Chapter 24
SHANNON.
I was a living, breathing mess.
The moment I got home, I didn’t bother taking off my clothes. I went straight into the bathroom, turned on the shower, sat on the cold tile floor, and let the water hammer down on me until everything felt numb.
I hugged my knees to my chest and rested my chin on them, staring at the water swirling around the drain wishing it could somehow carry my fear with it.
I thought about how my entire life had turned into something unrecognizable in just four days,
I was terrified of the turn it events. But I was more terrified of Kenai.
When we were younger, Kenai took the fall for me more times than I could ever count.
If I broke something, he said he did it.
If I mouthed off to my stepfather, he’d take the blame before I could even speak.
My stepfather beat the hell out of him whenever I messed up — and Kenai never, not once, let me take the blame back.
He’d come into my room at night, bruised, bleeding, and barely standing, and still whisper, “It’s okay. I’m fine.”
He wasn’t fine.
There was one time — one I can never forget — when my stepfather locked Kenai in his room for two whole days.
No food.
No water.
No light.
Kenai starved for me.
He bled for me.
He took scars for me.
And eventually, he lost eight years of his life for me — behind bars, rotting away, thinking I’d stand by him.
Instead, I testified against him.
I testified against the boy who used to steal bread from the cafeteria so I wouldn’t go hungry.
Against the boy who stayed awake at night just to watch the door in case my stepfather came in drunk.
Against the boy who didn’t let a single hand ever touch me without consequences.
And nothing terrified me more than that.
I lowered my forehead onto my knees and let out a broken sound.
I didn’t trust him anymore.
I didn’t know what he would do.
How was I certain that he wasn't going to hurt me the moment I decided to give him what he wanted?
Yes, he said he wanted one night.
Yes, he said he would free George if I gave him what he “was owed.”
But this was Kenai.
What if I agreed… and he still killed George out of jealousy?
What if I agreed… and he killed me instead?
What if the second I accepted, I became exactly what he always fantasized I’d be — trapped, owned, claimed?
I want to save my husband. I couldn't let him go to court tomorrow. I know so well that he didn't even stand the chance of winning a case someone like Kenai meticulously planned out.
Kenai didn't make mistakes.
He didn't act impulsively.
Not with things that involved me.
And that meant George was doomed unless I did something drastic.
I pressed my palms over my eyes and fought the urge to scream.
Was I really going to consider this?
Trading my body to save my husband?
Part of me cursed me and said that I was disgusting for even thinking about it.
Another part applauded me and and said that George was innocent — and innocent men don’t deserve to die in prisons.
What kind of wife would I be if I didn’t do everything I could?
What kind of woman would I be if I let Kenai corner me back into the same cage he built around me as a young girl?
If I went to Mr. Cope, maybe he could pull off a miracle… but even the best attorneys couldn’t fight an invisible war.
And Kenai wasn’t just playing the system — he was the system now.
For the first time in my life, I understood what true helplessness felt like.
I wasn’t choosing between two men.
I was choosing which version of my life I was willing to let die.
And the worst part?
Deep down, beneath all the fear…
Part of me already knew the answer.
I stood in front of Room 517 with trembling hands and a heart that refused to slow down, pushing back a loose strand of my hair.
Every part of me screamed to turn back, but my legs had a will of their own.
I swallowed an impossibly dry lump as I lifted my hand and knocked on the door.
Before I could knock the second time, I heard the door click and the same man who had opened the door for me earlier today was still the one who opened up for me now.
I almost cursed him for locking me in with Kenai, but I guess he was only doing his job. Could I blame him?
He bowed slightly and gestured for me to come in.
I did.
The place was quiet and I could swear the man heard the pounding of my heart from here he stood.
"Mr. Grayson would see you now, ma'am." He gestures into the inner room from earlier and I felt a sting at the corner of my eye but took in a deep breath in order not to cry.
I forced in a shaky breath and stepped forward.
I slowly walked in and the door closed shut behind me.
The room was dimmer this time.
Kenai stood by the window, his back to me, staring out into the city lights.
He was fully dressed now — dark suit, black shirt, sleeves rolled just enough to expose the veins on his forearms. His posture was perfect, shoulders squared, hands loosely clasped behind him like he owned the skyline.
My throat tightened.
It was like walking into the lair of something that used to be human but wasn’t anymore.
I took a step forward, the carpet soft under my shoes, my voice lost somewhere between my chest and the panic climbing my throat.
He didn’t turn right away.
He let me stand there, trembling, silent, waiting, until I thought I might actually collapse from the weight of it.
Then, finally, he spoke.
“You came.”
Two words. But they sounded like a threat to my existence.
He turned slowly, the city light catching the hard lines of his face.
God, he looked so different.
He let out the kind that made you wonder if he was amused or if he was about to ruin you.
And he started walking toward me slowly, like he was savoring the fear rolling off me in waves.
I wanted to move back, to put space between us, but my body refused to obey.
He stopped when there was barely an inch left between us.
His hand came up slowly, his fingers brushing the side of my face. His touch was warm and terrifyingly gentle.
He tilted his head, eyes scanning me like he was reading something only he could see.
Then his thumb traced a tear I hadn’t realized had fallen.
“Enough of this,” he murmured. His voice was way too soft. “It’s time to go home.”