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“Fuck you,” Sinclair seethed, blood seeping from the corner of his mouth as I stared at the photo. A cruel smile played on my lips, a reflex honed by years of manipulation, but beneath the surface, a tremor of something else, something unfamiliar and unwelcome, was stirring.

It was the image of her. The girl I’d painstakingly been, now reduced to a mere object of leverage. My mind raced, a familiar thrill of expected victory warring with a gnawing unease. Could I truly go through with this? Shatter the last innocent vestige of the person I once was. My laughter, when it finally broke free, felt brittle, a sharp shard of ice in the charged silence. Both men turned to stare at me as if I’d lost my mind.

Maybe I have.The thought flickered, a terrifying whisper that I quickly shoved down.

This was no time for introspection.

This was the moment of truth, the culmination of everything.

But as I raised the photo, my hand trembling slightly—a betrayal I refused to acknowledge—a wave of self-loathing washed over me. This wasn’t the calculated move I’d envisioned. This was desperate, ugly. I saw not just leverage, but the shattered innocence in familiar eyes I saved years ago, the trust she’d placed in me. And I was about to capitalize on it, to twist it into a weapon. It was a path I’d always sworn I’d never take, a line I’d promised myself I’d never cross, even in pursuit of my own warped justice.

Yet, here I was, with the taste of bile in my mouth, the realization dawning with sickening clarity. I smiled, or rather, my face contorted into a semblance of one. “Did you think I wouldn’t recognize her? I raised her!” My words were out, sharp and cold, and in that instant, I knew I’d made a choice I would carry, a scar that would never fully fade. The unfolding drama I’d craved now felt like a precipice, and I was falling, knowing I’d just pushed myself.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Dakota seethed, shoving Sinclair away as he landed back on the floor.

Waving the photograph in the air, I grinned. “The girl. It’s Kytten.”

“Who?”

“Kytten. A member of my club. I found her living on the streets when she was little. Some stupid child-fucker was trying to get his hands on her. I killed him and took her. She’s been mine ever since.” I smirked as I remembered something else. “And I fucking know where her brother is too.”

“Where?”

“They are both in Diamond Creek, Nebraska.”

“That’s Silver Shadows’ territory.”

“Exactly.” I grinned as my brain started thinking fast. “More importantly, Kytten’s loyal, Dakota. Do you know what that means?”

“It means she can be swayed.”

“Exactly.” I nodded. “I get Kytten, and her brother will follow. He’s protective.”

“I will take care of that.” Dakota smiled, then turned, pointing to Sinclair lying on the floor. “What about him?”

Grinning a savage, predatory grin that stretched my jaw tight, I advanced. The stink of fear filled my nostrils as I loomed over his crumpled form on the floor. His defiant eyes threatened retribution, and I welcomed it. For too long, I allowed my fear of this bastard to overrule my life.

No more.

With a guttural snarl that tore from my throat, I brought my foot down, and a sickening crack echoed as my boot connected with his ribs. I unleased years of torment and fear as I beat, punched, and kicked at Sinclair, desperately trying to eviscerate him from my existence. The sickening crunch of bone against bone was music to my ears, a symphony of broken promises andshattered defiance. Sinclair’s gasps of pain were a balm to the festering wound of my humiliation.

I had endured years of George Stone’s carefully orchestrated games, his subtle manipulations, all while he believed he was the puppet master. But he was dead, and I was the one now holding all the cards. “You think you can play me, Sinclair?” I snarled, my boot connecting with his jaw, sending him sprawling back onto the floor. “You think you’re so smart. That you’re the only one who holds all the cards.”

My gaze flickered to the photograph in my hand, a chilling realization dawning.

Kytten. My Kytten. This entire twisted charade, this elaborate dance of deception, was all for a child I’d plucked from the gutters.

“She is mine,” I spat, my voice raspy with exertion and a growing, terrifying clarity. The raw, untamed fury that had been building inside me for years finally found its release, a primal scream clawing its way from my gut. The power, the control I’d craved for so long, was finally within my grasp. Sinclair’s groans of agony were a testament to my rising dominance. This was not just about revenge anymore; it was about reclaiming what was rightfully mine, about rewriting the narrative, and about ensuring that everyone who dared to cross me paid the ultimate price.

“Dakota,” I said, my voice suddenly smooth, a chilling calm settling over the tempest of warring impulses deep inside my mind. It was a calm that felt unnatural, like a predator’s stillness before the pounce, a stillness I wasn’t sure I recognized as my own. “Give me your knife.”

Dakota smiled, a fleeting, almost pitying expression that I couldn’t quite decipher, and he plucked a wicked-looking blade from his boot before throwing it to me. Catching it withpracticed ease, the cold steel a stark contrast to the frantic pulse thrumming in my veins, I looked down at Sinclair.

And there it was, the true horror: nothing.

Not a flicker of remorse, not a whisper of the outrage I expected to feel, not even a hint of the justice I’d convinced myself I was seeking. This void, this utter lack of emotional resonance, was more terrifying than any surge of rage could ever be.

It meant I was already lost.