Crown of Sins - Chaelisa

-Chapter Forty-

*Roseanne's POV*

It sucks. Everything sucks ass.

So fucking much about the last way-too-many hours has sucked so hard. And still, I'm standing. I'm here and breathing. Tate may not be here with me, he may not be here for a while. But he's breathing too. So is everyone I love.

And that's about all that matters. It doesn't matter that I can't remember the last time I slept. It doesn't matter that I'm pretty sure my blood is more adrenaline and guilt and regret than anything else at this point. Maybe whiskey too. And vodka. Whatever.

What matters is that my people are safe-even if that means Tate, at a minimum, will be pissed off at me for the rest of his life.

But if he ever tries to bitch at me, even once, I'll be more than happy to remind him that at least he'll have a rest of his life to be pissed off during.

So I can take that, any anger he throws at me. I can even take him never speaking to me again. As long as he's able to speak.

And at least it sucks, here, back in my club where I'm as comfortable as I can be. Where I'm home among the neon pink and purple lights, the rhythmic music, the glitter, and the men falling over themselves to see just a flash of pussy or nipple.

I'd rather life suck here than almost anywhere else. Almost.

"That's the third sigh I've heard in the last five minutes," Angel says next to me. "We got the bar if you want to chill in a booth. Or better yet, get some sleep, girl."

I look to the blue-haired bartender next to me. She's had a lot of colors in her hair the last few years, but this one has stuck around the longest. It matches the icy color of her eyes, and it's mesmerizing. Her nose ring glints in the flashing lights, and it makes her eyes sparkle even more than normal. She smiles, winking, and whips her towel toward my ass when I just stare at her not answering.

"Maybe in a little bit," I say then blow her a kiss before nodding to the regular two stools down to see if she wants another refill. She always wants another refill. It's no different this time.

Except as I'm topping off her glass, the door opens in that couple of seconds between songs, when it shows just how quiet of a night it is in here.

There's a bit of chatter from the smokers outside just before the door closes again. And then he comes into view, making me really fucking glad that I didn't go upstairs when I had the chance.

"Hey, Angel, it's break time," I tell her.

She shrugs but doesn't waste time with questions before emptying this side of the bar, leaving me to whatever it is I'm about to do. Good girl.

It would be worse if I wasn't already down here. I know that. Even as somewhere back in my brain alarms are trying to tell me to get out before I lose the chance.

Not that I have any left, but that's how survival instinct works. The rest of me still understands that this is what had to happen. Even if I stiffen and my breathing goes erratic for just a moment, I don't run.

My eyes track him walking over, avoiding looking at me even though I'm the magnet that he's drawn to. I'm the entire reason he's here.

I think it's a power thing. He decides when to acknowledge it all, start what he came here to do. So I lean back against the railing behind me and wait.

He doesn't go to the stage, doesn't pretend he's here for anything else either, though. And when he swings around, eyes locked on mine before they should be able to be, I'm mostly ready.

"What can I get for you, Liam?" I ask him. Liam Wood. Liam, The Scion. Liam, out of jail.

The next thought that crosses my mind almost makes me smile. I know how stupid that would be in this moment, so I keep the urge at bay and resist.

I honestly don't know why, but what he's wearing is a surprise. Obviously, it shouldn't be-because he'd stick out like a sore thumb in his jail uniform-but the suit just seems wrong.

"Hello Miss Park," he says with a huge smile.

Again, it's not what I expect, which would be gritted teeth and barely held-back wrath. But his smile is wide, even if it's a little more predatory shark than friend.

I nod to him, walking from where I've stayed frozen to the actual bar. There's no way he wants to hear much else from me, so I wait for him, knowing he'll continue when he's ready.

And only then. With hands on the edge of the counter, I flex in a pulsing rhythm, trying to keep my focus on something physical. And keep from breaking my knuckles by squeezing too hard all at once in a death grip.

"You know, ideally, I'd like your fucking head on a platter," his eyes flick to his periphery, checking for muscle. But there aren't any eyes on us, just the pair we each have on each other.

I lift one shoulder up to my ear and press my lips together in a gesture that's all what-can-ya-do nonchalance. I'm still waiting on the lead he's burying. Because it's not empty threats, even if that would be easier. It's never easier.

"But, for now I'll have a beer," he says as he eyes me, begging for an argument. I want to offer a pickleback, just to see what happens, but stop myself in time."Craft if you have it, light if not," he adds while settling into the stool, as best as anyone can settle into a backless seat that doesn't let you reach the floor.

Without nodding, without even acknowledging that I've heard him I move slowly for a chilled glass and a bottle that fits with his request.

"You know, it's amazing what you do and what you don't miss when you're locked up in jail," Liam adds, about his order.

My head bobs a little, but still I wait for the rest to drop while pouring at an angle until the entire bottle is upended and ready for him. But he doesn't add anything else either, so there's nothing else to do but push the glass toward him. So far it's been civil. Kind of.

Okay, other than asking for my decapitation.

So I don't expect it when Liam's hand shoots out like the strike of a venomous snake, just after my fingers leave the chill of his glass. I should have. I fucking should have. But I didn't expect it. Which makes it hard for me to keep the yelp inside at the sheer strength of his hand as he grips into my skin.

I have to bite my tongue in order to keep from screaming out-from both the shock and the pain. Because he doesn't keep it to just digging his fingers into me, that will leave bruises for weeks. That only lasts a couple moments before he starts rocking his grip back and forth, tightening it with each twist.

And I know it can't be heard out loud, not actually, but it feels like it should be audible as my bones in my wrist grind against each other. The pressure just grows and grows. All while it feels like my actual bones are turning to dust as they scrape against one another again and again.

My nostrils flare as I work to keep my breathing through my nose only, trying to breathe and blink through the worse of it.

"Like I said," Liam adds as his stubby, square fingers work to overlap over each other, "it's surprising what you miss."