Key to Hell (Hell Night 4)

“May Lucifer welcome you with open arms,” he says grimly, starting the dictum we normally reserve for the Finishings. Although Deacon won’t receive the four fatal shots or be put in an unmarked grave, I find the dictum fitting for him.

“And deliver you to the darkest pits of hell,” I add ominously.

“To live out an eternity for the evil deeds you’ve bestowed,” JW recites.

“Shall you not rest in peace,” Trouble finishes.

I pull the key from my pocket and stare down at it, rubbing my thumb over the grooves. There’s still dried blood on it from the hundreds of times I’ve used it against my flesh.

I don’t think the urge to slice into my flesh will ever fully go away—I’ve still got too many demons inside me that demands attention—but they’re not as loud and dominant as before.

“How does it feel?” Trouble asks from beside me.

“Like I can finally fuckin’ breathe.”

I toss the key into the flames, feeling a sense of calm.

“I’m going to marry your sister,” I inform him.

“Is that so?”

I glance over, finding his amused gaze on me. “Yes.”

“Are you asking for permission or telling me?”

“Love you, brother, and I respect the hell out of you. Rella would be devastated if she didn’t have your blessing. But that won’t stop me from making her mine.”

His mouth tips up on one side. “Well, then I guess you’ll not only be my brother in spirit, but also by law.”

“Shit,” JW mutters on the other side of Trouble. “Emo getting married. Never thought I’d see the day.”

“He picked a damn good woman to do it with though,” Judge comments.

“Damn straight,” Trouble inserts.

The three of them chuckle, but I find no amusement in their words. There’s one thing I realized over the last couple of days. Rella was right. I’ll never understand why she chose me, and I’ll never be worthy of her, but there’s not a person I trust over myself to watch over and care for her. My brothers would protect her above everything and give their life for her, especially Trouble, but at the end of the day, their own women and children’s lives would trump hers. Just the way it should be. There’s nothing and no one more important than the woman you love. They’d give their own life for Rella, but I’d give anyone’s life for her.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

RELLA

I ROLL THE PAINT ROLLER up and down the wall, feeling little specks of paint landing on my arm. After covering the last strip of old paint with a pretty light purple, I lean back and inspect my progress. I smile, feeling pleased with my work. Once the molding at the top has been trimmed, this room will officially be done.

It’s been three months since Aziah’s and my lives changed for the better. The week after he killed his father and finally came to his senses about us being together, he started working on his house. He refused to let me live here until the master bedroom was gutted and remodeled. He finished that room a month and a half ago, where, up until that point, I continued to stay with Trouble and Remi. Since then, we’ve been working hard on the rest of the house. The only thing that’s left to do besides the outside is the spare bathroom and the laundry-slash-mudroom.

I put the lid back on the paint can and beat it down with a hammer to make sure it’s closed all the way. After, I take the roller to the kitchen and spend the next ten minutes rinsing it out. Why is it so freaking time-consuming to rinse out a paint roller? It’s like there’s never-ending paint in it.

I’m just finishing up changing from my paint-splattered clothes when I hear the front door open and close. Aziah has been gone all morning, having to drive to San Antonio to pick up more supplies for the house. It’s pathetic and probably even clingy, but I’ve been anxiously waiting for him to get back.

I leave the room, walking quickly down the hall, impatient to see him, but come to an abrupt stop. My jaw drops and my eyes widen as I stare at him standing just inside the door with a baby in his arms and a lavender bag over his shoulder. My eyes move to the little boy standing beside him, his curious but wary eyes on me. He looks about five years old.

My shocked gaze jumps back to Aziah. “Aziah? What… what’s going on?”

Tucking the baby closer to his chest, he rests one gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder and moves him forward. He doesn’t stop until he’s directly in front of me. I look down at the baby, my heart melting when I see a little girl sleeping.

“This is Angelina,” he murmurs quietly. “And this is her big brother, Joseph.”

I look down at the little boy with dark-blond hair and big, beautiful blue eyes. Squatting down, I smile softly at him.