Page 41 of Jayson
“Kanyan wants certainty,” she answers. “Give it to him.”
“How?” It’s almost a plea. “I can’t kill her?—”
“You don’t have to,” she says, soft but immovable. “There’s another way.”
“From where I’m standing, there’s no other way,” I rasp. “I can’t turn her loose—and I can’t keep her buried in that basement forever.”
Nina lifts a hand to my cheek, fingertips delicate yet unyielding. Her touch lands like a benediction and a brand.
“There is another way,” she murmurs, voice softer than the storm in my chest. “Claim her. Make her your wife.”
My laugh is hollow. “That’s your solution? Strap her to my life so she can’t testify?”
“Spousal privilege will silence any courtroom,” Nina says. “It will also prove to the families that you value order over chaos. It keeps you breathing.”
“And her?” I whisper.
“That, child,” she says, laying a hand over my heart, “is where you finally choose what kind of man you are.”
Memories flood: Keira’s mud-streaked face, her reckless leap from the window, the spark in her eyes when she dared me to chase her. The sound of her laugh—rare, surprised—wrapping barbed wire around something soft inside me.
“You’re asking me to become Father,” I say, voice trembling.
“I’m asking you not to die his death,” she counters. “Use the power he worshiped, but bend it your way.”
Silence stretches between us—dense, electric. Dust motes spin in the slanting light like slow sparks.
Finally I nod once. Not agreement—recognition of the crossroads.
She cups my cheek—fingers frail, heart iron, before she turns, cane tapping back up the stairs. Each step sounds like a ticking clock.
I watch her go until she disappears into the shadows.
Control. Nina says I’ve always had it.
But the weight of it feels like a loaded gun in my own mouth.
I draw a breath that tastes of dust and regret—and head for the basement.
Whatever I decide, the next time I face Kanyan, I’ll have an answer.
One that’ll make the families sleep soundly.
Or make the whole damn house burn.
Keira’s sittingon the bench, one leg stretched out, foot propped on a pillow. Her hair’s a mess—wiry strands falling across her cheek, lips dry, eyes darker than I’ve ever seen them. But it’s not fear in them.
It’s fury.
I step inside. Let the door close behind me. No more barriers. No more pretending we haven’t reached the point of no return.
She watches me like I’m another bad decision in a long line of them.
“What now?” she spits, arms crossing. “Come to chain me to the floor this time?”
I don’t answer right away. I just look at her. Really look. The stubborn tilt of her chin. The shadows under her eyes. The bruised pride leaking out between every breath. Even in anger, she’s beautiful.
I don’t want to say the words. But I’ve never wanted her to die, either. And right now, those are the only two options on the table. I stand just inside the door, hands fisted at my sides, words curdling on my tongue. There’s no gentle way to say this, no polite euphemism for the blade I’m about to press to her throat. So I rip the bandage off.
