Page 122 of Double Down
Maverick tips my chin to meet his gaze. His jaw is tight, eyes flat. “What video?”
I can’t say it out loud. I stand on unsteady legs, go to Maverick’s room for my phone, pull up the message, press play, and set it on the table.
The room fills with the wet thud of fists on flesh, a groan, a scream cut short. I don’t want to watch, but I force myself to do so. Grainy footage of Storm and Maverick covered in blood and rage—killing a man for me.
I can’t look at them. I can’t bear the hurt or anger or betrayal I expect to find in their eyes, so I stare at the carpet until the pattern blurs with tears.
“They have proof,” I breathe. “Proof of murder—and they can use it to destroy you. They sent it as a warning of what will happen if I don’t pay. Which means they know exactly who I am to you. And the price…they keep raising the price. It’s not the original amount anymore. It’s some crazy number now—he added so much money for every man you killed for me.”
Silence. It presses on my chest until it burns.
“He’s saying that he’s going to claim me. That I belong to him.”
Every second stretches too long, and I still can’t breathe. Not until they say something.
I brace for the impact. This is where they realize I’m the one who isn’t good enough. This is where they tell me I should’ve said something sooner, where they punish me by pushing me out.
This is the moment they decide I’m not worth the risk.
Storm moves first. The solid thump of his boots across the hardwood makes me flinch. He moves slowly, knife in hand. For half a second, fear coils tight and stupid in my stomach.
He doesn’t look at me. He stalks past, cocks his arm, and lets the blade fly.
The hit is so loud in the quiet that I jump and barely swallow a yelp.
Steel buries itself in the doorframe almost to the hilt. It’s vibration is the only sound besides my hammering heart.
Storm says nothing. He stands there with his chest heaving and his eyes burning with a fury I can’t blame him for.
Because he’s right to be pissed.
I don’t blame him.
32
Conrad
The shrill ringof my phone cuts through the silence. I glance at the screen, my thumb ready to kill the call, until my lawyer’s name flashes across the glass.
Fuck my life. Now what?
Storm’s knife still quivers in the doorframe. Phoenix is curled into the corner of the couch, making herself as small as she possibly can, knees tucked to her chest and her arms locked around them. Her eyes shine with guilt and shame. Atticus looks like he’s one hour of sleep past feral. Maverick paces, raking his hands through his hair until it’s more mane than haircut.
I hold up a finger, telling them all tojust wait…and answer, praying for something that isn’t fire or death or complete chaos. “Yes.”
“Mrs. Langford has…developments,” my lawyer says. “And you’re not going to like any of them.”
I growl.
“Hold.” I mute the call, set the phone on the table, and cross over to Phoenix. She shrinks further into the cushions and something—regret, anger, fear, I don’t know—knifes through me.
I take a gentle fistful of her hair and tilt her face up. Not cruel—just enough pressure to keep her with me. “Color?”
She blinks, breathes. Her gaze flickers as she thinks. “Yellow.”
“Good. Hold onto that. We’ll address it later.” I bend to her ear, my next sentence only for her. “You hide something like that from us again, you’ll be punished by all of us—and it will be far more brutal than the first time.”
Her throat works, and she goes pale. I don’t flinch.
