When I’d gone upstairs to tell her that Sinclair was in the hospital, and requesting to see the both of us, a primal terror had seized her. She’d flat-out refused to leave the bedroom, her breath coming in ragged gasps, and locked herself in. It had taken Torment and me nearly an hour of relentless coaxing, of pleading with a desperation that scraped my throat raw, to finally pry her out. For days, we’d circled her fear like wary predators, and I, the protector, had sworn to myself I wouldn’t force her, wouldn’t push her into anything that would shatter her further. My loyalty to her, to the woman I’d promised to cherish, warred violently with the urgent need for answers, for some semblance of normalcy. In the end, it was Largo, with her quiet, unnerving calm, who’d managed to coax her to agree to see Sinclair, offering herself as a shield, a silent promise of protection.
As it was, she still couldn’t be in the same room as Montana; her aversion was a visceral, almost physical thing that threatened to undo all the painstaking progress Torment was making with her. Torment’s words, delivered with the weary gravity of someone who saw too much, echoed in my head: “Right now, your wife’s mind is fragile, and you need to tread carefully where she’s concerned.”
He didn’t need to say that, because I already knew.
The gnawing guilt was my constant companion, like a sharp shard of ice lodged in my gut. I’d wanted to protect her from everything, to build a fortress around her, but here I was, pushing her back into the very inferno she was desperately trying to escape.
Was my need for closure, for answers about Sinclair’s betrayal, worth pushing Diana to breaking point? My morals screamed no, that her safety and well-being were paramount. But the other part of me, the part that craved retribution, that yearned to understand the depth of the wound Sinclair had inflicted, whispered that I couldn’t afford to be lenient.
I’d failed her in so many ways already; the thought of failing to confront this, to stand by and let the truth remain buried, felt like a betrayal of the deepest kind. Largo was going with her, a concession that felt like another failure on my part, another sign that I wasn’t enough, that I couldn’t be the sole anchor she needed. I’d made a choice, a quiet, internal one, to prioritize the potential for understanding over her immediate comfort. And as I watched her pale, trembling form disappear through the door with Largo by her side, I knew, with a certainty that chilled me to the bone, that I was about to regret it.
“Diana. I’ve got your back. Don’t forget, I promised to get you out of here the second you’ve had enough. Got Mercy waiting outside with the car running the second you say so.” Largo winked, walking on the other side of her, their arms linked as if they were best friends. Largo was a good woman, a loyal one, but her optimism, her easy confidence, grated on my nerves. It was a luxury I couldn’t afford, a comfort I hadn’t felt in years. Every word felt like a prod, a reminder of the promise I had made, a promise that felt increasingly fragile with each step closer to the opulent, gilded cage we were entering.
“I know,” she whispered, looking down at the white floor. The starkness of it mirrored the emptiness she felt, a void thateven Largo’s cheerful presence couldn’t quite fill. “I’m being difficult.”
Stopping dead in my tracks, I grabbed her shoulders and spun her toward me. “No,” I growled vehemently, the sound tearing from my throat with a raw desperation I tried to hide. “You have every right to be difficult. If you want to throw a fucking fit, then do so. You want to scream, cry, hit something, someone? I volunteer Montana. He needs a good ass-kicking. The fact is, none of us will say a damn word, not even Montana. We all know you’ve suffered enough at the hands of this fucking club, and the Stone family, so whatever feels right to you, do it.” But even as I spoke, a cold dread settled in my stomach. Was this what I wanted for her? To descend into the same mire that had consumed so many others? To let her pain fester into more pain? The club’s violence was a sickness, a contagion, and the thought of her succumbing to it, even in her righteous anger, felt like a betrayal of everything I was supposed to protect her from.
Diana smirked, reminding me of the woman I fell in love with long ago. Her eyes, though shadowed, held a flicker of that fire. “I’m not a child, August. I do know how to behave in public.” But her words, meant to reassure, carried a subtle weight, a subtle challenge. Did she not see the desperate hope in my offer, the wish for her to unleash the pent-up rage? And her composure, while admirable, felt like another barrier, another lock on a door I yearned to blast open for her.
“Well.” I grinned, forcing a lightness I didn’t feel. “Maybe you should. Maybe you should just say, fuck it and do and say whatever the hell you want. Who knows, it could be cathartic.” I hated that I was pushing her toward the edge, toward a precipice of uninhibited emotion that could easily swallow her whole. I was supposed to be her anchor, not the one dangling the bait of reckless abandon.
“I agree.” Largo chuckled. “A little drama makes life more interesting.” Largo’s easy acceptance was another sharp contrast. She lived in a world of black and white, of simple loyalties and clear objectives. I, however, was drowning in shades of gray, in the agonizing knowledge that sometimes, the only way out was through the very darkness I fought to escape.
Diana said nothing as her hand tightened in mine, her grip a desperate plea, a silent question I couldn’t answer. Did she want me to urge her to break? Or did she want me to pull her back from the brink? Every instinct warred within me, a battle between protecting her innocence and setting her free.
Taking the hint, I simply advised, “Let’s get this meeting over with. She doesn’t want to be here any longer than necessary, and honestly, neither do I.”
The truth was, I didn’t want to be here, but I also dreaded what would happen if she did choose to unleash the storm. Could I live with myself if her act of defiance led to her downfall, a consequence I’d inadvertently encouraged? The weight of that potential failure pressed down on me, a heavy cloak of responsibility I was desperately trying to shed, and failing.
Chapter Forty-Three
Diana
Walking into the room and seeing Crispin Sinclair black and blue from head to toe was something I wasn’t prepared for. The last time I laid eyes on him, he was pristine, perfect, and polished. Had it only been a few days? Still, the thought of him in here recovering from something that possibly had to do with me churned a knot in my gut, a sickening blend of guilt and a surprising, unwelcome surge of... self-preservation?
Was it truly possible that my actions, however unintentional, had led to this brutal display, or was this a carefully orchestrated setup?
The idea that I, who recoiled at the slightest hint of violence, could be the architect of such suffering warred with the pragmatic voice whispering that perhaps, just perhaps, this was the price of dabbling in worlds I didn’t belong.
I never intended for anyone to get hurt on my behalf.
On the contrary, I would have done or said anything to prevent it. But looking at Crispin, a chilling thought slithered into my mind: what if preventing this meant revealing a truth I’d buried deep, a truth that would shatter the fragile peace I’d fought so hard to maintain?
I wasn’t a fighter like the Soulless Sinners or my family. I preferred books, the quietness of life, the gentle way life blended from one day to the next. Yet, here I was, faced with a choice that ripped through my very being. Did I stay silent, letting Crispin suffer the consequences of whatever darkness had found him, and thereby protect myself from a storm I wasn’t equipped toweather? Or did I speak, potentially plunging myself into the very violence I detested, and risk becoming the monster I feared I could be?
My instinct screamed to flee, to pretend I’d never seen him, but the image of his broken form anchored me, forcing a decision that felt like a betrayal of my own soul, no matter which path I chose.
“What happened?” I whispered, my voice barely audible, my words catching in my throat. The sight of his battered face, the raw, unmistakable agony etched into his features, was a punch to the gut, a stark reality check that crushed the fragile hope I’d been clinging to. Sinclair, the man who had always seemed impervious, untouchable, was broken. And the thought that it might be my fault, that my presence had somehow triggered this cascade of violence, was a burden I was not sure I could bear.
My words, however, seemed to cut through the haze of his pain. He lifted his head; his eyes, though swollen and bloodshot, locked onto mine. There was a flicker of something there, something that might have been recognition, or perhaps just the desperate flicker of a man clinging to the last vestiges of his strength. “Diana,” he rasped, his voice a coarse whisper that tore through the silence. “You’re here.”
“I’m so sorry, Sinclair,” I managed, my words tumbling out before I could stop them, a desperate confession born of guilt and the overwhelming need to mend what was broken. But even as I spoke, a chilling thought took root: if Sinclair, the man who knew all my secrets, the man who had pulled me from the abyss, was now in this state, what did that mean for my own tenuous hold on reality? And more importantly, what did it mean for August, and for the future I so desperately wanted to build for us? A future that felt increasingly fragile with each passing moment.
“You have nothing to be sorry for, my dear. It wasn’t you who did this.”
His reassurance did nothing to quiet the storm within me; instead, it stirred up the sediment of dread and uncertainty, swirling questions that would not be silenced. Sinclair’s voice, so raw and certain, rang with an authority I wanted to believe, but suspicion gnawed at the edges of my reason.
“It was him, wasn’t it? He figured out I wasn’t where I was supposed to be.”