The blaze was hot and bright against the rain-spattered night. The packhouse, a testament of Crescent Vale’s strength and power, was now no more than flames and splintering wood. Outside, smoke spiraled toward the stars and I watched everything I once knew burn to ash. Inside, my grandfather’s body was exactly as I’d left it. His blood was still on my hands, drying on my flesh, but I didn’t wipe it off. I wanted to remember it. It had been my right. My choice. My justice. He’d let me stand in front of him with a blade in my hand and Oakley’s fire searing through my veins, Jax had not even attempted to stop me. He had just looked at me, that soft look of why-did-you-have-to-make-life-difficult-the-only-way-he knew how. “If you do this, it has to be your decision,” he’d murmured once. And it
