The infinite black of my wedding gown ripples as we drive away. I’m not sure where we’re going at first, because my head is lost in both the clouds, and the soft earth in which we buried Neil Pence.

I’m not surprised, however, to find myself back at the cemetery.

Vic parks the bike, and I know what we’re here for.

Closure.

That’s what this is about: saying goodbye to Pen, saying goodbye to one of the monsters in my closet, and saying hello to whatever my next chapter is supposed to be.

Victor can’t keep his hands off of me as we stumble through the cold, quiet of the cemetery, our panting breaths the only sound here, the only proof that life still goes on, even when the dead lie quiet and sleeping.

We collapse on the grass at the edge of the woods, halfway between where we buried Neil, and where he—whether through action or design—buried Penelope.

My arms wrap Vic’s neck, desperate to keep his mouth on mine. I’d never imagined that marrying someone—especially at the age of seventeen—would be so fucking erotic. But standing up there with Victor Channing, his purple-dark hair slicked back, suit pressed and perfectly tailored, was foreplay of the best kind.

It’s left us both shaking and sweating, frenzied for another taste of our drug of choice: each other.

“You’ve made all my dark, little dreams come true, Bernadette,” he growls against my mouth, his hands planted into the green grass on either side of my head. Victor undulates his hips forward, rubbing our pelvises together and making me groan.

We buried the Thing alive.

The thought slithers into my brain, but it doesn’t disturb me as much as it should.

I am tainted. I am broken. I belong to Havoc.

Vic shoves the skirts of my Lazaro gown aside, reaching down and fumbling with his belt. He curses under his breath, dark eyes heavy lidded and liquid with sin and want. He frees his heavy shaft into his tattooed hand, giving it a few pumps as I look up at him from my back. Right this second, he can have me anyway he wants me.

Before the wedding, I made my wants and wishes clear.

I’ll be Queen of Havoc.

We’ll finish my list.

We’ll crush the Charter Crew.

And with the way Ophelia was looking at me and Vic during the wedding, it’s obvious we’ll need to do something about her, too.

Victor leans over me, licking the side of my face before stealing my soul through my lips. His kiss is the most exquisite sort of torture, like licking the brownie batter spoon before you wash it. There’s just enough chocolate to tease, but the real dessert is in the oven; you’re just waiting for it to heat up.

“Make me yours, Vic,” I moan, giving into my sweet obsession for him. Usually, I’m too prideful to let him see how I really feel.

But not today, not during our first fuck as husband and wife of Havoc.

“Princess, you already are mine,” Victor murmurs, pushing my pale thighs apart. The sunlight makes my skin glow gold as he drives into me with his bare cock. We’re all about risk, me and Vic. Doesn’t mean it’s smart or right, only that it’s fact.

We ache for each other.

Our mouths clash again as Vic curls his big body over me, seeking a kiss but unwilling to stop the manic thrusting of his hips. His musky smell mixes with the earthy odor of freshly turned earth. There are no living witnesses to our consummation, but plenty of quiet spirits, watching two demons rut in a tombstone-ridden field.

Havoc’s boss sits up and looks into my eyes with two, dark pools of obsidian, his expression fierce and possessive, unforgiving and domineering in a way that almost scares me. Almost. To be with someone like Victor, you have to be able to match him, blow for blow.

I cup Vic’s head in my hand and, with very little pressure, manage to bring his mouth to mine again. That’s how easy he is for me to control; I only wish I had a leash to show the world the truth about how easy he is to command.

He fucks me even harder, the sound of our bodies joining echoing around the silent space. My own hips rise up, eager to meet his, stirring up a delicious sort of friction that I can feel in my teeth, my bones, my cunt.

My body throbs around Vic’s, squeezing him, rewarding him.

The emotions of the day twist around inside of me as Victor pleasures me with his cock, and then it all comes pouring out in one, last surge of emotion. Finishing my purge. I end it much hotter than I began, with an orgasm that rips through me like an electric storm, frying my brain, burning me from the inside out.

It’s violent and messy, when Vic gathers me close and comes inside of me, holding me to him, marking me. The scratches I’ve left down his back don’t hurt either; they very clearly say Do Not Fucking Touch.

Victor is panting above me, doing his best to regain control of both himself and his breathing. His head is bent, dark hair wet with sweat.

“I love you, Victor Channing,” I tell him, and he freezes. I swear, he even stops breathing. After a moment, Vic exhales and his tense muscles relax.

“I love you more, Bernadette, and I always will.” I frown at him, but he just lifts his head and lets his mouth twist into a villainous smirk. “Don’t argue, just enjoy.”

“You’re a fucking prick,” I growl as he rolls off of me with a laugh. I sit up, still dressed in my black gown, the fabric thoroughly fucked into the dirt and probably irreparably damaged and stained with cum.

Whatever.

It’s symbolic, right? The wedding dress, I mean. There’s a reason I got married in black.

Victor turns onto his back and lights a cigarette, passing it to me as I sit there with my attention on the gravestones all around us. Somewhere beneath us, there’s a dead—or soon-to-be dead—cop. A dead stepfather. A dead rapist.

I’ll never know if Neil Pence actually killed my sister or not. Either way, it doesn’t matter. Because he ruined her, with his lust and his greed and his narcissism. He ruined the person I loved most, and I will always love the sweet taste of vengeance in my mouth.

Confucius says, dig two graves before embarking on a journey of revenge.

Well, bitch, I’ve already dug more than that. What next?

“Let’s get out of here,” I say, finishing the cigarette in my hand and stabbing it out into the grass beside me. Victor turns toward me, his own smoke still clutched between his lips, and smiles.

It’s not a very nice smile.

It never is.

“Whatever you say, my love,” he growls, shoving up to his feet and looking down at me. Vic, his shirt undone, his tattoos glowing in the sunlight, stares down at me with smoke curling from his lips and grins.

I take his outstretched hand and he hauls me to my feet.

Vic then pulls a small pocketknife from his jacket, cuts his palm, and offers the blade out to me. I take it, slicing my own palm and curling my fingers through his, our wedding bands brushing together. We look at each other, past our clasped hands, and he smiles.

“Blood in,” Victor tells me with a nod of his chin. “Blood out.”

Together, we walk hand-in-hand through the gravestones toward Vic’s waiting bike.

 1. stepdad.

I take the tube of red lipstick from my purse and pop the cap off. Victor waits beside his Harley, the back decorated with a Just Married sign, cans and flowers tied to the saddlebags and dragging. I wonder which one of the boys found the time to do that? It had to be one of the Havoc Boys; Victor would never let anyone else near his ride.