31. Daze

THIRTY-ONE

DAZE

Maybe it's the days of accumulated brain damage talking, but, as I come to, I feel like utter shit. Shit, that got scraped off the bottom of someone's shoe. Physically my entire body is fucked—my skull feels shattered, eyes won't open, chest is on fire. The funny thing is that I've endured far worse.

Even the time I nearly got thrown into prison can't compare to now. Because back then, there wasn't a soft, slim hand holding onto my own, or a sweet voice whispering into my ear as though its owner had nothing but time in the world to sit at my side.

"Daze, please wake up."

I'd stay in a coma forever if it meant keeping her here, safe from harm. Safe from the entire fucking world. But then her other hand must settle over my chest because it hurts like hell.

"Shit," I croak, peeling my eyes open. "Be gentle with the merchandise, baby."

She laughs at me, but it isn't one of those fake ones she'd gotten so good at putting on in her life as a rich, preacher's daughter. It's real, with her head thrown back to display her thin throat. Politely, she looks like hell, still covered in dried blood. Her hair is a mess, but the smile shaping that pink mouth is even more genuine than her laughter is.

"I take it, your father's men aren't standing outside, waiting to put a bullet in my skull?"

"No." Her smile widens, and she's more beautiful than ever. "We won't have to worry about him for a while. At least until a trial?—"

"Sounds like you've been busy."

"No, but my father was," she counters, her mouth twisted in a frown. "Turns out, he had his sights set beyond Westpoint City, and he was willing to make a deal with the devil to achieve it. A cartel, in this case. A man who dabbles in human trafficking and sacrifices to uphold his mystique. My father entertained him. Maybe he even believed in it, who knows." Her eyes well up though she does her best to blink any tears back.

"Hey." I reach out despite the throbbing pain extending my arm triggers. Gently, I rap my knuckles against her cheek, avoiding the still-healing bruises. When she looks at me, I raise my voice to ensure she can't ignore a single word. "He's not your responsibility. Never was. You didn't choose to be his daughter, but when it came down to obeying him blindly or doing the right thing… You made that choice. No one else. That took guts."

She nods solemnly. "At least now I know that Hale didn't die for nothing. It was his tip that triggered a higher investigation. Without his journal, none of this would make any sense."

"His death was never in vain," I point out, raising her hand to my mouth. I run my lips along the knuckles of her fingers, registering the new scrapes and scars marring the pale flesh. "He always had you. He knew you'd fight for him, and you have."

"But now what?" she asks, her voice soft, eyes lowered. "I don't have Hale to fight for or my father to rebel against. What do I have left?"

I chuckle, sensing where this line of questioning is headed. In any case, I'm more than eager to supply the right answer. "And now," I say, "you have me."

Her upper lip quirks. "You're damn right I do. And…" She leans in, letting her warm breath fan over my jawline. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

It's done. Happily fucking ever after. Right?

Not quite. A week later, and while Heywood's little speech may have ended with him in cuffs, I know it's not over yet. Who the hell knows if either he or Silas will try to get a foothold in the city again.

For now, the motherfucker is contained, and that's good enough for me.

I can't say the same for Silas. Shooting the bastard was cathartic, I won't lie—but I can't explain what made me aim for his leg and not for his head. Maybe age has made me a soft motherfucker.

In any case, Silas will recover soon enough, but he won't have a crew to lead anymore. The newly-restored Saints will see to that. I'll see to that. Besides, with a long stint in prison likely in his near future, he won't have the chance to mount any plan for revenge.

As for Frey…

I watch her, spinning in a circle with Sammy on her hip. He laughs and squeals, having a blast. The smile on her face isn't wide or ecstatic—but it's something. It will take time to recover from the shit she's been through.

After telling her story to the feds, she's had to watch her father be thrown in prison and learned that her stepmother's body was found in the remnants of the Abernathy compound. Not just her, but Colton, and an unidentified female—proof of her horror story and more than enough to take down the entire ring her father entertained. While the main Abernathy mansion lies in ashes, the feds were able to find an underground compound beneath their fancy family estate ripe for drug trafficking to and out of Westpoint. Not ironclad evidence exactly, but suitable enough to keep El Diablo and his goons from the city for a while at least.

Beggars can't be choosers.

In any case, the files we stole from Silas will be the proverbial nail in the coffin for both him and Heywood, but I don't feel like gloating about it. Go figure.

I just want to watch her. Linger in her presence.

No matter what happens or what comes next.

I'm never letting her go.