Page 4 of My End
I didn’t have a full plan. No playbook. No mapped exit route.
But I had time.
I had access.
And I had something I hadn’t had since they started tearing the club apart: a second chance to burn them down from the inside.
I leaned back on the bed, stared at the ceiling, and the echo of Jim’s warning bounced in my head.
Don’t go into the east wing alone.
Noted.
But eventually?
I’d be going in there.
And when I did, I’d make damn sure I didn’t walk out empty-handed.
Chapter Two
Tilly
The blue in the painting wasn’t right. It leaned too heavily toward teal.
I dipped my brush again, mixed in a touch more purple, and swept it across the curve of the jaw I’d been building up for the past hour. The abstract portrait on the canvas was starting to make sense now. That moment was always my favorite when the madness turned to something more. Something that breathed.
I stepped back, nudged the toe of my sock against a paint-splattered drop cloth, and tilted my head. Still not right. Maybe I needed to layer in orange instead.
The morning light poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows of my studio and cut bright angles across the wooden floors. Boone had outdone himself when he set this place up for me. One room for sketching, one for painting, and a bedroom that I could disappear into whenever the world got too loud.
I was grateful, truly. Boone had always taken care of me.
After Mom died seven years ago, I wasn’t sure where I belonged. Then, when Boone’s dad passed away two years back, the mansion had felt… empty. Like a museum no one visited anymore. So, when Boone told me he wanted me here—for protection, for his image, and for our family—I didn’t question it.
I didn’t like politics. Or press. Or being asked things that didn’t have easy answers. I liked color. Texture. The way emotions could live in brushstrokes.
I set the brush down and stretched, my arms lifting high overhead until my shoulder popped. The oversized paint-streaked t-shirt I was wearing rode up a little, and I tugged it down before I padded barefoot across the studio to the window.
I wasn’t looking for anything. I just liked watching the breeze play in the hedges.
But something caught my eye.
A motorcycle.
Not just any motorcycle.
It was a sleek, black crotch rocket that cut up the drive like it had every right to be there.
I squinted and leaned a little closer to the glass. A man swung off the bike who was tall, muscular, and wrapped in a tight black T-shirt with dark jeans. His arms bulged, thick, and the fabric stretched across a chest that looked like it had been carved out of stone.
He wore sunglasses. His hair was dark and buzzed short, but the beard made him look… wild. Rugged. Dangerous.
Not like the rest of the staff.
Not like anyone Boone usually hired.
Jim came out of the gatehouse all business. I saw him pat the man down, and the man didn’t flinch. Didn’t react. He just stood there, calm and cool, like he could take Jim apart in three seconds flat but didn’t feel like bothering.
