Page 108 of The Collector
"I love you. And no amount of danger will ever keep me away. You didn't want to find love—I know that. But it found you. And it's not letting go. Raven," she said softly.
"I love you too, Butterfly," he whispered.
He kissed the top of her head, careful not to touch the rest of her—too many cuts, scrapes, bruises. She'd fought like hell.
Raven took a breath, steadying himself. He had her now. And he wouldn't lose her again.
"Let's get you out of here," he said. "Back to Dr. Emily. Back to safety."
"I'm fine, but I'm worried about Cyndi." Mynx wobbled again, and he quickly lifted her into his arms, cradling her close. Her head rested gently on his chest. "Can we go home now, please?"
"Yes, Butterfly. I'll take you home." Raven held her like the rest of the world had gone silent.
Time could wait.
The chaos could wait.
She needed him now—more than ever.
And for once, he let himself need her too.
"Did you see this, boss?" Jeremy asked.
Etched into the stone, jagged and deliberate, was a single line:
In the end, they all scream.
The carving wasn't fresh. Its edges worn down by time and obsession, each groove deepened by a hand that needed the words to mean more than just the truth that Marcus clearly tried to live his life by.
Raven's gaze dropped to the grotesque display beneath the inscription.
Skins—claimed, branded, remembered—stitched into a crown that didn’t shine. It bled. Marcus built it not to wear, but to bear witness to the betrayal he'd worn. A monument to the cost of legacy.
Every brick, every word, every shadow on the wall—designed to twist reverence into rot.
He didn't just defile the name.
He desecrated it. Each piece bore a name, a symbol, a fragment of identity torn from someone who'd screamed too late. The stitching was crude, but deliberate. Reverent, almost. Like Marcus believed he was building something holy from its aftermath.
Raven’s stomach turned—not at the gore, but at the intent. This wasn’t madness. It was a manifesto. A message carved in flesh for the Godfathers, for the world: he was a King, whether they crowned him or not.Sick fuck.
"Leave it. I’ll send a crew. Marcus wanted the world to see him—who he was, where he came from. That was always the point. But I wouldn’t give him that." Raven was done letting ghosts dictate the shape of things. The club was his now. And the only truth that mattered was already in his arms—alive, defiant, and worth every war he’d ever fought to have.
Epilogue
Mynx reached across the cool satin sheets, searching for Raven. His side was empty. It had taken months—long, fractured months for her to sleep through the night. But now she could, thanks to him. His patience and quiet understanding. She fought through her fears. It had taken a few weeks before she could even stand to be alone again.
Cyndi was coming home today. Killing Marcus hadn't left her with guilt or grief—not the way they expected. It had stripped something deeper, something finite in her, and changed her at the root. The woman had unraveled under Marcus's hands, thread by thread, until all that remained was wreckage—and from that wreckage, something else began to form. That metamorphosis demanded silence, demanded time. After the mausoleum, she stopped speaking. Her voice didn't break—it vanished. Her eyes stayed fixed on something distant, something no one else could see. She wasn't grieving. She was gone. And whatever came back in her place wasn't asking tobe understood. If Mynx was being honest with herself, that was what scared her the most.
Raven and Mynx searched everywhere—clawing through referrals, reputations, and whispered promises—until they found a psychiatric treatment center discreet enough to take Cyndi in. The kind they could buy off. Not just for care. But to keep the incident buried. Marcus's death hadn't been just a trauma. It was a liability to them all. And Cyndi, in her broken silence, had become a threat to them all. They'd hoped the treatment would be enough to bring her back. Enough to stitch her psyche back together. But hope was a fragile thing. And Cyndi had always been made of glass.
Mynx sat on the edge of the bed now, staring at the door and wondering if Cyndi would walk through it today whole or if the shards of her soul would still be sharp. The doctors thought it best she had space to heal on her own. They'd only visited for family days in group settings. She was still distant with Mynx, so different from the girl who had clung to her six months ago and begged her not to come to Blood Lust.
Mom was doing well. During the course of Marcus's plans to take down the Kings, he signed her up for an experimental treatment to get her out of the picture. It turned out to have been the best thing to come out of the situation. She was at the moment in remission. Still weak, still tethered to quiet routines, but slowly reclaiming pieces of herself. She now lives in the West wing. Alone. Her father was gone.
Marcus killed him the day of the abduction. Some of Raven's men found him a mile from the house with his throat sliced, eyes still open like he'd died in shock. She wasn't happy that he was gone, but he'd put their whole family in danger. Mynx was still very angry with him. She hoped that over time, the sting of his betrayal would lessen, and she could make room in her heart to forgive him and properly grieve his loss. But forgiveness was along road. More than anything, she wanted her mother to find comfort. She was having trouble coping with his loss. He'd been the only man she ever loved, ever been with her entire life, and the fact that he was gone made her remission harder to manage. It would take time for her grief to pass. But at least she had time.
The door to her room slid open quietly. Mynx tensed until she saw it was Raven. He pulled a service cart behind him. The scent of toasted bread and dark roast filled the room, grounding her.
