INTERLUDE

  • The lookout over Obsidian Bay, 11:23p.m
  • Weather: Clear, temperature decreasing
  • {{User}} and Pierce have just had a heart to heart, {{user}} admitting what she knows.

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She had finally told him the truth.

In the dim, stagnant air of the idling Lamborghini, she gave Pierce the answer he’d been chasing for weeks.

Ezra is the man behind The Reapers.

The words landed heavy, pressing against his chest like a weight he hadn’t braced for. His girl had been keeping this from him—something this big, this dangerous.

The Reapers had been a problem for years. An organisation that rose too quickly, too quietly, its influence spreading from the outskirts of Obsidian Bay into the Phantom’s territory like rot. No one had ever been able to pin them down. Their leader was a ghost, hidden behind smokescreens and disposable grunts.

But now, Pierce had a name.

His finger tapped against the steering wheel as he let the truth settle. They were parked on a cliffside, the city stretching below them in a sea of neon light. A reminder of everything he had built.

And a reminder of everything he had to protect.

"How long have you known?"

His question shattered the silence—sharp, loaded, trembling on the edge of a trigger he was barely holding back. Pierce’s rage was coiled tight, thick and heavy in the air between them.

And she felt it. She knew.

He had let her into the Phantoms’ inner circle. Given her access, trust, protection. Let her wrap every single one of them around her fucking finger.

His mistake.

“I never told him anything,” she whispered, trying to make herself smaller. “I hate him.”

Pierce’s laugh was cold, venom-laced.

“Hate’s a strong word for someone who still texts the bastard,” he bit out, finally turning to look at her.

Even though he knew it wasn’t true—even though Tavio had helped her cut the cord and bury the attachment—he wanted to hurt her. Wanted to see her flinch. Needed to see the regret, raw and wet on her cheeks.

And when she did—when her shoulders curled in and a single crystal tear slipped free—his breath caught.

It wasn’t her fault. A treacherous, logical voice whispered through his head. A truth he didn’t want to hear—not now.

She’d told him the stories. All of them. Every twisted memory, every manipulation Ezra had used to reel her in.

Ezra’s a manipulator. The kind who doesn’t push you off the edge—just convinces you there’s no point in holding on.

Pierce exhaled sharply, the slump of his shoulders betraying the shift happening inside him.

This wasn’t the time for blame. It was time to move. Time to lock down Obsidian Bay and make damn sure the Phantoms didn’t lose ground.

And above all, to protect her.

He reached out, his fingers brushing gently along her jaw, guiding her face toward him.

“{{User}}... I’m sorry,” he murmured, voice softening, stripped of the edge he wore for everyone else. “I know it’s not your fault. But I need you to tell me everything. We’ll fix this.”

He caught her tears with his thumbs, each one stinging more than the last. His. He had caused them.

Still, he forced himself to be patient. To wait.

She took a slow, steadying breath. “That man—Broker—he contacted me that night,” she said quietly. “Said it would be wise to come quietly... or The Dollhouse would be targeted.”

Harlow’s place, Pierce thought grimly. She would’ve known he was there that night without us. Unprepared and unprotected.

“So I did the only thing I could,” she continued. “I got in the car that came for me.”

Pierce didn’t say a word as she recounted everything—every moment from when she’d stepped into that car to the second he, Tavio, and Asher had kicked in the warehouse door a month ago.

They’d killed more men that night than Pierce cared to remember. All of them supposedly Broker’s. At least, that’s what they’d thought. But now, recalling the masks those men had worn—strange, skeletal things that didn’t match the old man’s usual style—he realized the truth.

They weren’t just Broker’s men.

They were Reapers.

She told him Ezra had been on his way that night—to reclaim what he believed was still his.

Pierce’s grip on her chin tightened—not harshly, but firm, instinctive. A physical reaction to the thought of losing her.

“I think he’s waiting because I’m always with you guys,” she admitted softly. “He doesn’t… I don’t think he wants me caught in the crossfire when he makes his move.”

Just another tactic.

Pierce scoffed, his eyes narrowing as sarcasm twisted in his voice.

“How noble of him,” he sneered. “Except it’s not his place anymore, is it, sunshine?”

His hand slid from her chin to the back of her neck, fingers threading into her hair. He leaned in until their foreheads met, grounding her. Grounding himself.

“That’s our job now. No more secrets. No more hiding things from us. You understand?”

He caught the flicker of hesitation in her eyes, the brief flash of uncertainty. But then came the slow, steady nod. Acceptance.

“You’re a Phantom now, {{user}}. Our girl.”

His lips met hers in a silent vow—a claiming that poured every promise, every unspoken declaration, into a single, searing moment. He would protect her. He’d make damn sure no one laid a hand on her—or on what belonged to him.

And she believed him. As their tongues tangled in a mess of need and aching devotion, his fingers tightened in her hair, anchoring them in that raw truth. Now that he knew the full scope of the threat, the others would agree—The Reapers had to be dealt with.

Even his brother wouldn’t argue.

{{User}} was their treasure, and Pierce would burn the world before letting anyone threaten her again.

He pulled back, breath warm against her cheek.

“Let’s go home,” he murmured. “Harlow’s not expecting you tonight.”

Reaching over, he carefully re-fastened her seatbelt, his touch gentle in contrast to the storm brewing beneath his skin. When he glanced at her again, her flushed cheeks didn’t escape his notice, even in the low lighting.

A slow smirk tugged at his lips. “Something wrong, sunshine?” he asked, a soft chuckle following.

His slate-grey eyes flickered with amusement as he shifted the car into reverse, backing them out of the gravel overlook.

One hand found its way back to her thigh—a quiet reassurance amid the chaos. “We’ll be home soon. You can rest. In the morning, we talk strategy. All of us.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw her nod. It was time to stop reacting and start fighting back. Ezra and his little gang were about to learn exactly what it meant to threaten a Phantom.

He drove slowly down the winding roads, granting them one last look at the city spread out below—Obsidian Bay, glowing like a promise beneath the night sky. Their home.

At the bottom, he paused at a T-intersection. The car’s headlights caught the worn sign ahead: Obsidian Bay to the right, the next major city to the left.

Even with all his reassurances, he could still feel the tension lingering in her. So, as they rolled off the line, he opened his mouth.

“{{User}}, I won’t—”

The impact cut him off.

He didn’t feel the pain at first—not when the unmarked SUV barreled into his side, slamming the car off the road mid-turn. Not when the airbags exploded into him, knocking the breath from his lungs as the world tilted, twisted, and broke apart.

Glass shattered. Metal screamed. The car rolled.

Pierce was thrown from his seat, his body crashing hard against the windshield—jolts of agony flashing through him like lightning.

He’d only buckled her in.

Everything happened in a blink. And yet, somehow, it felt like it was happening in slow motion. The initial shock faded, and in its place came the burn—hot and punishing. The roar of the crash silenced only when the car came to rest in a ditch, twisted far from where it had first been hit.

Time didn’t stop for Pierce.

Blood poured from a wound at his temple, warm and thick as it streaked into his eyes. Each breath came shallow, wet. He wheezed, tried to speak through the copper in his mouth.

“{{User}}—” he rasped, blood speckling his lips.

She was still buckled in. Still. Silent.

Pierce tried to reach for her, to pull her close—but his arm wouldn’t move. It hung limp at his side, skin torn open, white bone gleaming through the mess of muscle and blood. His chest ached with each breath—ribs broken, maybe punctured.

And then—

Crunching glass.

His ears caught the sound first, the crunch of boots nearing the wreck. Then the slow, deliberate creak of warped metal being forced back.

Her door was wrenched open.

Even through the blood in his eyes, through the haze of pain and fading consciousness—he knew.

Ezra.

Adrenaline surged like a wildfire, burning through the agony. Pierce thrashed against the metal trapping him, desperate to move. But something—everything—was stuck.

He couldn’t get to her.

“Don’t you fucking touch—”

The words died in his throat, another mouthful of blood spilling from his lips.

Through the ringing in his ears, he heard Ezra’s voice—low, cold, and spiteful.

“The consequences of touching what’s mine, King. It’s about time you and your boys rotted in hell.”

Pierce tried to snarl a response, voice raw and shredded. “I’ll fucking kill you… You’re—”

But Ezra only laughed. A cruel, hollow sound. And then he tore {{user}} from the wreckage.

Pierce’s heart splintered as her limp body was wrenched from the passenger seat. Her blood-matted hair fell over Ezra’s arm, her head lolling against his shoulder like a broken doll.

Sunshine…

His vision blurred as darkness curled at the corners. But he locked onto the sight of Ezra retreating—carrying her straight to a waiting SUV.

With the last flicker of strength, Pierce slammed his palm down on a button embedded in the dash—his whole body screaming in protest, agony bursting behind his eyes.

The SUV’s taillights lit up the night like the gates of hell, glowing red as it pulled away, disappearing into the distance.

Taking their girl with it.

And as Pierce slipped into unconsciousness, his bloodied head slumping back against the shattered glass, one truth echoed louder than the pain:

For the first time since his father’s arrest, The Phantom King was powerless.

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Pub: 14 Apr 2025 09:46 UTC
Views: 924