bChapter /bb389 /b

    KESTER.

    Nine hours. That’s all I got. And I had to use it wisely.

    Two hours flying back home and heading for my bunker.

    One hour for Kex.

    Forty–five minutes tops for Nagel.

    Thirty–five for the piece of shit who took the video. The one who thought recording my mate’s pain was good entertainment.

    Twenty–five for the son of a bitch who was the standby audience. Yeah. The one who stood by and watched, probably with a grin and a hard–on, while bmy /bmate was almost defiled. Maybe he got off on it. And now I’ll make him see every inch of hell.

    Forty minutes to head back home, take a shower, and pack up everything Mine will need when she wakes up. Her favorite hoodie, her sleepy socksb, /bbthe /bsnacks she likes to eat when she’s too stubborn to admit she’s hungry. Every fucking thing she loves. I’m putting it in her hospital room.

    Then two hours to get my bloody, smoke–drenched ass back to the hospital, clean–shaven and standing right by her bed, to be there when she opens bher /beyes. Because she won’t open them to just anyone. It has to be me.

    It will be me.

    The doctor said she’ll be out for nine hours. That’s enough time for me to serve death on ice and lick the spoon.

    I should be back in less than eight hoursb. /b

    Had to get a whole crew for this. Didn’t think Judgment Day woulde with scheduling and logisticsb, /bbut hell, here bwe /bare.

    After this onest show, then I could finally start therapy. Didn’t want to start before bringing my judgment down on these motherfuckers.

    I couldn’t risk having a boring session, in a boring office, probably with a bald–headed man and some funny sses sitting on the bridge of his nose, he’d tell me all the wrong ways – letting go and healing – to make things – Kex and Nagel – right.

    I’d rather castrate myself with a stic spoon than forgive these sons of bitches.

    Therapy my fine fucking ass.

    The bastard might even go as far as telling me that all this pain is ba /blesson, and that I’m bsupposed /bto grow from it.

    bwhere /b

    Funny.

    I’ll slice my own fucking balls off and mail them to his office in a fucking gift box if I ever let myself make such a mistake of letting therapy talk me out of such swift judgment that was meant to befall deserving enemiesb. /b

    This isn’t healing.

    This bis /bwar.

    And tonight, I get to y god.

    You don’t fix what’s broken with peace and forgiveness. You burn what broke you. You piss on the ashes. You remind the world not to fuck bwith /bwhat’s byours/b.

    That’s how it’s done.

    And even though I know this right here is the only cure I believe in, I still took that bold step… bFees /bpaid in full for bsix /bmonths, starting the bmoment /bbMine /bis able to fly back home.

    Chapter b389 /b

    bI’ll /bdo it for her. This therapy is what shed want. But I’m only giving it six months. That’s it.

    “You shouldn’t havee,” I muttered to Non as I killed the engine.

    “I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” he scoffed, ‘Gutting down the men who hurt our Luna? Fuck, I’m in?

    Our Luna.

    Goddamn.

    Did something just twist inside my gut?

    I hated bthe /bway that sounded, because it sounded too fucking good.

    There was a strange awkwardness between us. And it all began to build its nest between us sincest night.

    It was almost bas /bif there was something we both knew that we weren’t saying to each other.

    We got out of the car. bI /bwas halfway through my stride when I stopped.

    Non stopped too.

    “What’s wrong?” he asked, ncing at me, but I didn’t respond immediately.

    I just stared at him silently for a moment longer than I usually would, and he held my gaze.

    ‘June escaped, Non,‘ I announced, and his brows pinched slightly.

    ‘Fuck. She did?”

    That was it. That was all he fucking said. No rage or disbelief. Just… that.

    His expression was somewhere between feigned confusion and relief.

    I let the silence pick up a stool and sit its fat ass between us for a while before I spoke again.

    “Yes. She. Did.” I counted my words.

    “A bird at hand, Kester. Time is of the essence.” He sighed and shrugged as he just dropped a line from an old man’s bedtime storyb. /b

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