfather, he won't make it out of here alive. He tries to stand, but his knees give out and he collapses back into the chair.

"You can’t kill me, LJ. None of you can. You took a fucking oath to save lives."

I smile—cold, empty, without a shred of humor—as the four of us open our matchboxes at the same time. "Today, we’re not the Gods in White. We’re just men. Men protecting our women. Enjoy hell, you bastard."

Lazarus

CHAPTER SIXTY

As soon aswe walk out of Morrison’s house—without looking back and completely unfazed by his screaming—we are met with at least a dozen Harley-Davidsons parked outside, ridden by tattooed, long-haired men in leather jackets. Some look about the same age as my future father-in-law. Others are a lot younger.

There is also a black van with no windows.

The three of us look at Badger, waiting for an explanation.

I know he comes from a family of bikers in North Carolina, and once again I find it oddly poetic—like fate—that he and Marla, both from the same state, only met here in Cape Cod.

"They’re my cousins," he says, as if that explains everything.

"Yeah, I figured," I reply. "But what are they doing here?"

He jerks his thumb over his shoulder. "What we just did back there left a lot of traces. I wasn’t sure if you guys were going to take part in the . . . let’s say, 'event,' but I had no fucking doubt that bastard wasn’t walking away this time. So I called the cleanup crew. They’re from our local club branch here in the state."

"Cleanup?"

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