Hooked (Never After, #1)(82)

Why Jon has black hair and dark features, so similar to our mother’s, but also a lot like James.

Disbelief coasts through me, a whispered question dancing inside my brain.

My father turns back to James, pressing the barrel of his revolver against his head, and clicking back the hammer. “Any last words, Hook?”

“Bad form, Peter,” James grits out. “Not quite a fair fight.”

He looks past my father, locking his cloudy eyes on me. He licks his lips, blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth.

“Don’t say it,” I hiss, my stomach twisting until it tears. “Don’t you dare say it.”

He smiles, and I swear to God the sight makes me want to die.

“The greatest thing I’ve ever done in my life was to love you, Wendy, darling.”

My heart cracks in my chest, agony ripping through me so deep it brands my soul. A guttural sob escapes my throat, making my father spin around. I thrash my body violently against Tina’s hold, my head snapping back into her skull, her grip growing slack.

Ripping myself away, I stumble on the ground, rising on my hands and knees to crawl toward Starkey’s body, reaching out at the same moment Tina grips my ankle.

She was fast.

But not fast enough.

I twist in her hold, raising the revolver to her face, and without another thought, I shoot.

Blood explodes from the side of her head, my stomach heaving as it splashes on my legs, her lifeless body falling back and crumpling on the floor.

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, slowly standing, focusing my eyes on where my father has James on his knees.

They both stare at me, frozen with eyes wide.

Tears stream down my face, the fragments of my heart slicing through my flesh as I lift my shaky arms, aiming the gun at my father. “It didn’t have to be this way,” I whisper.

“Wendy,” James says, his voice the strongest it’s been all night. “Stop this.”

“Did Mom die in a car accident?” I ask, my finger curling around the trigger.

“Little Shad—”

“Did she?!” I scream, my throat scratching from the force of my yell.

My father’s face drops, all pretenses gone, a blank and hollow look entering his eyes. “No.”

“And Jon?” I continue, though the anguish is splitting me in half.

His chin lifts. “Jon is not my son. He’s a bastard, and the living embodiment of your mother’s disrespect.”

My face screws up, the truth excruciating as it gores its way through the center of my chest. I breathe deep, welcoming the pain, allowing it to fuel me.

I look to James, then back to my father. My hands tremble so violently, I’m surprised I can even hold them up. But I grit my teeth and push through the tremors. “Don’t make me do this.” My voice catches on the torn-up edges of my throat.

My dad chuckles, but his eyes dart nervously between the weapon and my face. “Wendy, don’t be ridiculous. I’m your father.”

I take slow steps forward.

“Wendy.” James’s voice is sharp. His gaze is wide and open, resolute acceptance in his eyes. “It’s alright, darling,” he purrs. “Put the gun down.”

Tears blur my vision, pain ravaging my soul, but I do as he says, lowering the weapon.

My father’s shoulders relax, his brows drawing in. “I’m sorry it has to be this way, Little Shadow. But in time, you’ll understand this was for the best.”

He spins around, pushing his revolver against James’s head. James closes his eyes, as if he’s ready and willing to accept his fate.

But I’m not.

“Dad?” I lift the gun and cock it. “I’m sorry, too.”

And then I pull the trigger.

My body hits the ground before his, heaving sobs wracking through me as I collapse in on myself, the anguish of what I just did more than I can bear. My arms wrap around my stomach, nausea making my skin sweat and my body heat, and I heave, vomit rising through my esophagus and pouring from my mouth onto the floor.

My throat burns and my soul is shattered, my eyes so swollen I can barely see.

Soft touches caress my back, and then I’m pulled into a lap, James’s lips coming down to press against my face. “Shh, darling. It’s okay. It will all be okay.”

His hold is shaky and weak, but it’s there.

And right now, it’s exactly what I need.





47





Wendy





It’s been a week since I’ve killed, and grief sits heavy on my soul.

I’m not sure there will ever be a time that it doesn’t, but I don’t regret what I’ve done. I was mourning my father long before now, and if I had to do it all over, we’d still be where we are today.

At his memorial service, sitting in the front row, with hundreds of people behind us.

The tears that stream down my face are real, remembering the father who brought me acorns and always said good night. But that man didn’t exist in the end, and I pray I helped his soul find peace. Because he wasn’t finding it here.

I’m not sure how everything was covered up, and I don’t care to know. But to the rest of the world, Peter Michaels was killed by a low-level criminal named Sammy Antonis; the secret child of the late Senator Barrie, known to the underworld as Croc.