Page 158 of Burning Ivy (The KORT)

There’s an old pipe organ in the far corner, surely once a bearer of transforming hymnals, feeding whiffs of cleansing frankincense to the parishioners. The vibration of daunting notes would set the mood now, accompanying scents of lilies and myrrh. Wells would probably appreciate the symphonic backdrop.

Another time maybe.Some future execution?

“If that was all,” I continue, “this would be harder. But my father, Thomas Kingston, and my mother, Natasha Kingston—when you touched them, you tarnished any mercy I might have offered. I’ve thought about all the ways I could approach this.”

I throw my hand out to the Big Guy, whose cruel grin could easily make a grown man piss himself. “Gage here enjoys severing digits and choking people on them. That’s probably especially entertaining with a dick, which neither of you has. That’s not a slight, simply an obstacle.”

Gage smiles, kicking his chin up in agreement.

I halt my pacing, ruminating on one of the many vivid suggestions he supplied, and fix my eyes on our guests. “The local zoo, however, is willing to donate an alligator’s time. That feels the most fitting—to make it slow and agonizing. Maybe even keep you shackled, but let you try to run. Familiar?”

Muffled shrieks fill the cathedral behind their gags, terror gripping them. A modicum of that terror rushes through me every time I close my eyes, seeing the faces of the monsters who chased me. Monsters they commissioned. That petrified gape seizing them, drenched in panic and horror, is enough justice for me.

Haunting torment is a damnation far worse than death.

Resolved with a peacefulness, I proceed. “Your greatest crime will determine your death though. You looked my father in the eye while attempting to steal and kill the one thing he held hope for, the treasure he wouldn’t stop hunting. The man who called you family. Wife. Sister.” My eyes flit to Daniel’s heavy blues as he realizes myfatherreference was regarding him. I hope he sees he still has family. “There is no greater crime than what you did to him. So, as head of the O’Reilly empire and member of KORT, I grant the execution to Daniel O’Reilly. He should have the privilege of watching the life drain from your traitorous eyes.”

He nods at me. You wouldn’t think gifting an execution could evoke the affection lining his features, but like all the men in my life, Daniel O’Reilly finds solace in crimson-stained loyalty. He stalks forward, lifts his pistol, and with two rapid, resounding cracks, he lodges a bullet between their eyes.

A blood-soaked altar of spoiled sacrifice.

And a brisk act of compassion for them and me.

I proved myself to KORT while somehow managing to swiftly escape authoring this horrendous act.

Daniel’s hand slides over my back as his shining eyes latch on to mine. “Heavy is the head that wears the crown. But you, my dear, are a pillar of grace and strength.”

“That she is,” Wells chimes from my other side, emeralds glinting with a veneration that stills me. The two exchange something unspoken, but it bathes me in family and purpose and devotion.

It wasn’t long ago that I sat in the parking lot at La Lune Noire and wondered what marks a life if not people and love and purpose. In that hollow shrouding, I feared I possessed none of those. And here I stand, halfway to billionaire status, dripping with power, but still cognizant of my life’s worth stemming from the men surrounding me, the love of my husband and family, and a newfound, emboldened resolution.

A resolution that rang out in Wells’s eulogy of my father.

“Some might say the measure of a man is by the lives he changes. Some would argue it’s by the mark he leaves on those closest to him—his family, friends, colleagues. And still others would insist that the truest measure of a man is by his ability to stare into the face of impossible situations, consider every angle, and selflessly lead those under his care through the carnage.”

I’ll be swapping man for woman in that mantra, but either way, I’d like to walk in the footsteps of Thomas Kingston, earn the prestige of being daughter to Daniel O’Reilly, heed the honor of working alongside Tytan Reynolds, Liam Graves, Gage Porter, and the members of KORT, Johnny excluded.

And revel in the thrill and deliverance of belonging to Gavin Wells.

I won’t fear this darkness I’m akin to or even the black hole threatening to suffocate me. I’ll revere it, recognizing every inky speck for the gift it is. The privilege and opportunity.

To rise and become.

For these men, I’ll flare as their midnight bonfire.

Set ablaze to rule the toxic shadows.

Their Burning Ivy.

FIVE MONTHS LATER

WELLS

The tinkling gurgles of the splashing water would be hypnotic if not for the supple softness entrapping my gaze. Ivy shimmies out of her black lace panties, a seductive wiggle as she obeys my order to bare herself. Watching her, touching her, hearing her sultry voice—those aremy daily brushes with Heaven.

Her ribs and hips have filled out some, cloaking the starkness of the bones and sallowness she withered into. After staring death in the face, her father dying, and her strong performance at the induction, my girl lost herself to her PTSD. Not completely, but in small, measured blocks of time when she was sucked back in as a breathless prisoner. Some days were more disheartening than others. Appetite nonexistent. Sleep restless. A bleakness to her gaze. Desolate.

It was agonizing to watch, but all four of us had been inside that dark abyss. Witnessing our fellow men blow up yards away, killing nameless soldiers who had fought for the wrong cause, enduring torture as prisoners of war—our souls didn’t abandon those experiences unscathed.

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