“Dammit, Hunter, I cannot tolerate this anymore. You have to forgive me.”

“Or else?” I asked, shoving my hands into my pockets. I forgot, momentarily, that I had my asshole family to save. I was so immersed in my mother’s attempt to patch things up.

She looked up, on her knees in front of me. “Or I’m not giving you the Gulfstreamer.”

“Your husband and son will die,” I said slowly, examining her.

She really was insane. She smiled at me, her eyes full of tears. It was a sad, broken smile, that of a person who has nothing left to lose.

“You’re killing me every day you don’t take my calls. Please.” She lowered her face to my sneakers. Jesus Christ. Was she going to…oh, fuck. She was. She was going to kiss my feet. I couldn’t take it. Couldn’t see the person who’d purged me out into the world losing the remainder of her pride.

“Get up,” I roared, yanking her by the shoulder. “I forgive you.”

“Really?” She was bawling now.

“Yes, really. The apology was a fucking mess, but it is obvious it’s important to you. Now, please, for the love of God, Mom, send the Gulfstreamer.”

“It’s already warmed up and waiting for you in the gang hanger. Oh, I love you, Hunt.”

I couldn’t help but wrap my arms around her, patting her head awkwardly. “Yeah, Mom. Love you, too.”

My last stop before boarding the plane to Maine was the Brennan residence. Sailor lived in a high-rise with her parents, so honking for her to come down wasn’t in the cards. I had to drag my ass to her door.

She opened, looking alert, like it wasn’t two in the morning. She’d been waiting for me.

“Well?” Her eyes widened in anticipation.

“You told your dad. You’ve never asked him for this kind of favor.”

“I had to help you in some way,” she said quietly.

I knew how much it had cost her, how much it wounded her sense of who she was, and vowed to make it up to her.

“Can I go Christian Grey on your ass and invite you for a trip in my private plane?” I flashed her my pearly whites.

“I guess. But no BDSM.”

“Boo. You’re no fun.”

“Invite someone else, then.” She laughed.

I pulled her out, barely resisting the urge to kiss her.

“Fun is overrated. Let’s go.”

The private plane was plush and yacht-styled, all mahogany and crème accents and brass fittings. I didn’t want to think about the amount of Cillian and Gerald jizz these custom seats had seen, and I was so mad at them when I thought about the amount of pussy they had access to on this ride. In fact, I almost decided not to save their ungrateful asses for not sharing their toy with me.

Almost.

Then I remembered pussy didn’t matter anymore, unless it was attached to a certain redheaded banshee.

I was on pins and needles all the way to Maine. Whether Syllie got what he deserved or not, I still needed to tell my brother and father the refinery was about to explode. I didn’t know when, exactly, Syllie wanted to put the plan in motion. Logically, I had at least until the morning to get to them, and the flight was a short one. But what if Da wanted to see the refinery as soon as he landed? That was a golden opportunity for the fuckers to blow his ass up.

My old man was exactly the kind of person to go check on his property at four in the morning, as soon as his feet touched the ground.

Sailor talked about everything and nothing to lighten the mood. She gave me the ins and outs of her face-off with Lana and Junsu, said she was checking out other places to practice, but that she was hanging the bow, so to speak.

“So what will you do now?” I tapped my foot on the floor.

A stewardess with a black uniform leaned down to offer us refreshments and food with a plastic smile. She was young-ish. Young enough to wink at me after Sailor was busy unscrewing her bottle of apple juice while I cracked open my root beer. The stewardess brushed my shoulder with her hand when she left, telling me she was there if I needed anything.

Sailor saw it, but said nothing.

I shook my head. “I don’t want her,” I said.

“You don’t owe me an explanation,” she replied, peeling off the label on the cold, dripping bottle of juice. “The deal is off. You can do whatever you like.”

“I’d like to do you, then,” I deadpanned.

“Hunter.” She sighed. “Friends, remember?”

She was exasperating.

“So what are you going to do, if not archery?” I asked again, sitting back, watching her through hooded eyes. I couldn’t believe I’d thought her to be anything less than gorgeous a few months ago. I was addicted to every curve of her face now.

“Promise not to laugh?” she asked.

I shook my head. Now it was her turn to laugh. I grinned.

“I want to study journalism.”

“Why?”

“Food critic.”

“Dope,” I said. We were pretending my family wasn’t on the brink of exploding. I appreciated that she went along with the charade.

“Right?” She bit her lip.

“Totally.”

“Hunter…” She trailed off, bringing her thumb to her mouth.

Uh-oh. There was concern in her voice. “When was the last time you slept?”

“Fuck if I remember.” I shrugged. “Four days ago?” That sounded about right. I did take catnaps, dozing off for ten minutes here and there.

She tapped her shoulder and said, “I promise to wake you up if you get a notification or a phone call.”

I stood and walked over to the crème and navy velvet sofa where she was seated. I pressed my head against her shoulder and closed my eyes. She kissed my hair.

It was the sweetest sleep I ever had.

There really was no reception on the godforsaken hill where the refinery was positioned. Right next to it were the living facilities of the workers, where Da and Cillian were staying to show solidarity and I guess to convey that they weren’t above slumming it with the blue-collar folks. (Spoiler alert: they were.)

Luckily, there was reception on the way to the facilities, so I had time to text Troy, Sam, Mom, and Aisling, letting them know we’d gotten here okay. Apparently, Syllie had been singing to the FBI and trying to pin everything on this Boris dude, since he thought they had more than they did.

He was going to rot in jail for a long-ass time.

But none of it would be worth it if I couldn’t get to Da and Cillian.

I bounced my leg in the back of the Range Rover that drove us to the refinery, looking out the window. Dawn gradually broke, leaving the frosty mountains aglow in pink and yellow.

When we finally pulled up at the apartment complex by the refinery, someone opened the door for us and announced that Da and Cillian were in Da’s room upstairs. I bolted after him while Sailor thanked our driver and asked to speak to the manager. I’d asked her to ask them to evacuate the refinery and surrounding area completely. Even if we weren’t there when it exploded, it was likely to reach the apartments and even farther down the street to the fisherman’s village.

I took the stairs to Athair’s room three at a time. When I reached his door, I swung it open, not bothering with a knock. I found Cillian and Da sitting at a corner desk of an extremely modest room that had a double bed covered with an orange, fuzzy quilt. The furniture looked clean but dated. They were both wide awake. Da was drinking scotch. Cillian sifted through a bunch of documents, looking like he gave very few fucks about my surprise entrance.

On the desk next to Cillian, his phone flashed with an incoming message.

Fucker had reception somehow.

Unbelievable.

Fresh anger ripped through me, tripling in quantity. They’d ghosted me.

I stormed inside, picked up his phone, and hurled it across the room. It hit the wall and broke in HALF, which—I’d been pretty sure until today—was fucking impossible. Screw polo. I was obviously a wasted baseball hero.

“You want to tell me you haven’t had reception for twelve hours now? That you haven’t checked your emails and phones for that long? Bullshit! I tried to reach you dozens of times before dragging my sorry ass here. Why weren’t you picking up?” I leaned down, roaring. Flecks of my saliva flew onto their faces.

Cillian flipped a page in his document, refusing to acknowledge my presence in the room. Da took another measured sip from his drink.

Don’t kill them yourself. It’s what Syllie wants.

“You want to tell him or should I?” Cillian asked flatly, his eyes still on the goddamn document.

My father looked me straight in the eye, smirking. “You’ve passed the test, son.”

I had visions just then: visions of myself bashing my father’s head against the wall behind him.

Visions of wrestling Cillian to the floor and punching the smugness out of his fair features.