Page 145 of Jayson
He was never afraid of justice. Because it never touched him.
There are more like him—I know that now. Men in silk ties with bloodied hands. Predators hiding behind power and protocol. And God, there’s a part of me that would love to put a bullet in his skull. To blow his brains out and buy back Keira’s freedom with the echo of a gunshot.
But I can’t. Not yet.
Because there are more girls out there. Lost. Used. Forgotten.
And there are more Maddoxes—hiding behind forged smiles and polished influence—waiting to be dragged out into the light.
Bishop was only the beginning. And I swear, I’ll find every last one of them. And when I do? They’ll beg for the mercy he never gave.
Kanyan’s voice breaks the silence. Low. Controlled. Terrifying.
“Done?”
I stare at Maddox. At the blood crusted to his hairline. At the pathetic tremble in his limbs.
A girl died. Another forgot. And he went on living like it was just another unfortunate blip on his history.
“For now,” I say. “Your death is going to be slow and painful,” I tell Maddox. “By the time we’re finished with you, you’re going to be begging us to end it.”
Kanyan steps back from the lever. We leave him in the cage. Suspended just above the waterline. Dripping. Shivering. Terrified.
The truth has been spoken. But it’s not over yet. Not by a long shot.
55
KEIRA
Iknow something’s wrong the second Jayson walks into the room.
Not wrong like danger, like gunfire or blood. This is something quieter. Heavier.
His face is unreadable—but that’s the problem. Jayson wears his violence like a second skin, but this? This stillness? It’s not calm. It’s grief.
He stops just inside the door. Doesn’t come to me right away. His shirt’s wet from the rain or maybe sweat. His knuckles are bruised again. There’s blood on his collar. I don’t think it’s his, but I can’t be sure.
I sit on the edge of the bed, my book open but forgotten, lines blurred by the shaking in my hand. Lula made tea. I didn’t drink it. I couldn’t.
“Jayson?” My voice is barely a whisper.
He doesn’t answer at first. Just crosses the room, sits beside me like he’s about to confess something. His hands tremble when they reach for mine.
“I got the truth,” he says.
The air leaves my lungs.
Every nightmare I’ve ever had suddenly sits in the room with us.
“What truth?”
His jaw ticks. He presses a hand to my knee, as though in doing so, he can ground himself.
“Riley,” he says. “I know what happened to her.”
My heart stutters. My stomach lurches.
“Don’t,” I whisper. “Please don’t?—”
