Page 74 of Blood Queen

“Truman,” Eli says, his voice deep, cutting through the silence. “Kid.”

I nod, feeling small under the weight of his gaze.

“Let’s get this over with,” Truman says, his tone still edged with frustration, but there’s something else there now. A quiet hope, perhaps. Or maybe a resignation. I can’t tell which.

Marcy stands by the kitchen counter, nervously fidgeting with the edge of a dish towel. The three of us settle around the small table, and Eli takes a seat, his eyes never leaving me.

“So, what’s the situation?” Eli asks, his voice clipped and businesslike. He looks between me and Truman, clearly waiting for us to bring him up to speed.

I inhale deeply, feeling the air fill my lungs as my fingers curl into tight fists. With a steady voice, I recount every detail to Eli, starting from the moment I left them at college until last week. As my words spill out, I watch Eli’s expression shift dramatically: his eyes widen in shock, then his brows knit together in anger, and finally, his features soften into a look of resignation and acceptance.

“You understand what that means, right? The FBI is ready to bring charges. If you testify, it all ends. If you don’t…” He lets the words hang in the air, heavy with implication.

I feel a cold sweat breaking out on my skin. “I’m not testifying,” I say, my voice shaking with more fear than I care to admit. “I can’t. I won’t ever be safe.”

The words hit the room like a stone sinking into water. Eli doesn’t flinch, but I can see the flicker of disappointment in his eyes.

“Kid,” Eli starts.

I shake my head, my chest tightening. “I can’t. I’ll be a walking target. But I will give you something. I’ve been keeping journals. Six years of detailed accounts on every mafia crime I knew about. I sent them to Marcy.” I turn to her, and she pulls a stack of journals from the safe she keeps hidden in the back of the house.

I push them toward Eli, my hand trembling. “I’ll give you all of it. Everything I have. But in return, I need protection. I need to be safe.”

Eli’s expression remains a stoic mask. He rises with deliberate calm, extracting his phone with an unnerving silence. His fingers move with purpose as he dials, striding out onto the porch with a determination that speaks volumes. His voice, low and intense, mutters briefly into the receiver, leaving us behind in a suffocating silence that stretches into eternity. The air grows heavy, each second dragging like a weight. Truman’s hand on my back offers a fragile, fleeting comfort against the oppressive anticipation.

Eli strides back in, in what feels like an eternity later. “You’ll be put under the witness protection program,” he says, his eyes now softer. “The US Marshals will move you to a secure location. No one will be able to touch you. You’ll have a new identity, a new life. But you won’t be able to contact anyone from your past. Ever.”

I can feel my heart stop. The weight of it all crashes down on me, and I can’t breathe. “I—” The words catch in my throat.

He holds up a hand. “You don’t have to decide right now,” Eli says, his tone softer than before. “But this is the only way you’ll be safe.”

I feel Truman’s hand on mine, and I squeeze it, trying to steady myself. “What about Truman?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

Eli shakes his head. “No. No one. Not ever from the moment you sign the papers.”

40

Past

Truman’s room is half-packed, his duffel gaping open on the bed like it’s waiting to swallow the last few weeks whole. Mine’s already zipped, slumped against his desk chair like it’s been ready to leave for days. But I’m not ready. Not for the bus, not for what comes after.

He moves around me, grabbing a handful of t-shirts from his dresser, and I watch the way his muscles flex beneath his sweater, the way his jaw shifts in quiet concentration. God, I need this—the simple things, the normalcy of just being near him, the way we fit together when there’s nothing between us but breath and skin.

And soon, there will be something between us.

Something big.

Something I haven’t told him yet.

I step behind him, press my fingers to the hem of his sweater, and slip them underneath, feeling the warmth of his skin.Truman stills, his breath hitching just enough for me to notice before he turns to face me, eyes dark with something deeper than just desire.

“What are you doing, babe?” he murmurs, though he already knows.

I answer him by lifting onto my toes, pressing my mouth to his, slow at first, teasing, waiting for him to give in. He does—because of course he does. His fingers knot in my hair, dragging me closer as he backs me against the desk, and I feel his breath shudder when I push my hips up against his.

“Kid,” he groans against my mouth. It’s half a protest, half a prayer.

I kiss him harder.

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