BLOODY CRUEL MONSTER

A SICK BOYS NOVEL

LUCY SMOKE

Copyright © 2022 by Lucy Smoke LLC

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Original Art by Dee Garcia at Black Widow Designs

Discreet Art by Quirah Casey at Temptation Creations

Editing by Kristen Breanne and Heather Long

Proofreading by Jean Bachen

Created with Vellum

CONTENTS

Author’s Note

Acknowledgments

Prologue

1.  Clover

2.  Clover

3.  Braxton

4.  Braxton

5.  Clover

6.  Clover

7.  Clover

8.  Braxton

9.  Clover

10.  Clover

11.  Braxton

12.  Braxton

13.  Clover

14.  Braxton

15.  Clover

16.  Clover

17.  Braxton

18.  Clover

19.  Braxton

20.  Clover

21.  Braxton

22.  Clover

23.  Braxton

24.  Braxton

25.  Clover

26.  Clover

27.  Clover

28.  Braxton

29.  Clover

30.  Braxton

31.  Clover

32.  Braxton

33.  Clover

34.  Braxton

35.  Clover

36.  Braxton

37.  Clover

38.  Braxton

39.  Clover

40.  Braxton

41.  Braxton

42.  Clover

43.  Braxton

44.  Clover

45.  Clover

46.  Braxton

47.  Clover

48.  Clover

49.  Clover

Epilogue

Thank You For Reading!

About the Author

Also By Lucy Smoke/Lucinda Dark

“The monsters were never

under my bed.

Because the monsters

were inside my head.

I fear no monsters,

for no monsters I see.

Because all this time

the monster has been me.”

― Nikita Gill

AUTHOR’S NOTE

So, you’re back for more darkness? Who would have guessed you would be glutton for punishment, eh? Not saying that I totally did, but … I did write this book, didn’t I?

Anywhoodles, welcome back to Eastpoint! Take a seat and grab a glass of whatever you’d like—my recommendation? Make it something strong because we’ve got a lot more to unpack in the Sick Boys world before this bloody tale is over.

I’m sure I don’t need to tell you at this point, but just in case, please remember to be wary of the trigger warnings. This one is gonna be a doozy.

Trigger Warnings: This book contains kidnapping, secret societies, dubious consent, sex, blood, violence, death, murder, grief, loss of a loved one, toxic behaviors etc. If any of these are triggering to you, please keep that in mind and read at your own risk.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

My incredibly thanks goes out to my amazing team of support. My publicist, my author friends, my editors Heather and Kristen, my proofreader, Jean, and everyone else that has supported me over the last five years.

This book marks my 38th published release and I am literally so honored and grateful that I get to call this my career. In all of my wildest dreams, I never imagined I’d be where I am today and I could not do it without this group of people. Without my friends and the support I’ve received from my readers, I’d never have imagined that life could be this happy.

Yes, there are ups and downs and I’m not always 100% full of gratefulness and love at every second of every day. But in these many moments where I sit back and see all that I’ve accomplished at my age (27 for you Nosy Nellies), I can’t help but look back and see in awe all that has come before me. I’m so excited to continue this series and I hope you all will love the final installment of the official Sick Boys series.

Please don’t ever give up on your dreams. I’m so thankful I didn’t. I’m so thankful I took a chance. So grateful for everyone that loves and supports me even now. From the bottom of my heart, you make life worth living.

With love,

Lucy

PROLOGUE

CLOVER

I thought staring death in the face would be scarier. Or at least … funnier.

Like those movies or television shows that reveal the dumbest ways to die. I can’t say why I’ve always thought that I would be one. Then again, maybe I won’t be because this isn’t exactly funny. Of course, it’s not exactly scary either.

Is it because of Braxton? Has he fucked me up so much that dying with a gun to my face isn’t even that disturbing?

I suppose that is kind of funny in its own way, but more in a—if I live through this, I’ll probably need therapy kind of way. Hell, if I live through this, I will need therapy. These last few months have been hell on my mind. Even if suddenly everything disappeared and I was dropped back where I was in Mama Luda’s trailer on the coast of Port Charlotte, it’d feel like I was in an episode of The Twilight Zone.

The truth of the matter is that none of this was supposed to happen to me.

A girl like me wasn’t supposed to meet a boy like Braxton Smalls. I wasn’t supposed to fall for a psycho like him. I wasn’t supposed to become one myself.

Right now, though, as the world slows down and narrows to the singular point of the gun aimed at my face—intent on blowing my brains out and splattering them all over the ugly green carpet of this room—all I can think of is one thing.

Maybe we are the monsters. Maybe we are the villains in others’ stories.

Sure, we never asked for bad things to happen to us, but how we reacted to them isn’t quite normal, is it? It never even occurred to me to ask for help. To seek out the police or go to someone bigger, more important, and ask them to save me.

No. Since day one—I’ve always had it in my head that if I didn’t save myself, no one else would. That was before Ace. Before Braxton. Back when I was a nobody with no past and no future. With nothing and no one on my side except for her—Evgenia.

I used to think that Evgenia and I were two separate beings. Each alike in that we were housed in the same body, but now … now I know the truth. We are the same—she and I. I know a lot of things now that I never had the chance to learn before. I know about her—about myself—as much as I know about him.

I thought Braxton would be the one to ruin me. He broke my heart. He broke my trust. I thought there was no coming back from that. Some people think that others can change, but I know that’s utter bullshit.

People don’t change. They might grow up. They might learn. They might look different on the outside, but at the end of the day, they’re still the same person. The same soul with the same mind and capabilities they always had.

Our darkest moments never come in the night. They don’t come in the midst of rainstorms and external hardship. Our darkest moments are our quietest moments. Where everything in the world can feel peaceful. The sun can be warm, the sky can be bright. It can seem like there’s nothing in the world but beauty and chances.

Our darkest moments rarely wait for us to be ready. They arrive whether we expect them or not, an unwelcome, often violent interloper that comes out of nowhere, kicking in the door and causing havoc as they go. Sometimes we fail their tests. Sometimes we survive, not because of our own strengths but because of the strengths of others.

Brax showed me that. He opened his soul up and let me see in the deepest most corroded parts of himself.

And I still love him, I realize.

What a time to figure it out. With my literal life on the line.

The fact is, we will always be other people’s villains and monsters—him and I—because those stories are not our own. Unlike other people, Brax and I have no problem owning up to our flaws. We don’t hesitate to shine the light on all of the bloody wounds we’ve given each other.

We’re no heroes. We know that. We accept it.

Who cares if people died? Who cares if we've murdered and slaughtered? We did it all for selfish reasons. For each other. For our own survival.

No. Braxton Smalls didn’t ruin me. He didn’t break me. He set me free.

At the end of the day, we don’t need to be anyone’s fucking hero but our own.

1

CLOVER

HOW LONG HAS it truly been since I was home? The question is at the forefront of my mind as the illumination from the headlights of the old Ford pickup I switched to after dumping the Camry a few states back wash over the tailgate of Mama Luda’s rusted out F250. I park just behind it and cut the lights.

The world falls into darkness and the rumble of the old engine clicks and clanks as it dies down, letting the roar of swamp life take over and fill my ears. Frogs croak back and forth to one another. Crickets scream. It’s noisy. Nothing like the city sounds of cars and people. The honking of angry drivers early in the morning traffic is gone, replaced by nature.

I step out of the truck, not bothering to remove the keys from the ignition. I have no clue how long I’ll even stay to say goodbye. My sneakers squish against the ground as I step over the gravel that is still losing to the ever-growing marsh lands that surround this little hovel that used to feel like my haven. Now, as I stand in front of the stilted trailer all I feel is emptiness. A void that I hadn’t expected.

For the first time since I accepted Mama Luda into my life—and Ace and Ivan—it doesn’t feel like home. That barren feeling hurts more than anything else ever has. I don’t know what I expected—coming back here—but it wasn’t this. Have I truly lost myself?

I left this place against my will, was dragged from the comfort of it kicking and screaming and cursing. Now, I’ve returned, but it doesn’t feel like it belongs to me anymore. Nothing belongs to me anymore—not this trailer, not my heart … even my memories are for the old me. The new me is someone completely different.

I march up the steps to the front door. Someone apparently managed to replace it after Braxton kicked it in with a makeshift one made of nails and plywood and cheap hinges no doubt from the local hardware store. Was it a neighbor or someone closer? Ace? He didn’t say anything the last time we met up.

The plywood door is soft and pieces along the edge come off as I peel it open. It jams and sticks, but after several grunting tries, I finally manage to pry it open only to realize someone had been kind enough to tether the opposite side to a hook inside. I sigh and untether the door and it becomes much easier to open.

The front room smells like mold. I step inside and inhale deeply. I’m not sure what I’m hoping for—maybe a hint of Mama Luda’s laundry detergent scent or something that will spark a happy memory. In my mind, I can see them—the remembrances of my time here. The kitchen table still stands in place, the fourth chair leaning to the side. It was broken long before I ever got here and it’ll remain that way probably long after I’m gone.

Mama’s threadbare blankets, thrifted from second-hand shops in the nearby area are folded neatly in the open linen closet in the hallway between the front room and the smaller of the two bedrooms. Before I left, I’d been sleeping in Mama’s room, but this one used to be mine. My old clothes still hang in the closet that never had a door to begin with. My stomach cramps when I glance over the unmade twin mattress in the corner.

This room had looked so big when I moved in—like a palace compared to the places I’d been before. My own personal private space. Now, though, it looks like a shack in comparison to Braxton’s Tower. I hate him for that too—for altering my view of the world. This world that I used to know and love so much.

This place used to be home—it used to mean safety and love and hope. Now, it’s forever ruined. Why did I come back? To say goodbye? A goodbye like this is bittersweet. It sticks in my throat and chokes me from the inside as my eyes burn with unshed tears. Is there anyone in the world that truly loves me anymore?

I turn and head back up the hall towards the front room and kitchen, bypassing it into Mama Luda’s old bedroom. The mold smell grows more pungent until I have to cover my nose and mouth just to breathe without grimacing.

The second I step into Mama’s old room, I realize why. The water bed is sunken in, and inside of the wood frame sits a cesspool of grotesque water that formed up around the vinyl mattress that used to hold it all. I gag when I take my hand away and turn, slamming into the side of the frame.

“Fuck!” Pain radiates up my shin as more curses fly free. I reach down and run my hand over my leg as I limp out of the room and back into the kitchen. I pause when the moonlight filtering in through the window over the sink hits a dark stain on the vinyl tile.

The sharp ache from my injury fades as I stare down at the slightly yellowed blob on the floor. Months ago, it’d been brown—but time, I suppose and the amount of bleach I’d continuously poured over it and scrubbed it with every time I couldn’t take staring at it has done at least a marginal amount of damage to the memory of the blood that used to be there. In the cupboard, I know, the cast iron frying pan I used is still there.

Acid rises in my stomach. Bile churns. My vision goes hazy as the memory hits me.

HEAT. Suffocating heat, wrapping around my throat, sticking to my skin. It makes me sweat. Makes my hair frizz and my head foggy. My legs hurt from my run, but the ache is good. I could’ve gone longer, harder, but I didn’t have to. I didn’t feel the need to.

My legs carry me up the front steps of the trailer until I reach the door. Withdrawing my key, I slide it into the lock only to realize it’s already unlocked. I take the key out and push inward. The door creaks open and I’m distracted as my jacket catches on the handle and I turn back to rip it off. A flash of a dark figure out of the corner of my eye distracts me and that’s when I hear it.

Thump. Thump. Crack.

My head lifts and turns and I see him. A giant of a man with thick corded arms, tattoos stretching up his forearms and biceps and under the black t-shirt he’s wearing to his neck. His brows are tight and there’s a vein that runs along the side of his throat ticking with each of his movements. Small hands flail and push against his chest. My attention falls to them, recognizing the broken and cracked nails of those hands.

Mama’s gray hair flies around her reddened face. There’s a trickle of blood rolling down the side of her forehead, a cut on her arm, and more blood coming from her nose. Tears leak down her cheeks, rolling over her sagging skin.

The heat takes over, growing hotter as a fire starts at the base of my spine and travels up through my muscles and nerves. The door shuts quietly. Neither one of them notices me. Mama lets out a muffled scream as she cries and shoves her hands into the man’s face—instinct driving her to try and blind him as she pushes her thumbs towards his eye sockets. Something Ace had taught the both of us.

The man grunts and turns his head. Her arms are too short, too weak. A knife is out on the kitchen counter, it’s twisted, half hanging onto the ledge. I’d love to use it but it’s right in his line of sight. I can’t chance him overpowering me too.

It’s not normal to feel so calm—I recognize the truth of that—but I can’t help it. Something is pushing down the panic and fear. Evgenia maybe? It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I can use this calm. It feels like I’m moving in slow motion, though I know I’m not. My feet are silent across the floor. Hurry, hurry, I think. The world doesn’t listen. It remains slowed down in my mind.

Circling Mama and the stranger, I reach, instead, for the cast iron skillet on the stove. It’s heavy in my grasp. I grip it tighter and stand behind the man, hefting it up. Mama’s eyes widen when she sees me, but the man pulls back and slams her skull against the kitchen floor. Though it’s just cheap vinyl, the floor is hard underneath. She shakes, crying out before her eyes roll back into her head.

The man turns back and finally seems to notice the shadow on the floor that isn’t his own. The skillet connects with his jaw and he goes flying to the side. I felt a crack under that blow—like it broke his jaw or something. Good, I think.

He’s saying something, but the sound is muffled in my ears. It doesn’t sound like English, but it doesn’t sound like Russian either. Maybe it’s neither, maybe it’s both. It doesn’t matter. He came in here. He hurt my Mama. He won’t leave the same way he walked in—alive.

I stand over him and bring the skillet down again like a baseball bat. He tries to block with his hands. Even goes as far as to jerk forward despite the unevenness of his jaw and take me to the ground. My back hits the vinyl right next to Mama.

Don’t look at her, I tell myself as I shove the edge of the skillet up into his throat when his hands move to go around my neck. I shove upward, hearing his choking as his fingers grasp at me, nails scratching. A thief? Is that what he is? Not anymore. Not after tonight.

I arch up and reach for the knife I spotted earlier. When he finally manages to shove my arm to the side and free himself, I drop the skillet and stab his side. I yank the blade out immediately, the sound of his garbled outcry filling my head like Mama’s echoing screams that have now stopped.

I stab him again in the stomach and then again in the shoulder. Blood splashes against my chest, soaking into my shirt. He groans and slips off of me, rolling over and curling into the fetal position. I look down at the knife in my hand. It’s too easy. Blood coats the silver metal all the way up to the handle. I toss it as far from me as I can—far enough away that he can’t reach it as I grasp the handle of the skillet once more.

My body moves on its own now. I have no control and am simply a mind inside an otherwise empty vessel. I straddle him and bring the flat of the skillet down on the side of his head. I do this again and again until he stops groaning. I use the edge. I use the weight. I use my strength. I use everything I have within my power until finally there’s a puddle of blood forming behind his skull.

A loud popping noise sounds in my mind and I drop the skillet as the front door opens.

“Solnyshka?” It’s Ace. He stands there with another man at his back, shock on his face as he takes in the scene … and all of the blood.

I fall back on my ass, my fingers slipping against the floor. Red smears everywhere. I stare at Mama’s face. It’s pale. Her chest doesn’t look right—it should rise and fall, but it’s completely still.

Ace starts talking fast and pointing. Figures move inward. My vision blurs once more.

Murder. Death. Pain. Confusion. Everything is coming at me all at once. I just … there’s no question. I just killed someone. I wait, staring down at my bloodied hands. I wait for the feeling of remorse or guilt to hit.

It doesn’t.

Instead, something new rises from the depths of my soul. Something I didn’t know I was capable of. Not even the night Ivan and Ace found me. I’d protected myself. I’d defended myself. But I’ve never killed anyone before.

It feels like I just injected some sort of drug in my system. I cover my mouth and laugh, my eyes widening when a figure stops in front of me and kneels down. Ace’s face fills my vision. There’s no accusation in his expression. Just a seriousness that affirms what just happened.

Sure, I did it to protect Mama. I did it to save her, but that doesn’t erase the action. It doesn’t erase the truth that rises within me. The power I currently feel flooding my system. I killed someone … and I liked it.

I STARE DOWN at that stain, seeing how the two collide into one massive spot. I recall the calm that had descended over me. The same calm that had come over me the night I’d met Ace and Ivan—the night I’d lost my mother. A girl’s first kill is never clean—and mine had been no exception.

Maybe I’d just been trying to avoid this moment of realization, but the night Mama died, I’d ceased to be the person I was. I’d tried to go back and pretend, but that’s all it was—a facade. Maybe Ace already knew that.

I turn to go and pause when I notice that the plywood door is completely open, the frame of the front door gaping into the darkness beyond. Hadn’t it swung shut behind me? It’d been hard to open, but I could’ve sworn it at least had sagged back towards the frame. I take a step towards it and see the moving shadow behind me—crossing into the moonlight and back out—for a split second before hands wrap around my throat from the back and drag me against a hard chest.

Braxton?

No. He’s far too small to be Braxton. In that case, then, there’s no need to hold back.

2

CLOVER

I REACH BACK and lace my fingers together, hooking my hands around the back of the man’s neck. I thrust my hips backwards and jerk up and over with my tightened fingers. The movement is so sharp and fast that he releases an unexpected startled shout when I use my own momentum to throw him forward, right over my head.

The man’s body crashes into one of the old tables shoved up next to the couch and several picture frames and a lamp shatter across the floor. I turn towards the door, sprinting towards the opening only to freeze as another—much larger—man appears in the doorway. He towers into the space—much like Brax had all those nights ago.

My heart pounds inside my chest. Sweat collects and slides down my spine. He takes a step towards me, into the trailer, and on instinct, I take a step back. My hands clench into fists.

Come on, Evgenia. Time to make use of yourself. If anyone can take these motherfuckers down, it’s that crazy bitch. My inner crazy bitch.

And as if that’s all I needed to do—acknowledge and accept her—a switch flips inside my head. I don’t feel my chest tightening anymore. I don’t hear the harsh repetitive thump of my heartbeat inside my ears, warning me away from my own demise. Instead, all I hear are the movements in the room.

The man behind me groans as the scraping of wood shrieks through my eardrums, and the hard sole of a boot lands on the floor as he gets to his feet. Still, neither man speaks actual words. They just circle me—like sharks sensing blood in the water.

I scowl. If they want to think I’m nothing more than easy prey, they’re about to find out that they’re dead fucking wrong.

I dive to the side, turning back the way I came—the back bedroom. Concussion-maker or not—there’s no way I’ll manage to get past tall, dark, and evil if I want to make it out of here alive. I don’t know if their goal is to kill, but I can’t assume it isn’t.

A deep curse follows me as I skid around the man I’d thrown. Fingers grasp my arm and yank me to a stop and I drop, letting the full weight of my body hit the floor hard enough that I’ll likely have more than a few bruises by the end of this. It’s a small price to pay for the chance of freedom.

Their heads are covered, I see now. Their eyes are the only things I can see through their ski masks. More disturbing, though, is that the front of their faces—over the pitch-black fabric—they’ve painted skeletal faces so it looks like the undead have truly come for me.

The Undead … is that … who this is? It must be. This type of attack isn’t Braxton’s style. He’d come in, guns blazing, and there would be no hiding who he is. He fears nothing and no one. He’d reveal his face for all to see and he wouldn’t give two fucking shits. To him, he’s that powerful. No matter what the world tries to do to him, there is no taking him down.

Almost as soon as those thoughts hit, however, a third body slips through the front door with quiet precision and dangerous stealth. This third man isn’t wearing a mask, though, and shockingly, he takes a knife to tall, dark, and evil with little hesitation. It appears he’s not with them, but I don’t wait around to see what else happens. I take the opportunity to make my escape.

My feet pound against the vinyl flooring as I head back to the bedroom once more. It’s like my past is replaying both in my head and in reality—this is so reminiscent of all those weeks ago when Braxton came and took me away. I should’ve never come back, I realize. I didn’t know it would be this dangerous. I didn’t know there would be people waiting.

What the fuck am I missing? I have to be missing something. Why would the Undead come after me now? I don’t have much time to contemplate the reason for my current predicament. Survival is at the forefront of my mind. Behind me in the trailer, the sounds of a fight continue. It’s impossible to know who’s winning—the Undead or the third man. Heavy grunts and growls, and masculine curses filter in through the doorway of the bedroom as I shoot through it and turn—but there’s no blocking it. Braxton had made sure of that the first time this happened.

Fucking prick. I curse silently, turning back towards the window escape. In the background, a gun goes off, the sound disturbs the night, and as I swing one leg out over the window ledge, I freeze. Silence echoes back towards me.

Did they kill each other?

I strain to hear, but nothing reaches me. Quietly, I pull my leg back away from safety and ease towards the open doorway. Still nothing and then, like a wraith—the third man appears in the doorway. He’s panting, a cut on his cheekbone oozing blood as he wavers into the room.

“You…” he gasps for breath, but I don’t sense danger from him. He stumbles to the side, slamming into one of the only pieces of furniture not destroyed, a dresser. He swallows, his face paling considerably.

On instinct, I reach for him and jerk when he collapses forward into my arms. His weight is so startling that I go down on my ass, right over the line between the open master bathroom and the carpet of the bedroom.

“Fuck,” I mutter the curse as he groans low in his throat and gasps for breath; that’s when I feel it. The melting wetness that slides over my palms and down the front of my shirt. I pull my hand up and stare at it. Even in the darkness, I can see it.

It’s blood.

“Hey.” I shake the man as he slumps forward, over me. “Hey!” I shake him again. Fuck, he’s dying. He must’ve gotten shot in the mess out there.

Guilt pricks at my conscience. Was he shot because he was trying to save me? Or did he just see an opportunity? Who is he? A friend or the foe of my foe?

The man’s breath becomes shallow and uneven. Fuck me, he doesn’t have long. I don’t … want to let him die. Regardless of what he did it for, the fact is he protected me. Surely that means I owe him at least enough to try and save him.

As gently as I can, I ease him off of me and over onto this back, propping him up slightly against the wall. It’s practically pointless, though, because he simply slumps down even further as if he doesn’t have the energy to keep himself sitting.

“Hey,” I tap his cheek lightly. “Wake up. You can’t fall asleep.” I reach for something, anything to cover the wound in his abdomen. I need to call for an ambulance. Maybe I can call for help and disappear when they arrive. It wouldn’t be prudent of me to stick around when I’m not supposed to be here. I can’t explain why there are two—possibly three bodies piled up in my house.

My hands find a loose bedsheet on the ground and I snatch it up, bunching it into a ball and pressing it into the man’s abdomen. He groans, his eyes fluttering open for the briefest of moments.

“Do you have a phone?” I try. I snap my fingers in front of his face when his eyes close again. “Come on, man, stay with me.”

“Smalls…”

“Small?” I say. “In your small pocket?” I reach for his jeans, but he stops me, his hands clamping around my fingers and tightening. My eyes widen at the sheer force of his hold. I’m shocked he’s got enough strength left in him to do that much.

Before he can say anything more, however, a hard hand latches onto my shoulder and yanks me back. A gun appears right before my eyes and a flash of light pierces into my corneas as it goes off once more. The bullet aimed directly at the man’s abdomen. There’s no groan to accompany his death. There’s just never-ending silence in the aftermath.

Shock hits my system and freezes me in my place. Too late. I didn’t hear him approaching. I’d assumed the two before were alone. I’d assumed wrong.

A new wetness seeps across the floor beneath the man who’d tried to save me. The smell of piss and shit is the smell of true death. I want to vomit, but I don’t have that luxury. Dropping the sheet in my fist, I shoot up to my feet and turn only to be snatched up. A gun hits the floor and fingers pinch over my throat.

My lips part as I gasp for breath, reaching for something that’s no longer there. I fight, slamming my elbows back, struggling, and kicking. Nothing—it does abso-fucking-lutely nothing. My vision tunnels as it fades, my periphery completely consumed by darkness, and all I can pick out is a narrow dot of vision.

“Shhhhh, sweetheart,” the man finally says, a note of condescension in his tone as he chokes the life out of me. “Just go to sleep.”

“Zev, what do you want us to do with Damon and Mario’s bodies?” a man asks in the distance. My own hearing seems warped, so it sounds farther away. Maybe it is, but a split second later, a shadow appears alongside us. Unfortunately, the interruption doesn’t disturb the man pinching down on the curve of my throat. Blood pumps in my ears, sounding more like rushing water. Heat attacks my face. No oxygen. Thoughts become jumbled.

“Remove all evidence,” Zev replies, sounding calm. “And call HQ to let them know…” Eyes turn down to me through slits in the skeletal mask he wears as I gasp for breath that will never come. My lashes flutter and finally close as my body loosens, the resistance I once had draining away as darkness consumes me.

The last words I hear are from a deep, unchanging baritone. “Target acquired.”

3

BRAXTON

THERE’S RAGE.

There’s nothing but rage.

That’s all I see. All I feel. The kind of rage that’s been building for fucking years and has finally found its outlet. It’s an inferno inside of me, transforming me into something I don’t think even the saintliest person in the world will be able to recognize as human.

Yet the emotions I’m feeling are very much human at their core. How ironic. To think that the moment I feel the darkness overwhelm me is the same moment that I recognize that, at the end of it all, monsters are created from humanity. Born. Bred. Raised. Set free.

“We need to get some light in here,” Dean mutters, though I know it’s not to me. It can’t be. I’m too lost in my own mind. I’ve finally done it. I’ve cracked.

No amount of my father’s torture. No sloppy fucking seconds of the stupid whores he’d bring around. No amount of flaying my flesh or drilling into me the need to be emotionless and cold and cunning had done it.

But one bratty little redhead had.

Clover has ruined everything now. She’s destroyed me. Utterly and completely and the only way to go back, to even return to my life is if she’s in it. I don’t want to lock her up and force her to love me, to return to her rightful place at my side with chains around her ankles and feet, but if I have to I will.

What I want is what Dean and Ava have. What Rylie and Abel have. I want devotion. I want trust. I want her to kill for me the same way I fully intend to do for her.

I squat down over the dark bloodstains on the floor and touch my thumb to the dark brown. It’s dried and flaked, but no more than a few hours old. Is it hers? Had she been hurt in the melee?

Had she left with them willingly? Or had they drugged her and dragged her out? My eyes scan the space of the trailer, tracing over each and every inch of the rooms. As I make my way back out into the living room, I note the added bloodstains. Two massive spots out here, but no bodies. They didn’t feel the need to cover up the wreckage they’d caused, but they’d taken the bodies of the fallen with them.

It all leads to one disturbing understanding—they’re confident they won’t be found. There won’t be any fingerprints and if there are, they’ll come back as dead men. The only way I know that is because I know who took her.

The very organization Rylie had mentioned. The one Luc is looking into. The Undead.

“The truck is still out front,” Abel says as he steps through the doorway. “I called Rylie and had her run the plates. They’re stolen.”

“Smart girl,” Dean comments. “I think Ava was right. We underestimated her.”

No. I underestimated her. Ava was the one to warn me of that, too. I underestimated what she would do to get away from me. I was overconfident. I let my arrogance control me and now I’m in this shithole of a mess.

“Brax?” I lift my head and meet Dean’s gaze. “What do you want to do?”

I want to find her, but just as much as that—I want revenge for Troy. He was ours and he died protecting something that belongs to me. “You already know,” I tell him. There’s no way he’ll let Troy’s death pass. It’s not how we operate.

“Abel,” Dean calls.

“Yeah?” Abel steps up at our sides and glances between the two of us. “What’s up? What’d you find?”

I lower my head and grit my teeth. No words escape. I can’t be the one to do it. I can’t … tell him, but it has to be done. He needs to know how deep we are into this, and even if we wanted to—at this point, there is no turning back.

Dean steps up and touches Abel’s shoulder. “Come with me.” Dean’s words are quiet, solemn, and Abel picks up on the fact because he doesn’t crack a joke to relieve the tension in the room. It’s unlike him, but he knows—he senses the darkness that awaits. He glances back at me once, his gaze burning into the side of my face as he passes me. My back remains ramrod straight and I don’t say a damn word.

I listen to the soft pad of their footsteps as Dean leads Abel into the back bedroom. Ten seconds. That’s how long it takes for Abel to realize what we’ve truly lost here tonight. Not just Clover. Not just a lead. But one of our own.

Ten seconds of gut-wrenching silence followed by a roar of anger and then the sound of knees hitting the ground. Yeah, I get that too. I squeeze my eyes shut, the guilt of Troy’s blood filling my damaged soul.

He’s dead—a man we trusted; a man we respected—and it feels like I pulled the trigger myself.

I don’t know how long I stand there, waiting for the two of them to emerge from the back room, but when they do, Abel’s face is drawn and tight. The undersides of his eyes are rimmed in red and he looks as though he’s aged ten years. Hell, I have no doubt that’s how we all look right now. This is something bigger than we’ve ever experienced.

We’ve lost people before. Aunt Josie. Our fathers. Some were more important than others, but we’ve never lost someone like Troy. Not someone who relied on us, who followed us, who trusted in us. Never like this.

It’s only a minor relief that Troy never had any family. We’re as good as it got for him. His funeral will be attended by his bosses, but there will be no tear-stricken wife or children. Just us and him. In the final moments, that’s all he gets and it’s so unfair, it makes me want to roar into the universe. But roaring won’t bring him back. The only thing left is revenge.

“I’ll call Ry,” Abel finally says after long silent moments. “I’ll see if she can hack any CCTV in the area—if there are any.”

Dean and I both nod. “The signs of struggle make it clear Clover was taken against her will,” I say. “Have her on the lookout for cars with tinted windows. Out of state license plates.”

Abel nods once and then turns, disappearing through the front door and out into the darkness of the night once more. I make no assumptions that he’s calling Rylie for more than help in tracking down our enemies. What he needs right now is what we all need, the comfort of our other halves.

“We’ll have to move out soon,” Dean says. “We’ll have to erase the evidence of what happened here. Burn the place down. Troy’s fingerprints and blood are all over the place. Having to deal with local law enforcement isn’t something we need on our plate right now.”

I nod and pull out my cell, typing out a quick text to Marcus. He’ll head out and grab some extra gasoline and matches and we’ll have the place razed to the ground by morning. The start of the SUV outside signals his answer and we listen as tires turn in the drive, backing over mud, gravel, and dirt as he leaves and heads off on his errand.

Dean and I head into the back of the room and together, the two of us carefully move Troy’s body. We lift him onto a nearby sheet and cover him as much as we can before carrying him outside and setting him to the side of the driveway as we wait for Marcus’ return. Several yards away, Abel’s low voice can be heard as he talks on the phone to Rylie.

I tilt my head up to the sky and I clench my hands into fists. Dean glances at me, but he doesn’t say anything as he turns his back and heads up the steps back into the trailer, pulling his cell from his pocket. I have no doubt he’ll be calling Ava to give her an update and relay what Rylie likely hasn’t yet had a chance to tell her.

My own phone sits heavier in my pocket. There’s no one for me to call. No one for me to tell. The one I want isn’t available. The stars twinkle through the opening space that the house makes in the swamp of trees and nature, seeming murky and far away. Much like Clover, herself.

I try to picture what she’d be like if she were fully integrated with us. Like Avalon? Commanding and in charge? Or like Rylie, quiet and comforting? Neither, my mind finally supplies. Clover is her own person. She isn’t Avalon and she isn’t Rylie.

Still, I want her. More than I should. More than I can bear.

The sound of rustling brush somewhere behind me snaps me out of my reverie and I straighten my spine as the sensation of being watched overwhelms me.

We’re not alone out here. The bloodlust within me rises to the surface. Whoever has chosen tonight to sneak up on us has poor luck because none of us are feeling merciful and they’re about to find out what happens when you try to approach a pack of angry predators.

4

BRAXTON

THERE’S nothing to be seen in the darkness. No warning save for my own instincts that tell me we’re being watched. No, more than that. We’re being stalked—by another predator. One that certainly has underestimated us.

As casually as I can, I back away from Troy’s body, taking a few steps towards the open forest that marks the invisible barrier that lines the property around Clover’s trailer. I reach into my pocket and withdraw a brand-new pack of cigs. Slapping it against my palm, I peel off the plastic casing and toss it to the ground before withdrawing a single cigarette. I put it between my lips and wait as I slide the pack back into my pocket and fumble, pretending to be searching for a lighter. I don’t have one on me. It’s back in the SUV, otherwise I would’ve already pulled it out. I wish I had it on me because I’d love to use the flame to burn out the eyes of the man whose shadow I spot crouching and making its way along the exterior of the property.

The only light I have to go by without the SUV is the moonlight and Abel’s cell. Considering that Abel is several yards away with his cell pressed to the side of his face, however, the dim light is useless. That’s okay. I don’t need light to take this fucker down.

I blow out a fake-frustrated breath as I pull the cigarette from my lips and just like that, he senses a moment of distraction. Pseudo distraction. He’s fallen for my trap. A flash of dirty blond hair cuts across the open space and I prepare myself for the moment of impact.

His body slams into mine and finds me unmoving. The cigarette falls, discarded, and I wrap both arms around the man’s body, locking down against his chest and back and lifting him with only the slightest effort. He might be powerful, but he’s smaller than me. I turn and slam him down, tossing him to the gravel at my booted feet. I don’t give him a chance to regain his senses either. There’s too much anger in my system for that. Before the fucker can think to roll away, I dive on top and hammer him with a fist to the face and another to his ribs.

Cartilage crunches under my knuckles—goddamn music to my ears—and blood spurts out, hitting the top of my fist. I throw another, but he isn’t as amateur as I originally thought and he takes the hit without flinching or even crying out when it slams into his now broken nose. He arches up and locks both hands around the back of my skull, fingers sliding towards my neck before he plants a knee in my stomach and then the whole world flips upside down as I’m thrown over him.

My body hits the gravel. Rocks dig into my spine, past my clothes. I ignore the little aches and pains, rolling automatically back to my feet as my attacker’s shadow falls over me once more. It’s only then that I realize who it is.

“Fuck!” A fist comes flying at my face before I can say another damn word and blood fills my mouth. I turn and spit out a wad with a growl. “You fucker!”

“Brax!” The thundering of Dean’s footsteps reaches my ears as he comes barreling down the staircase. The sound stops abruptly and wood creaks, then I hear him again as he lands against the dirt and gravel. He must’ve leapt over the last landing.

“Where the fuck is she?” Ace demands, spitting out the question with barely restrained violence. Blood pours over his face and down past his lips, dripping from his chin. His fists are still raised and his eyes wild.

Another set of footsteps approaches, fast but steady. I relax slightly when I hear the cocking of a gun. Considering that Dean is in my line of sight just along the outer edges of where Ace and I are, at my enemy’s back, I know it must be Abel. Ace’s face hardens at the sound, but despite knowing he’s not only surrounded but also got a gun trained on him, he doesn’t drop his stance.

I vaguely recall the bastard from that night all those months ago at the Manchester Estate. There’s a difference in him now. Perhaps it’s because I’ve not seen him since—at least not in anything that wasn’t black and white paper and pictures. There’s knowing your target in theory and then there’s being faced with the reality, and the reality of this man is that he’s someone Clover cares about. Enough that she sold her soul to the devil for his release. A release I never intended to give.

Faced with Ace, now, I have to admit that there’s nothing Clover did that I wouldn’t have done myself. And that pisses me off even more. This fucker doesn’t deserve her loyalty. If anything, the only man she should give it to is me.

“Why don’t you tell me where your baby sis is, huh?” I say instead of answering Ace. There’s no doubt that he’s seen her since she left me. Clover isn’t the type to leave him hanging. She got away from me and that meant she knew her brother was in trouble. She would’ve warned him.

“I’m going to gut you like a fish and light your insides on fire,” Ace spits at me. A split second later, he switches and mutters something in a language I don’t recognize. Russian? It’s low and gravelly, the vowels far different than they would be in English.

“How convenient,” I say. “That sounds like exactly what I want to do to you.”

Before either of us can attack and follow through on our threats and promises, though, Dean steps in. “Braxton, we need him.” Perhaps in another time, in another situation, Dean might have let me handle Ace as I want to, but now we’ve got more to consider.

Troy is dead and this man is a lead on who did it. Dean turns and grabs him by the shirtfront, shocking Ace, but to the man’s credit, Ace doesn’t even flinch. Instead, he easily breaks Dean’s hold and punches him in the face. The piercing ring of the gun going off and the hot strike of a bullet whizzing past our heads makes everyone freeze.

I look back to Abel as he moves closer, his gun still trained on Ace. Ace doesn’t immediately crumple to the ground which can only mean Abel missed on purpose. The glint in his eyes is cold as he steadily moves into the center of the group.

“Did you kill our man?” Abel demands, his voice cool and unwavering. Dean and I each look back to Ace, expectant.

Ace spits out a wad of blood onto the gravel and shakes his head. “No.”

“Then what are you doing here?” Dean demands.

“I came here for my sister,” he replies. “I expected she’d make it back here after she left me a few days back.”

“So, you did meet with her?” I move closer, my hands clenching into fists at my side. “Where is she?”

Ace offers me a cold glare in return. “If I fucking knew, do you think I’d be standing here with you?”

“The men who took her were professionals,” Dean says. “Our man attempted to get a message to us before they killed him.”

Ace grits his teeth and reaches up, prodding at his nose gingerly. More blood leaks down the side of one nostril. “Goddamn it,” he mutters. Then he turns and kicks the shit out of the tire on the old Ford pickup sitting in the driveway. “God fucking damn it.”

Silence echoes into the night sky. I used to love silence as a kid—silence meant my father wasn’t home. It meant good things, but now silence is a curse. It’s a poison that seeps into my pores as I wait for something inevitably bad.

“You didn’t take her, and we don’t have her,” I hear myself speak as if the words are coming from down a long ass tunnel. Like my body isn’t mine anymore and it’s being manipulated by my basic instincts. Like I’m on autopilot when what I want to do is take complete control. I want to put a bullet in his skull and move on to the next bastard that has the information that I need. I’ll torture it out of them if I have to, it’s not like I have any qualms. Any conscience I might have once had was eradicated long ago by my father.

“They have her,” Ace says, hanging his head against his chest.

The coil of darkness that always lies just beneath the surface of my skin winds ever tighter. Through my teeth, out of my chest, I utter the only response I can. “Not for fucking long.”

5

CLOVER

2 years ago…

DON’T BLINK. Don’t stress. Just point. Aim. Pull the fucking trigger.

I do, but the damn thing goes wide and doesn’t even touch the hanging wooden target far off into the line of trees. “Shoulders are too tight.” Ivan’s words at my back, although meant to help, only make me stiffen more.

I know my fucking shoulders are too tight. I can’t seem to loosen them up. Every time I try, the gun in my grasp wavers and shakes. I need them to be tight to keep it steady.

A loud gunshot goes off practically right next to my head, making me scream and jump slightly. It echoes up into the sky and several birds fly up from nearby trees. Slowly, I turn back, half expecting Ivan to be standing there—his own gun drawn and pointed—but instead, it’s practically his younger carbon copy.

I scowl. “Were you intending to scare the shit out of me?” I snap.

Ace smirks and lowers his gun with a shrug. “It was just a perk,” he says. “But Ivan’s right. Your whole body is wound too tight. You need to relax.”

“Easier said than done,” I mutter as I turn back towards the target that now has a perfect bullet sized hole in the very center of it. Show off.

“It’s not as difficult as you think it is,” Ace continues, the sound of his footsteps growing closer until I can feel the heat of him at my back. Warm hands cup my shoulders and he shoves them down. “Straighten your spine,” he orders. “Yes, just like that. You’re not killing a person, Clover.”

“But I could one day,” I remind him. “Otherwise, why the hell would you two think I need to learn how to handle a fucking gun? I’m only a teenager.”

“This is the south,” Ace points out. “Most teenagers are versed in guns.”

“Weird ass country,” I mutter.

“Da,” Ivan agrees. “But proud. In old country, you would be expert now.”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, well, it’s not the old country, old man,” I shoot back.

“Stop.” Ace’s hands clench on my shoulders and shove them back down. I hadn’t even realized I’d automatically raised them again. “You’re getting freaked out over the idea of merely holding a gun.”

“I’ve never shot one before,” I remind him.

“No, but you’ve definitely protected yourself before,” he replies. “Just channel the girl we met in that motel room. You can do this.”

The girl I was in the motel room? That wasn’t even me. That was her—Evgenia.

Ace’s breath touches my ear. “Guns are for more than just killing, Clover,” he says. “They are for protecting. You. Me. Ivan. Mama.”

At the mention of Mama, I turn back and look over my shoulder—past Ace, past Ivan, and to the stilted trailer off in the nearby distance. No doubt, she’s bustling around the kitchen, readying to make dinner. Ace and Ivan are so rarely home together that now that they are, she’s happier than ever.

“Try again, Solnyshka,” Ivan calls out.

“Here.” Ace releases my shoulders and though it takes considerable mental effort to keep them from automatically rising back up, I manage to suppress the urge to turn into a turtle. He remains at my back. “Point towards the target. Keep both eyes open. Look at it.” His voice turns trance-like. All emotion fades until he sounds like a recording repeating the steps of some simple action.

Shooting a gun should not be simple, I think to myself. It’s dangerous. But then again, so are people. You don’t need a gun to kill someone. It just makes things easier. Do I want to be able to kill someone? Do I want to make it easier?

“Block out your thoughts, Clover,” Ace orders.

“Aren’t I supposed to think about who I’m about to kill?” I ask.

“No.” His answer shocks me. “Don’t think at all. Not about who or what you’re shooting at. You’re already here. You’re in danger. Think about that. If this world is kill or be killed, on which side will you land?”

Kill or be killed.

Sacrifice or murderer.

Which side am I on?

I don’t know. I don’t want to kill, but at the same time, I don’t want to die. I know that, deep down, there is a true reason they’re forcing me to learn how to fight, how to defend, protect, and shoot. They won’t answer my questions, but there’s an underlying sense of something not being quite right about these people and this place. They’ve all got secrets. About who they are. About what they do.

When I first arrived here, I’d been too scared to test the limits. To ask questions. Now, though, their secrets are fading from importance. Trust is quickly taking its place. Faith.

I don’t believe in God. Not like Mama does. But I believe in these people. In my family. And Ace is right, if anyone threatens them, I know exactly what side I’ll land on.

Kill or be killed? Easy. I’d kill.

I pull the trigger and this time, I barely hear the sound of the gun going off. I barely feel the heat of it in my palm. Instead, the entire focus of my mind lands on the bullet as it explodes out of the barrel and slams into the wooden target. The wood splinters and cracks. It’s not a perfect bullet hole like Ace’s was, but then I don’t have the same level of experience he has. I do, however, hit fairly close to the center for the first time since I started practicing.

“There you are, Solnyshka,” Ace says. “You’ve got talent for this.”

To anyone else, that compliment might sound like it’s referring to talent in gunmanship. To me, though, I know the truth. It’s not talent in pointing and shooting he’s referring to—it’s a talent to do what needs to be done.

6

CLOVER

I WAKE up with a raging headache and a listless disposition. The ceiling above me is the same as the four walls that surround me. Concrete, concrete, and more fucking concrete. Someone really outdid themselves with the interior decor. I’m so over being held captive. Ass fucking and all, I might actually take the psycho that Braxton is over this place. Especially if they really are who I suspect.

For several long seconds, I just lie there—taking stock of everything from my body to my mind. I’m not sure where I am, but I’m sure that I’m not dead. Death would probably not hurt nearly as bad as the rest of my body does. When I finally decide to sit up, I realize why. A long clear tube attached to a needle taped to my arm tugs at my side and I look up, the slow drip of some clear liquid filling my vision as anger fills the rest of me.

It’s not so much the clear bag of liquids that pisses me off, it’s the tube dangling like a flaccid add-on that really does it. If it was just the tube, then I could assume that someone came in and hooked me up to keep me from dying of dehydration or some shit. The add-on, combined with my raging headache tell a completely different story.

They fucking drugged me.

With a scowl of disgust, I clamp my fingers over the tube in my arm and yank it out. Thankfully, it doesn’t break beneath my skin. That would just be my luck, but someone above must be looking down on me at least somewhat favorably because the damn thing comes free with only a little blood and tearing.

After the last several weeks, this kind of pain ain’t shit. With a hiss, I throw my legs over the side of the cot I woke up on and hold my hand over the wound in my arm until the flow of blood slows to a trickle.

They must have cameras on me or something because there’s very little time between when I wake and when I hear someone outside the door of the concrete cell I’m currently in. The sound of a lock clicking back followed by the only door in my sight swinging. Only … it’s not exactly who I expected.

A skinny, frail looking teenager—no older than thirteen at the most, and even that is generous considering how emaciated he is—hobbles into the room, carrying a tray. His hair is long and greasy, hanging in strands in front of his face, almost all the way down to his chin. He shuffles across the concrete floor until he stands in front of me and holds out the tray. Behind him, the door slams shut and the lock clicks back into place. The suddenness of it makes me jump.

“Jesus fuck,” I mutter, glancing from the door back to the kid standing in front of me.

I glance down at the tray in his hands, taking in the dirty nails and cuts on his fingers, and purse my lips. It’s not even hard plastic, but a papery-plastic mixture that would be useless if used as a weapon. How smart of them. I reach out and take the tray from his grasp—not really because I want the slop of gray and brown and the slice of bread and meat on it, but because his arms start shaking with the effort.

Why the fuck is the Undead using kids as their errand runners? Was Ace like this kid once?

I shake away the thoughts as the kid backs up. He moves as far away from me as he can possibly get in this tiny closet of a cell until his back hits the opposite wall. Only then does he stop and sink into himself. He slides down until his ass hits the floor and then he circles his long arms around his equally skinny legs, holding them to his chest like a baby in the womb.

The heat of his stare sears into me, but it’s not meant for me. His beady little eyes peek out from beneath the greasy strands of hair as he stares at the tray of food on my lap. Of course, he’s hungry, I think. The poor kid’s nothing but flesh and bones.

Without hesitation, I sigh and set the paper tray on the ground and slide it towards him. “I’m not hungry,” I say. “You eat.”

A light rumble comes up from the kid’s stomach, but he merely clenches his teeth and shakes his head, clamping his dirty nails into his skin as if he’s forcing himself not to reach for the offering. I scowl and kick the tray even closer. The weird brown gray mush to the side of the bread and meat wiggles like Jell-O, making my own stomach turn.

“I won’t eat unless you do,” I snap. “So, either pick something and shove it in your gullet or—”

“You have to eat,” he cuts me off. “I have to make sure you eat or they’ll beat me again.” He doesn’t sound angry about his statement or even frustrated with my lack of cooperation. Just tired. Real fucking tired. The kind I can relate to.

I grit my teeth and bend down, picking up the tray once more. I grimace and stare down at the slop of brown and gray. I can’t tell if it’s a type of mashed potatoes and gravy or something completely different, but when I glance up at the kid and watch his eyes follow the movements of my hands—the movement of the tray—I sigh and resolve myself to doing what I have to. I pick up the plastic spork provided and scowl at the pathetic dryness that fills my throat.

Holding my breath, I shove the spork into the mess and shovel a couple of bites of it into my mouth, choking on the dusty taste. Not potatoes. That honestly scares me more. I swallow it back without a single drop of water and when my stomach rebels, I stand up, walk over to the kid and drop the tray in front of him with little fanfare. He doesn’t even wait for me to offer the food again. Now that he knows I ate something from it, he dives for the remaining slice of beef and bread like a starving animal.

His fingers dig into the food without a care as he scarfs it down. My chest aches just watching it. I move back, slumping back onto the cot as my head fogs over. I lean against the wall, wondering if this is the remaining effects of whatever drug they gave me. I close my eyes and breathe through my nose as the room begins to spin.

Fuck, what … my eyes snap open and I sit up straight. The kid’s starving, but he doesn’t touch the slop that I just put in my mouth. There’s still a healthy amount left, but he shies away from it as he tears into the bread with his teeth.

Oh, you dumb bitch, Clover, I think. You stupid dumbass bitch.

I fly off the cot in the next second, my legs buckling under me with the too-quick movement as I try to make it towards the sink and toilet in the corner of the cell. My knees hit the concrete floor hard and I know there’ll be bruises. I don’t care. I shove my fingers into the back of my throat and gag.

“It’s too late,” the kid speaks up. I barely hear him over the sound of my own gagging as I try to force myself to throw up the few bites I just put in my mouth. He doesn’t elaborate on why it’s too late, but surprisingly, when I try to throw up—nothing comes up. So, I guess the little fucker’s right.

Conniving bastards. This had been a test—and I can’t tell if I passed, but it feels like I failed miserably. Send in a starving kid with food and see what I give him—the gross slop or the fairly passable bread and meat.

I curse my soft heart over and over again as the room continues to spin and drool drips from my lips into the water of the toilet bowl. The kid gets up and knocks on the door. Metal locks click back and the presence of several men filters through the fog as one comes up behind me and lifts me against a wide, massive chest.

“Good job, Dom.” A masculine voice says—speaking to the kid, I assume. “Go to the cafeteria and tell Yvonne to get you a meal.”

“Really?” I bite back another fucking curse at the kid’s hopeful voice. I can’t even lift my head to look at him. I should be angry. I should be fucking pissed—and I am … but not at him.

It’s clear the fragility of his body wasn’t staged. The way he dove on the food wasn’t genius acting. The salivating desire in his tone when he’s told he might get more food is real. He really was starving. Drugged again, and I can’t even regret giving what was likely the only non-drugged food I’ll probably get in the near future to a kid.

My head lolls back on the arm of the man as he turns and slides through the doorway of the cell into the hallway. A cut jaw littered with tiny scars fills my vision and then, he looks down and my eyes meet his.

“Welcome to the Graveyard, Miss Volkov,” he says. “I do apologize for the rough handling, but considering the men we had to bury to get you here, you’ll have to understand, we can’t have you fighting back.”

Yeah, that makes sense. I do actually get it. But I hadn’t had anything to do with that third man—the one that had died trying to save me. I didn’t even know him. I open my lips to say as much, but nothing but more drool slips out. Gross.

As if the man can understand what I’m thinking, he offers another apology. “The effects will wear off momentarily,” he says. “We just needed you compliant enough to move.”

“C-could … have … w-walked…” I try to form words but it’s hard. More drool slips out, and I can’t stop it.

“Unfortunately, we can’t take that chance. You’ll understand when you meet Hades.”

Hades? As in … the God of the Underworld? What the fuck have I gotten myself into?

No.

What has Ace gotten me into?

It looks like I’m about to find out.

7

CLOVER

IT’S REALLY DISCONCERTING BEING unable to control one’s bodily functions. I should be thankful that I don’t shit or piss myself—that honestly would just be the gross topping on this already garbage cake of my life. Still, I can’t lift my head and whenever I try to speak, I drool. Every time I force movement into my arms and legs, they just twitch and flop around.

The big man carrying me walks past several open doors and I can really only pick up on my surroundings from my periphery. The cell I was held in appears to have been underground. When a door ahead opens and a wash of cool air breezes into my face, I sigh in relief. He takes the stairs with careful movements. Despite the fact that I’m obviously here against my will and someone that they were intent on dragging into their den, kicking and screaming—or rather moaning and drooling as I currently am—he isn’t rough with me.

He hefts me higher against the broad expanse of his chest and it reminds me of a different one. I shut my eyes, trying—at the same time—to shut out the memories, but it has the opposite effect. Braxton’s face comes to the forefront of my mind and sits there, a toxic calling card. Bastard.

Then again, maybe he’s a blessing. I have no doubt that if anyone can track me down to this unknown location, it’ll be him. The only question is if that happens—do I trade this prison for his? I’m honestly not sure what I’ll feel when I see him—if I see him again. The thought of it just makes me angry.

Ace supposedly looked for me after I went missing—i.e. I was kidnapped by his fucked-up enemy—but he never found me, did he? Maybe he won’t try again.

So, yeah, I guess it’s a blessing—or at the very least, the consistency of Braxton is a relief. It doesn’t matter what I said to him. Doesn’t matter how ‘done’ with him I claimed to be. Braxton is not the type to let things hang. He’ll come for me. I just need to decide if I want to wait for that or if I want to take matters into my own hands.

My thoughts are so consuming that I don’t realize when the man carrying me has stopped, and the back-and-forth sway of his movements has ceased until he sets me down. “There we go,” he mutters more to himself as he adjusts me so that I’m sitting up in a large wingback chair set in a lavish office.

I barely repress a snort, not sure how my body will react to that and I really am fucking tired of feeling like a vegetable. Still, though, this whole setup screams ‘megalomaniac’ to me, and I’m half tempted to force more words out at the very least to ask if I’m on the set of some teeny bopper drama.

Unsurprisingly, the man who carried me in here doesn’t take a seat on the couch across from me. He doesn’t seem the head-honcho type anyway. Too kind. Too much humanity left in his eyes. Instead, he takes up position to the left of the couch with his arms crossed over his front, one hand over his wrist. A few moments later, the door to the room opens and in strides a man in his mid to late fifties. Despite his age, though, his hair only has the peppering of gray at his temples.

“Hello, Miss Volkov,” the man says as he takes a seat across from me and crosses one leg over the other before folding his hands in his lap. No manspreading for this guy, I suppose. But then again, with the way bodyguard number one stiffens and straightens his back, I’m guessing he doesn’t need to manspread to take up space and assert his authority. Dominance practically drips from the ends of his perfectly shaped goatee.

I open my lips and smack my gums. My lashes flutter. My dry mouth tastes horrid, but thankfully, it appears that my captors were correct—whatever they fed me isn’t long lasting. My arms and legs still feel pretty numb, but at least when I speak now, there’s no spittle collecting and dribbling out of the corner of my mouth.

“You know my name but I don’t know yours. Are you Hades?” I over enunciate my words in an effort to keep my tongue from going numb again. I bite down on the inside of my cheek once I’m done and the pain is like a fraction of what I know it should be, especially considering the rusty taste of blood that floats over my tongue in response.

“Yes, you could say I am.”

It’s really fucking hard to try and feel casual when you can’t move your arms or legs, but somehow, I manage to push my back further into the chair and lift my chin in his direction. Unfortunately, however, my chin goes a bit too high and the back of my head hits the chair. I end up looking down my nose at him, but it could be worse.

“Are you going to sit there and stare or are you going to tell me why I’m here?” I prompt him when silence stretches between us. My lack of fucks—regardless of this situation—is at an all-time high.

He arches a brow. “You’re fearless, aren’t you?”

Not really. I don’t want to die, but if I’m going to die either way, then I’d rather get it over with. In my current condition, there won’t be much resistance. It would honestly behoove them to hurry things along because the second I have the use of my limbs again, I’m going for his fucking throat. I don’t give a fuck why he’s brought me here. He dragged me from my home, had his guys break my shit, killed some innocent man who tried to help me, and drugged my ass. It’s only a matter of time now.

My fingers twitch at my sides as if the sheer amount of fury rolling through my veins is enough to hurry this drug along and wash it from my system. It can’t have been more than a half hour, but I’m not sure how much I consumed considering I only took a few bites.

Hades leans forward. “Do you know where you are, Miss Volkov?”

What had the guy called this place? “The Graveyard,” I answer.

He smiles, but the action doesn’t reach his eyes. No. Unlike the man at his back, this man is merely a snake in human skin. He hasn’t blinked once since he sat down in front of me. I would know—he’s the only thing to focus on in this room. Something tells me he’s the most dangerous too.

My fingers curl into my palm and I stab my nails deep into my flesh, hoping it’ll help wake the rest of me up. The pain of it is muted, dull. More blood coats my tongue and I swallow reflexively.

“That’s correct,” Hades replies. “The Graveyard is home to the Undead. I assume you understand what that means?”

And there it is, the confirmation of my suspicion. Then again, it wasn’t like they were hiding it from someone who understands even if only marginally how an organization like this works. This isn’t about me or even Brax. This is about Ace. It’s always about Ace. I close my eyes and wish more than anything that the last time I’d seen my brother, I’d punched him. If I get out of this alive, that’s the first thing I’m going to do. Find him and beat him until he’s unconscious.

“You’re not happy that I know about the Undead, I take it,” I say.

“Well, it’s not so much a happy or not kind of situation, Miss Volkov.” God, I fucking hate the way he says that—Miss Volkov—like he’s some sort of fucking villain in an action movie. He doesn’t even have the stereotypical accent. He sounds all American, born and bred.

“The fact is, your brother and father both signed contracts when they were admitted into the Undead,” Hades continues. “They agreed to leave their lives behind and end their original existences to become part of something much bigger than themselves. We made exceptions for Ivan’s son when it was made clear that they had no contact not originally initiated by the Undead. It’s ironic that his son would somehow contact us and then join our ranks, but not completely impossible. Many of our members come from similar backgrounds. Sons of criminals. Criminals in their own right. All giving up their stained pasts to become a horde of the living dead that assists in maintaining control over the common populace.”

I hum in the back of my throat, a noise that interrupts his tirade and he arches his brow once more. “Something to say to that, Miss Volkov?” he inquires.

I manage to snort without worry over drooling and this time, I feel the vibrations of it which means my sensations are coming back. “I’m not sure what you know about me, Mr. Hades,” I say, “but I’m not an idiot, and not blindly trusting. I highly doubt your organization is doing something so selfless and good-willing. You’re a for-profit organization. My father and brother wouldn’t work for you if money wasn’t involved. You can cut the act.”

He tilts his head to the side and a small muscle jumps in his jawline—as if my words are offensive somehow. Maybe they are, but I have no doubt that they’re the truth. Whether he wants to convince himself of some delusions of grandeur where he’s a part of something big and great and amazing isn’t my business, but I’m not going to sit here and be talked to like a child or listen to him monologue about how important the Undead is.

“The fact is,” I continue, “you’re an organization that takes money from successful and powerful businessmen and women, politicians, and world leaders. You do their dirty work and you get away with it because you and everyone in your little boys’ club has already faked their deaths. Can’t exactly capture and imprison a criminal if they’re already dead, right?”

My other hand twitches and I repeat the action of digging my nails into my palms until I feel wetness. Blood, most likely. I ignore it. It doesn’t hurt after all. Not yet.

“You’re wrong, Miss Volkov,” Hades replies. “It’s not a boy’s club. That’s why you’re here.”

“What?”

I frown at him as his smile takes on a crooked tilt. “Ivan and Ace did break our rules. They weren’t supposed to keep in contact. But we’re not completely incapable of making exceptions. Being adaptable is all about survival and that is what the Undead pride ourselves on. Hitmen. Mercenaries. Criminals for hire. They’re all well and good, but they all eventually fuck up and get caught. We never do.”

“Why does that matter to me?” I ask. “I’m not exactly in a position to come after you.”

“No, you’re not,” he agrees, “but when rules are broken, action must be taken. There are consequences to betraying the Undead like Ivan and Ace have in allowing you and your late great-grandmother to know about them after they should’ve been long deceased.”

“Great-grandmother?” I repeat. Mama Luda?

Hades’ smile tips down or rather, it falls into a flat line as he adjusts himself and lifts his leg off of the other, letting it drop to the floor as he leans forward and props his elbows on his knees. “Were you unaware that Miss Luda Levitsky was Ivan’s maternal grandmother and by blood, your great-grandmother?”

I didn’t know that Mama Luda had been Ivan’s grandmother. I just thought … they hadn’t ever said as much but there was no resemblance. I just assumed that she was someone who’d taken care of him, of me because he protected her. The loss of her hits me hard all over again. She hadn’t loved me in spite of not being her blood, but because she knew I was. Why hadn’t she ever told me? Had she tried? She always called me milaya—darling—never vnuchka, granddaughter.

Lightning tears through my system and I feel muscles bunch and jump in my thighs. I try to hold still, not let them realize that my feeling is coming back, but it’s hard. My mind is a whirlwind of realizations and renewed, agonizing pain.

They say that time heals all wounds, but all it takes is a few words to reopen them and make them bleed all over again. I close my eyes and suck in a breath, willing away the heaviness in my mind so I can focus on the here and now.

“Regardless,” Hades continues when I don’t answer. “The fact is, we had no need for an old broad from Russia, but you—Miss Volkov—you could be useful. You’re young and pretty. Like I said, we’re not a boys’ club as you call it. And I can see allowing Ace off the hook just this once with only a small reprimand for his part in keeping you around if you agree to work for us.”

“Wait. What?” My head jerks as I finally straighten my neck. I have to fight to keep the rest of my body as lax as it should be—as I’m hoping they believe it to still be. Is the Undead trying to … hire me? Then his other words slam into my mind. We had no need for an old broad from Russia.

The man from all those months ago. Ace’s words, his promise to find out who killed Mama Luda. Numbness evaporates completely from my body. I feel everything from the pain in my palms to the ache in the back of my head from whatever they’d used to keep me compliant. Ace’s worry and fear when I’d mentioned the Undead. He told me I shouldn’t know. This is why. Because he’d known they could be coming after me. Because they had killed Mama Luda.

The man at Hades’ side opens his mouth, leaning down to speak, but he doesn’t get a word out before I catapult myself out of the chair. I plant my legs on the ground, snap my fingers around the arms of the chair and use the forward momentum to push myself off. I don’t aim for the younger and visually more imposing man. No, he’s not the power here. He’s just a minion. A guard.

The man I aim for is Hades, himself. My first punch takes him completely by surprise and I relish in the cut of my knuckles against his cheek, especially when his skin splits.

Kill. I’m going to fucking kill him.

I wrap my hands around his throat, throwing my body over him as I clamp down. Cold, yet still slightly amused eyes stare up at me as I toss one leg over his lap and tighten my grip.

“Leo, I believe our guest needs some assistance.” How he manages to get the words out and sound so calm even as I cut off his airway, digging my nails into either side of his throat, drawing more blood, is beyond me. All I can see is red; it’s blurring my vision with the crimson color of rage and blood.

Hard hands slide around my waist and rip me away from Hades, but I don’t go without a fight. I don’t scream, but I do kick. I throw elbows back. I try to drag Leo—the guard, apparently—over my head, but it’s impossible when he doesn’t ever let my feet touch the ground. Hades stands up from the couch, calm as ever, and touches the pad of his thumb to the cut on his cheekbone.

With a smirk, he wipes the blood away and straightens his suit coat before striding towards me. Tears burn into the backs of my eyes. They slip out and cut down my cheeks. Every blink feels like I’m shoving glass into my corneas. Fuck him. It doesn’t matter what he offers me, now that I know the truth. Even if he wasn’t the man who killed Mama Luda—that fucker is dead, put in the ground by yours truly—I have no doubt now, that this man was the one who ordered her death.

Why? Because she was useless. He had no need for her.

It doesn’t matter to him that I did. That I needed her. And he fucking took her from me.

“I’m going to fucking kill you,” I sneer, slamming my elbow back into Leo’s gut for what feels like the dozenth time. He grunts, but otherwise doesn’t make a sound. My skin is alive with the violence I feel.

Good or bad. Human or monster. It doesn’t matter anymore. I want his blood on my tongue. I want his guts in my grasp. I want to watch the life drain from his eyes and I want to make it fucking hurt.

“It seems you still need some time to think about it, Miss Volkov,” Hades says casually as if my words have no meaning to him. “But I should warn you, so you have a complete understanding—you only have two options. You either join the Undead and become a part of our membership or like your father, who is on his last strike, and your late great-grandmother—you die.”

“Svoloch!” Bastard. I know only a few Russian curses since Mama Luda never wanted me to learn them, but the one I do know is perfect for this man. Pain explodes in the side of my face as the back of Hades’ hand slams across my cheek. More blood fills my mouth and when I turn back to meet his gaze, I know that it’s staining my teeth.

“While I await your decision,” he continues as he flexes his fingers and adjusts the cuffs of his sleeves, “you should be introduced to how we do things here in the Graveyard. If you’re to be a member of the Undead”—he keeps speaking as if it’s a given that I’ll say yes. As if learning that he’s a murdering son of a bitch that took my family from me has no meaning—“then you’ll need to understand that insulting a superior is unacceptable. Enjoy the punishment. Take it as part of your training for the future.” He waves his hand and Leo carts me back.

“It doesn’t matter what you fucking do to me!” I spit out. “I’m never joining you and I will kill you!”

“Many have tried,” he says with a detached air even as my hands are dragged back and cuffs lock them together. My feet touch the ground, but before I can turn and deliver so much as a kick, Leo’s arms band around my head and throat, cutting into my windpipe just like the man who’d taken me from the trailer. “But no one can touch a god, Miss Volkov. Not even you.”

My vision blurs and darkness creeps in at the edges, but I’m proud of myself because just before the whole world goes black once more, I hear my own voice, my own words as I squeeze them out through a constricted throat. “You’re no fucking god, asshole. You’re just a fucking dead man.”

8

BRAXTON

WAITING IS AN EXCRUCIATING GAME. I’d rather have someone torture me. I’d rather have my intestines pulled out and lit on fire right before my eyes. Instead, I’m standing right across from the man who hurt Avalon and the reason Clover has gone missing, and it’s driving me to the brink of insanity. I thought I’d already lost it years ago, but somehow, I manage to keep myself in check. It doesn’t hurt that Abel stands next to me and hasn’t even flinched once as he holds his gun on the man.

I have no doubt that, despite Abel’s lack of interest in murder, he’ll shoot to kill if Ace makes so much as one wrong fucking move. He’s already made so many and I plan to ensure he pays for them all. After we find Clover. After I make sure she’s safe. After she’s back in my arms—whether she wants to be or not.

Headlights pierce through the semi-darkness and my SUV rumbles up the drive, stopping a few feet behind the truck. Marcus leaves them on as he pops the driver’s side door and steps out, a gas can in hand.

“What’s going on here?” he asks casually, his tone light even if his body is tight and careful as he moves towards us.

“Found a rat,” Dean says coldly.

“Is it a helpful rat?” Marcus asks, arching a brow as he turns his gaze to the man in the center of our little circle.

“That has yet to be seen,” I answer. I step to the side and clamp a hand on Abel’s shoulder. “But if he’s not, then we’ll just have to exterminate him.”

Ace blows out a harsh laugh. “You think I’ll go down that easy?” he snaps. “You couldn’t even fucking find me so you came after my sister.”

I shrug. “Your fault for not protecting her.”

“And this is your version of protecting her?” Ace shoots back with an arched brow.

I don’t react externally. “What makes you think I want to protect your sister?” I roll my head back on my neck as I observe him carefully—noting the dark circles beneath his eyes and the fading bruises poking out of his black shirt. He’s been in a fight recently—and I don’t mean the one between him and me. “What makes you think she means anything to me other than as a means to get you where I want you?”

Ace lifts his chin and smiles. It’s anything but an amused expression. “Oh, you’re good,” he says quietly. “A real fucking professional liar, you bastard. You think I don’t know some shit went down between you two? She told me, dumbass. That—and if you really were only after me now, you wouldn’t be demanding information about her from me. You haven’t killed me yet. That’s what you wanted right?” He takes a step back, moving away from Dean as he spreads his arms out. “Come on, then. Kill me. If you’ve got the balls.”

It only takes five steps. Five stomping steps across the gravel before I catch his shirt in my grip and yank him up on his fucking toes. “I’ve got more balls than you’ll ever fucking know,” I squeeze out through gritted teeth. “You think I can’t stomach killing? Let’s test that theory.”

“Braxton, we still need him.” Dean’s voice reaches my ears, but it isn’t until his next statement that I loosen my hold on Ace. “This isn’t just about Clover anymore.” Fuck, he’s right. It’s just as much about Troy and justice for him as it is about finding Clover.

Carefully, Marcus sets the gas can on the ground and arches a brow Dean’s way. “What’s the plan?”

“The people who took her killed your boy,” Ace says before Dean can answer. “Does that mean you’re going after them? You won’t get far without my help.”

“How do you know about our boy?” Abel sneers, stepping forward, gun still raised.

“I checked out the site before coming around to the front and finding him”—he gestures my way before continuing, “and you know the rest.”

“I was inside,” Dean says. “You couldn’t have—”

“I think you forget that this was my fucking house too,” Ace cuts him off, sounding both smug and condescending. “You weren’t in the back room the entire time.”

Dean and I exchange a look. As much as I don’t want to admit it, the fucker has a point. None of us know the Undead the way he does, and even if Luc can get us a connection—that’s still an external link. Ace knows them deeper. He knows them from the inside. I want the best chance of finding Clover alive and that means keeping him around for the time being.

“Brax?” My name is a question. Dean wants to know my thoughts, my plans, but even I’m not entirely sure yet what course of action we should take here. Ace lifts his head and meets my gaze head on. I haven’t known many men who could without flinching, but he does.

“We’ll call Luc.”—I hate the words as they come out of my mouth, but it’s the best course of action—” and have him follow through on that connection. “You,” I nod to Ace. "You’re going to tell us everything you know. Where their headquarters are. What they do. When they do it. How they do it. How many people they have on their payroll.” I lean forward. “Every. Fucking. Thing.”

Ace doesn’t lean away or move a muscle. “And then?” he prompts.

“You might see Clover again.” It’s a shabby fucking bone to throw his way, but if I can’t kill him right now, then he’ll need some incentive to keep on track.

“No,” he replies. “I will see my sister again, and you swear to keep the hell away from her.”

I suck in a breath through my teeth and our chests bump against one another as a low growl rumbles up my throat. “Not on your fucking life,” I grit out. “She’s mine.”

Ace snorts. “She’ll never be yours.”

“Wanna bet?”

Ace shakes his head. “I don’t need to. Evgenia isn’t a girl who can be owned. You might have tried, but you fucking failed.”

Maybe she can’t be owned, but she can certainly be tamed. “Whatever happens between Clover and I has nothing more to do with you,” I tell him. “What happens between you and me, though … we’ll figure that shit out after she’s back.”

“You think you can keep from killing me until then?”

Only just. “We’ll have to see, won’t we?” Silence drops between us and swells until there’s nothing but the cloud of violence hanging in the periphery of our consciousnesses.

“I’m calling Viks in,” Dean says, breaking the tension as clearly as if he’d cut it with a knife. “Abel put down the gun and go with Marcus. We need to have this place torched before we do anything else.”

“And me?” Ace asks, finally turning away and facing him.

Dean scowls but responds regardless. “You’re coming back with us. When we get to Eastpoint, you’re going to tell our tech everything you’ve got on the Undead. From there, we’ll figure out where they took Clover.”

Ace tilts his chin down slowly and then frowns as he finally looks down and to the side, just barely out of the way of where we all stand—at Troy’s carefully wrapped body. “They send specific people for retrieval duty,” he says quietly. “And they don’t have many on that team. Without any bodies, I can’t give you a clear idea of the men responsible for that…” he nods towards Troy’s body. “But I can give you a list.”

Dean’s eyes glitter in the darkness. Danger and violence in their depths. I feel the same deep in my soul. “Make the list,” Dean replies. “Whether they had a hand in his death or not, they’re all on borrowed time now. It’s time to clean house.”

9

CLOVER

THERE COMES a point in torture where nothing actually hurts anymore. Where the pain simply ceases to exist and all you are is numb. You still feel the hits—hear the strike of flesh against flesh, metal against skin, or something else. But every single one is dimmed—like it’s happening to someone else and not to you.

I wonder if people in violent relationships ever reach this point too. If the agony just grows beyond what they see as wrong and unjust, and it’s not just expected anymore but normal. Do they, too, start to think … has it always been this way?

What hurts? What has always been painful? And what’s new? I don’t know anymore. All I know is that during the entire length of Hades’ punishment, I maintain my hatred and boiling rage for him. It never falters. It never lessens. It grows steadily larger and larger, until it becomes an all-encompassing mass of true, bone deep, violence that I’ve never known before. Not even with Braxton.

My mind drifts to the two men—Braxton and Hades. In some ways, they’re similar. They’re both so fucking cocky and arrogant and despite what they think, it’s a weakness, not a strength. I plan to exploit it in Hades just as I had in Braxton.

The man before me continues to deliver blows to my stomach and thighs, standing back only periodically to wipe the sweat from his brow and suck back a gulp of water—never offering me any. Thinking of Braxton helps to keep the fires of my rage stoked and hot. At the same time, though, it lights up something else inside of me. What would he do here? Now? What would he do in my situation?

Again, my mind wanders as my head sinks down on my chest and I look down past the shredded shirt that hangs off of me in strips. Thankfully, they left my bra on for this torture. It’s not sexual deviancy they’re after now, just pain and fear. They can take my pain, but they’ll never have my fear. After Brax, I don’t think anything could ever scare me again.

Perhaps the disassociation I feel is my mind’s way of keeping me sane. Or perhaps that is just what a therapist would say. You’re not crazy … you’re just broken. Aren’t those the same thing?

Once you begin the separation of your body and mind—once the pain overwhelms you enough that you retreat—it’s the beginning of the end. You’re already insane. You’re already broken. Now is the time to make the most of it.

“I think that’s enough, Danvers.” I don’t bother to look up at the familiar voice, but now that the raining blows have stopped, the pain comes back. All of the aches and agonies that went numb hours ago resurface and I find that breathing is difficult. My whole chest shivers with the effort it takes to suck in breath after breath. It’s not really fair, I think. Breathing should be easy. It should be natural. Now, it’s an effort in futility and survival.

A pair of clean leather shoes steps into my line of sight where I hang on the rack I was strapped to who knows how long ago. It takes effort, but I manage to lift my head and let it sink back on my shoulders as I meet Hades’ cold gaze.

“Have you learned your lesson?” he asks me. “Are you willing to sign a contract with the Undead now?”

If I had the energy to laugh in his face, I would have. Fortunately for him, I don’t. All I manage to do is sneer and through dry, cracked lips, I answer. “Fuck … you.”

A look of mild surprise enters Hades’ gaze and then it dissolves into curiosity. “Danvers is one of our premier punishers, Miss Volkov,” he states. “I’m truly shocked that a young woman such as you is able to withstand his attention for this long and still maintain yourself.”

I don’t really care what he thinks, but before I have a chance to tell him that, he continues.

“Your resolve only makes me want you that much more,” he confesses. “Lesser men have folded under his ministrations long before now. If this is what you’re capable of and you’re not even integrated within our organization, I believe you’ll do incredibly well once you are.”

He says it as if the decision has already been made when, in fact, I plan to die before I ever agree to anything he wants. This is a man who kills without pleasure or guilt. He kills simply because he sees human life as a commodity, as little more than an obstacle in his way, disrupting his plans. At least Braxton values it a little more, even if he gets a sick thrill from murder. Although I’ve never truly seen Braxton kill, I know he has. A killer sees themselves in another killer. The only difference between us is that I do it out of necessity and rage. He kills for pleasure.

God, I fucking miss him right now. I close my eyes and hate myself for that unspoken admission. No. I don’t miss him. I miss a dream. I miss an illusion. Something that never even was.

“You’ll come to see reason soon enough, Miss Volkov.” Hades’ voice grates on my ears and my nerves, but I’m too consumed by the pain now to pay much attention. “There really is no other choice. It’s either you join us, or you die. At the end of it all, everyone chooses life.”

I snort at that, and even through the soreness of my muscles and the screaming in my bruised bones, I can practically taste the sheer amount of confidence Hades has in his words. Confident or not, though, I’ve never been one to bow to a power higher than myself. If I was, then I wouldn’t be here now. Everyone chooses life? Ha. What a crock of bullshit.

If a man like Braxton couldn’t keep me locked down, this fucker has no chance. I’m not the kind of prey that sits in her chains easily. I will bite off my own arms and legs if it means I get my freedom.

“What amuses you, Miss Volkov?”

I shake my head. I don’t bother with an answer. He wouldn’t get it even if I tried to explain it to him like I’m talking to a child. Instead, I lift my lowered eyelids and stare at him through slitted eyes. “Enjoy your life, Hades,” I tell him. “You’re already living on borrowed time.”

He blinks at that, but doesn’t say anything more to me. Instead, he takes a step back and turns to Danvers—my torturer. Their voices carry across the vast space of the room that I’m in, over the concrete floor and bricked up walls, echoing around and around my head until I can’t pinpoint a single word they’re saying.

When they return, Danvers steps in front of me and with cool, unfeeling hands, he grasps me around the waist. The chains holding me up slacken and I fall into his chest and arms—body parts coated in both his sweat and mine.

The shock of the pressure against my sensitized skin sends sparks dancing in front of my eyes and before I can suck in a breath or figure out a way of stopping it, darkness overcomes me and I sink into the sweet relief of oblivion.

All of the pain flutters away and that, more than anything else, is what truly terrifies me.

THE SECOND TIME I wake up in the Undead headquarters—or rather, the Graveyard—it’s to a lot more pain than the first. There is something that’s the same, though—the kid is back.

Curled into himself in the corner, I spot the little deceiver trying to make himself as invisible as possible—even going so far as to wrap his arms around the entire width of his spindly little legs. Even despite my anger—the fucker did drug me after all—I kind of feel bad for the kid. He didn’t warn me that the food he brought was drugged and I ended up eating that disgusting mush and being carted off to meet with Ace’s boss.

I should want revenge. I am into that now, after all. I get Braxton’s obsession with it. When people wrong you, it’s hard to move on without any sort of closure. Still, there’s a softer part of me inside that doesn’t blame this half-starved looking little boy.

With a groan, I shift into a sitting position, relieved to find that I’m not tied down or restrained in any way. At the sound, however, the boy in the corner flinches and tightens his hold on his legs. It hits me, then … he’s expecting some sort of retaliation.

I have no clue why they thought it necessary to put him in here with me, but were I someone else—perhaps a man used to being in control and holding authority over others—he probably would have been attacked upon my waking. He doesn’t know, though, that I have no intention of hurting him. He’s still expecting it.

He knows he helped them hurt me. He knows that I know he knew all along—as convoluted as it sounds—and he’s in here … the sacrifice for their actions. Another test? I consider the possibility for a brief moment, but I doubt it. It’s clear they already have me figured out. At least to an extent. I gave the kid the better food. The choice was mine all along.

“Hey.” My voice comes out as a croak and the kid flinches back again. This is going to be a long, frustrating stay if he acts like I’m going to curb stomp his ass at each movement. “What was your name?”

He doesn’t reply. Instead, he seems to cave in on himself. I didn’t think it was possible. He appears to be around thirteen and is already so small and fragile, but somehow he manages it.

I reach down and lift up the bottom of my shirt. Fuck, I’m covered in bruises. They’re mottled and purple all up and down my sides and abdomen reaching up towards my chest even. I sigh and let the shirt drop before pausing, my hand clenching in the fabric in realization. I jerk my head up and narrow my eyes on the kid across the room. When I’d been knocked out in the torture chamber, the shirt I’d been wearing had been in shreds. This one is new. Brand new and clean.

“Hey,” I try again, putting more strength into my voice. No response. I grit my teeth. “Did you change me?” I demand.

There’s a brief moment of hesitation and then the kid’s head lifts slightly. He yanks his head down in a barely perceptible nod. Why the hell did he change me? “Did they make you?” I ask.

He shakes his head no. I’m confused. If they didn’t make him, then why would he… My thoughts drift off and I tilt my head at him, examining him closely.

The kid is small and pale, with longer than average dark hair that hangs around his shoulders and face. He’s all bones and bruises, the small swathes of old scars peeking out from his own grubby clothes. Could it be guilt? I wonder. If he expects me to lash out at him, why would he even bother to change me?

“Th-they left clothes for you,” he stutters out quickly. “But i-it’s hard to move after you come back.”

“Come back?” I frown.

“From p-punishment,” he answers.

A cold sort of rage enters my bloodstream as a harder realization hits me. There’s really only one way he would know that. My eyes narrow in on his bruises again. “You know what it’s like to be punished here?” I ask, already knowing the unfortunate answer.

Another nod and I feel sick in my chest.

I close my eyes as I press my spine against the wall with my legs hanging over the side of the cot that’s shoved against it. My head sinks back on my shoulders. Fuck. Me.

I’m getting out of here. I’ve already made that resolution. I can’t stay. It’s not safe. I can’t be another liability to Ace and there’s no doubt that if I stay, then Hades will soon realize that I won’t conform to his desires and I’ll be dead meat either way. But trying to leave with a kid … I can’t.

You can’t take him with you. Evgenia’s warning is loud in my mind and for the first time, I fucking agree with her.

I open my eyes and tilt my head back down. “Why were you put in here with me?”

As if sensing my lack of desire to dole out my own brand of punishment on him, the kid lifts his head further and glances over at me. “T-to watch,” he answers.

I blow out a long steady breath, fuck even inhaling and exhaling makes my insides hurt. The fucker—Danvers—didn’t break any ribs, but he must’ve at least bruised them. There’s no sharpness to my agony, just dull thudding soreness.

“You watch their prisoners a lot, kid?” I ask.

He shrugs. “S-sometimes.”

“Hmmmm.” I hum in the back of my throat as I stretch my hands out along my sides. “They don’t feed you much, do they?”

Why do you care? Evgenia asks. It’s not like you’ll be around much longer to take care of him.

Shut up, I mentally reply. I can ask whatever the fuck I want. Even if she’s right and I really shouldn’t give a fuck.

“More than other p-places,” he replies.

That answer could mean anything, but there’s another reason for my line of questioning. “How long have you been here?”

“D-don’t know,” he says. “Couple of m-months, I think.”

“There a lot of different people in and out?”

He nods. Good, that means unfamiliar faces all around. No one would notice if someone new was traversing the halls unattended. “Heard about that cafeteria earlier,” I say. “You know where it is?”

He nods again. “U-upper floors.”

“Hmmm. How many floors are there?”

The kid’s head lifts further and he reaches up with shaky hands, pushing several greasy strands back. I blink, leaning forward. Holy shit, this kid’s kinda … no, Clover, don’t.

Before the kid can answer me this time, I switch up my questions. “How old are you?” I ask.

“Fifteen.” No stutter this time. I narrow my eyes.

“For real?”

He stares back at me without another answer. Fuck, he’s way too small to be fifteen. Then again, malnutrition does that. It’s strange, I was fifteen damn near five years ago, but he’s much smaller than I was then. Fragile looking with big eyes that look carved straight out of glass. Crystal blue irises bleeding into indigo along the edges.

With a little more meat on his bones and a growth spurt, the kid could be a goddamn model.

But that’s none of my business … he’s not my concern. He can’t be.

“There are twelve floors,” the kid says, shocking me by answering my earlier question.

I turn my head. “Which floor are we on?” I ask.

“Number five.” His stutter seems to have dropped away completely. I narrow my gaze on him. Was it an act to make himself seem more pathetic and innocent? Non-threatening?

It’s hard to tell. I know I can’t trust anything here, not even this kid, but it’s hard.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“Dom.” A pause and then, he continues. “What’s yours?”

I blink, surprised again. “It’s…” What do I say? Clover or Evgenia? “Clover,” I finally decide. I can accept Evgenia and still be Clover. Plus, it’s probably easier for him to remember. Not many people can actually pronounce Evgenia correctly.

“Like the plant?”

I snort and nod. “Yeah, sure, kid. Like the plant.”

“Four leaf clovers are supposed to be good luck,” he says.

Yeah, I think, they are… too bad I’ve never had any.

Then again, perhaps it’s luck that Ivan and Ace had found me just as my mom died. Perhaps it’s luck that I met Braxton when I was so far deep into the hole of my loss over Mama’s death that he seemed to yank me out of it. Perhaps it’s luck now … this kid being shoved into a cell with me.

I look at him in a new light and find myself scooting towards the edge of the cot, planting my feet on the concrete floor as I leverage myself up. The kid’s eyes widen and his raggedy hair falls back into his face and he curls inward once more as I stride across the room towards him. No matter how much I try to keep steady, my limbs tremble with effort as rockets of pain shoot up my sides and legs.

When I get the chance, if I see Danvers again, I’m going to slice his guts open.

I reach Dom and slowly bend over as he huddles into the corner, pulling into himself. “Do you like being here, Dom?” I ask, using his name.

He freezes and then one scrawny shoulder lifts. “It’s better than some places.” Yeah, the stutter is completely gone. Curious.

A smirk touches my lips. “Do you want to find a better place than this?” I ask him.

He shakes his head immediately. “You can’t leave here,” he tells me. “They’ll kill you.”

I laugh, and it’s a low sound. Not loud or boastful. It’s completely genuine. Dom hears it and somehow it pulls him out of his invisible shell. Maybe it’s curiosity, but when he finally looks at me, shoving his hair back once more until I can see the contours of a face that shouldn’t be as sharp or dirty as it is, it’s with an inquisitive look.

I’m going to do it, I realize. Dumb as it is, I can’t leave him here. I’m getting the fuck out of here and I’m taking him with me.

My lips twitch as I reach out and, ignoring his automatic flinch, I touch his face, feeling along his cheek and down until I drop away from it and grab his shoulder. The bones under my grasp feel so fragile. I hope they’re not because if he’s going to survive what I’ve got in mind, he needs to be stronger than he looks.

“Not if I kill them first.”

10

CLOVER

I’M FUCKING INSANE—AND honestly, I think I should be grateful for that because if I wasn’t then this plan of mine would probably have zero chances of working. When you’re stuck between a rock and a hard place, though, you’ve got few options and you need to make the best of every little mistake on your enemy’s part. For me, it’s always underestimation. No one ever expects the pretty little redhead to actually be intelligent. I barely passed through high school. Based on my records, I seem like gutter street trash. What people forget, though, is that street smarts are a whole other level of genius.

Read all you want; if you don’t know how to anticipate people, then you’re as good as dead in my world.

Right now, I’ve got a starved kid who’s more of a liability than an informant and an internal rage that won’t let me quit. I finish ripping the sheets left on the bed into long strips as the kid—finally up from his little hidey hole—paces back and forth across the length of the tiny cell. If there are cameras in here, though, whoever is watching me isn’t concerned with my movements. I go faster, though, just in case.

“This is crazy,” he tells me. “It’s never going to work. They have guns.” He says the last bit as if it’ll suddenly change my mind.

“Then I guess we’ll have to take them,” I say calmly. I’ve never felt so undisturbed in my life. I should be freaking the fuck out like he is. I should be rethinking every little minuscule detail of my plan to escape rather than making it up as I go along. I start to weave the strips of fabric together into a tight braid.

“It’s not that easy,” Dom insists. “If you’re caught—If I’m caught helping you they’ll—”

“Dom,” I call his name, stopping his tirade mid-sentence. He turns and faces me, and it’s actually nice to see some color in his cheeks even if it’s twin circles of anxious pink and fear lighting his eyes. “They’re going to do more than hurt you and me,” I inform him. It’s callous, but it needs to be said. “They’ll kill you.”

His lips twist. “Then why are you doing this?” he practically begs me.

Simple. “Because I have lived my whole life under someone’s thumb—if it wasn’t a person then it was my own fears and the desire to want to conform to what was normal so that I could find some sort of safety in numbers. I’m not going to sit around here and let some asshole who killed the only woman who ever loved me as a mother keep me here and suck the life right out of me too. He has every intention of killing more people who mean a lot to me.” Even if I’m mad at Ace, he’s still my brother, and there’s no doubt that Ivan probably won’t live through Hades’ vengeance either. I have to wonder, partially, if he’s not already dead.

He wasn’t a normal father, but he wasn’t a bad one either. Distant, but … he found me for a reason. He risked it all to pull me from the gutter. To make sure I was looked after. That means something.

“Even if you don’t help me, Dom,” I continue, “they’ll assume you had something to do with my escape and if they don’t kill you, you’ll go back into punishment.”

Dom stiffens and his hands clench into fists at his sides. My words seem to strike something deep inside of him. Hopefully, it’s anger. Anger and violence are a lot more compatible with survival than fear. Fear will hold a person still, vulnerable to attack and death. Anger makes people act. I just have to make sure that neither of us acts rashly. Easier said than done.

I finish braiding the strips and tie them together at the end to keep them from unraveling. “What are you going to do with that?” Dom asks, gesturing towards the braids. “There’s no window.”

I arch a brow. “I’m aware. Come here.” He frowns but steps forward regardless. I lunge for him and before he blinks, he’s got the braided fabric wrapped tight around his throat. I like the kid—I’m not going to deny that—but I’m also not fully trusting of him. I hate to do this, but there’s no room for soft-hearted Clover to have her way in this mess. I’m not going to die here and that means covering all of my bases. It’s time for Evgenia to come out to play, and unlike me—she has no qualms about threatening to kill an innocent kid if it means we live.

My grip tightens and the makeshift rope pulls taut around his neck. He claws at it—eyes blowing wide as he tries to tear it off, but I braided it for a reason. It’s tight and not easy to rip. There is no getting it off.

“I’m going to give you one warning, are you listening?” He gasps for breath, falling to his knees before me, and nods quickly. Still, his hands continue to pull at the fabric. I sigh and pull it tighter, rolling the braid together and twisting it at the sides. Dom turns his face to the side, but with the fact that it’s wrapped around the entirety of his neck, there’s no relieving the pressure. “You’re not listening, Dom,” I say. “Stop fighting, and I’ll loosen it.”

His hands immediately stop and I make good on my promise, relieving the pressure on his windpipe enough for him to catch a few breaths. “I don’t know how long you’ve been here, but I’m sure you must feel some sort of loyalty for the Undead,” I start. They might not be taking good care of him, but even he admitted that this place is better than others he’s been in. Perhaps he’s lost all hope that there’s somewhere above this garbage heap. I plan to prove him wrong—so very wrong. He shakes his head and opens his mouth, trying to squeak out a protest. I frown, tightening the rope once more. “Don’t interrupt me.”

He coughs and chokes, eyes watering.

“The people here are not good to you,” I tell him. “And I’ll be honest, I know I’m not the best either. I’ve killed and I plan to do it again. What I will say, however, is that I won’t hurt you—” Ironic, I know, to be saying something like that when I’ve got him on the ground, gasping for breath, but it’s a necessary evil. “As long as you don’t betray me.” I grit my teeth and bend over, getting up close and personal with his face. “You follow me and I’ll get you out of here, Dom,” I swear it as an oath. “But if you betray me, I’ll leave you to rot. Do you understand?”

Wide blue eyes stare up at me, filled with fear and comprehension.

“I want to trust you, Dom,” I tell him. “Don’t betray me. These people won’t care that you had no other choice. They’ll punish you for daring to defy them. I won’t punish you for stabbing me in the back, but I will kill you.” I sigh. “So, now it’s your choice. You can come with me and if you do, I’ll get you out and I’ll take you somewhere safer.” Though, where the fuck that is I have no clue. Yet, I know that as I make the promise, I’ll do whatever it takes to give him that. “What do you say?”

Silence follows my question. I let the rope around his throat slacken and he coughs once, reaching up and rubbing his neck before he tips his head back and scowls. “You didn’t need to choke me,” he murmurs, voice raspy.

I shrug and pull the rope the rest of the way free. “I need to make sure that you understand the severity of my offer. Come with me and get your freedom, but if you betray me…” I let the words drift off. There’s no point in repeating my resolve. It’d be like beating a dead horse.

Dom presses one hand to the edge of the cot and struggles to his feet as he nods. “I get it,” he says quietly.

“Then what’s your decision?” I ask.

He presses his dry, cracked lips together, but when he parts them again and his tongue comes out to swipe across the broken skin to wet it, he sighs. “I’ll come with you,” he finally says.

“Good choice.” I turn away from him as I gather the rest of what I’ve collected. Two of the rungs from beneath the cot, broken off, and the rest of the rope. We won’t be able to carry it all, but it’ll serve us both well enough until we run into one of the guards. And there’s no doubt we will. From what Dom has already told me, there’s apparently a patrol through the first seven levels—perhaps there are more, but those are the only levels he’s ever been on. And every level from number four down is underground. All we need to do is find our way up to the next level and maybe we can find an external exit.

From there … well, I don’t know. For now, we just need to take it one step at a time. Get out and away from the Graveyard. Then, maybe I can call Ace—if he still has his own freedom, then we can meet up and figure out the rest.

And Braxton? Evgenia’s curiosity and thoughts can’t be denied. I need safety right now, and though Braxton would provide it—at least in regards to going up against the Undead—I’d be doing nothing more than trading one cage for another. I don’t know if I can bear to be his prisoner again. Not after everything that’s happened between us.

“They’ll be coming back to check on you in another hour or so,” Dom says, pulling me from my thoughts.

I look to him and nod. “Then we better figure out how we’re going to get them to open the door before they get here,” I say.

Dom frowns and his brows pucker in nervousness. He reaches across his chest and clamps one hand around his upper arm. “I think…” he starts before pausing and looking at his feet.

I tilt my head down, trying to catch his eyes even as I wrap the ropes around my forearm and palm slowly. “Yeah?” I prompt him.

He sighs. “I think I might have an idea on how to do that.” And he does. I listen intently as he proves that he truly is much older than he looks. There’s no way a real kid could have the thoughts he has. He’s smart and mature. It makes me wonder how the fuck he ended up in a place like the Graveyard, and by the time he finishes telling me his plan, I’m even more resolved to help him find a much better path, a better place than this shithole life that will see him as nothing more than a commodity in Hades’ arsenal. No matter what it takes.

11

BRAXTON

IN THE HOURS following our agreement, we set fire to the place where it all began. My obsession. My love for a woman who I probably don’t deserve. The memories of the fight she gave me go up in smoke and ash.

For several long minutes as the fire raged into the night, we stayed and watched it—assured by Ace that the fire department wouldn’t deploy an engine for nearly a half hour. Not that there wasn’t one nearby, but because of the fact that out here in the middle of nowhere, no one moved fast, not even to save life or possession.

The perks of living on the edge of civilization, and our luck, I suppose.

Neither Dean nor I are willing to let Ace wander off on his own. After the fire dies down a bit, Ace gets into the SUV with the rest of us—leaving his vehicle abandoned somewhere deep in the woods. Once we’re back on the road, a careful silence descends and no one speaks a word.

With Troy’s body in the back, the drive back to Eastpoint is far longer than the one it took to get here. Instead of meeting up at the Penthouse, Dean steers the SUV through the streets of Eastpoint several hours later and towards a familiar home. The place I’d lived in for the last four years. The only place where I’ve ever truly belonged.

The Carter estate comes into view with its tall pillars and lights in the upstairs windows and the red Mustang parked haphazardly across the front of two garage doors with an unfamiliar Porsche nearby. I see the Mustang, and I can’t help but smile even as Abel groans.

“I told her not to drive my fucking car,” he snaps. “I thought we took the keys.”

Despite everything, Dean’s lips twitch. “She probably hot-wired it.”

Abel leans up from the back and scowls. “I will spank your girl’s ass if she’s so much as put one scratch on my baby,” he threatens.

Dean pulls around to the front and parks the SUV before replying. “I’d love to see you try.”

Doors pop open and as if they were watching from somewhere inside, the front door to the mansion opens and Avalon steps out onto the porch with her arms crossed, followed by Luc. Abel moves away from us and heads up the stairs into the house, no doubt in search of Rylie.

Ava glances over the four of us left and when her gaze lands on Ace, she tilts her head to the side. “I took you guys more as wolves than cats,” she says. “But look at you now—dragging dead rodents home.”

Dean takes the front steps two at a time until he reaches her. She doesn’t respond immediately as his arms go around her, but my chest tightens in anxiety and guilt. Ace should be dead right now. Of all the things I should do for her—for what she went through, for what my father did—killing him is the least of it. But I can’t. Not yet. Not until Clover is safe. And for that, she has every fucking right to hate me.

As if Avalon senses the directions of my thoughts, however, her head turns away from Dean and towards me, interrupted only briefly as Marcus, too, makes his way around them and into the house beyond. “You coming inside or what, Psycho boy?” she asks.

“Yeah.” The word comes out as a croak, but it’s enough for her to hear. I take the steps much slower than Dean and pause in front of her. Dean releases her, his attention turning back over my head as he gestures for Ace to get inside with a jerking thumb over his shoulder.

“Get inside,” he commands. “You’ve got a lot of fucking talking to do.”

Ace doesn’t say a word, he merely moves up the porch and disappears into the house like everyone else—leaving the three of us in private.

“What’s going on in your head, Brax?” Ava asks.

“Guilt,” I admit. It’s funny, but she’s one of the few women who can pull the truth out of me. One of the few that I let deep within. Is that why Clover had thought we were more? Probably.

Ava rolls her eyes. “You’ve got better use for your time than that bullshit,” she says. “Viks is inside and he needs more than I can give him. He needs orders and he needs to know how serious this is.”

“It’s personal now,” Dean murmurs.

Avalon’s gaze strays to the SUV. “Troy?”

He nods. “We’ll take care of him, Baby,” he says, dipping his head until his face is almost completely in her throat. Will Clover ever let me do that to her? I wonder. Without tension. Without fear. Without anger? Will she let me seek comfort in her arms in a way no one else has?

Avalon’s voice, when it comes, is tighter than before. “Of course you will,” she assures him, her hand moving up the back of his neck and into his hair as if I’m not right there. As if they’re the only two people on the planet. “Until then, we better get to work to save Brax’s girl.”

Her gaze lifts to mine.

“Right, Psycho boy?” she prompts.

I swallow around a rough throat and jerk out a nod. “I’ll head inside and give Viks the rundown about Troy.”

“Is that why you took the Mustang?” I hear Dean ask quietly.

Avalon’s lips twitch. “Maybe,” she answers.

“We took both sets of keys,” Dean says.

“Haley’s car is in the shop and he couldn’t leave her without one. He needed a lift, and I was mad about being left behind.” She doesn’t sound the least bit sorry and neither Dean nor I dare to mention the dozens of other cars they’d had access to while we’d been away.

“I’ll let you two talk,” I say as I step past them and move into the house.

Following the sounds of conversation down the front hall, I find the living room filled with people I never thought I’d find in one room—and certainly not with all of them alive. Rylie and Abel are in much the same position as Dean and Avalon were, only they’re closer to the kitchen, their bodies turned towards each other as they talk in low tones. Rylie’s laptop sits open on the island, its screen reflecting a series of code only she can understand.

That incessant itch that’s been a thorn in my side ever since I met Clover and brought her into my world makes itself known once more. With a scowl, I shove down the urge to pound concrete and stomp across the room to where I spot Luc, lounging on the couch like this is his mother fucking house as he scrolls through his phone.

He doesn’t look up until my shadow falls over him. When he does, he arches twin dirty blond brows up at me. “Problem?” he asks.

“I need that information,” I state. “Didn’t Rylie talk to you? Avalon?”

“Yup.” He pops the end of the word and adjusts himself, leaning up to put his phone back into his pocket as he leverages up from the couch and meets me, chest to chest. “They told me what you wanted, but I’m a little confused. You want my connection with them when you’ve got him?” He gestures to where Ace sits in a chair against the far wall. Marcus stands nearby, carefully monitoring him. At least one of us has his fucking head on his shoulders. Thank fuck for him.

“I need everything I can get,” I say. “Do you have it?”

Luc looks me over, eyes moving across my face as if he’s searching for something. I don’t know what and I don’t give a shit. The longer he goes without responding, the tighter my muscles wind. Finally, he speaks.

“Yeah.” Luc blows out a breath, closing his eyes for a brief moment before reopening them and giving me a firm nod. “I’ve already contacted the connection I’ve got and set up an appointment. But they’re careful as shit, it’s not for a few weeks. I doubt they’ll be sitting on their asses in that time. They’re probably running background checks and doing a deep dive into how I even got into contact with them.”

“We can’t wait weeks.” I mentally curse, turning away as my eyes light on Ace.

“It was the best I could do,” Luc replies from behind me.

Ace lifts his head and glares across the room at me. “We won’t be waiting weeks,” he says.

Luc steps around my side, moving across the floor as he glances between us. “You got a better plan?” he asks.

“I’ve got more information than you, that’s for sure,” Ace replies.

Luc doesn’t look the least bit offended as he examines the newcomer. He hums in the back of his throat as he pushes his hands into his pockets and rocks back on his heels. “That a fact?”

Ace doesn’t answer. Instead, his attention returns to me. “If you want to get my sister out of their hands alive, then you need to move a lot faster than a few weeks,” he says. “She’s not the kind to give in to their demands and if Hades figures out that he can’t convince her, she’s as good as dead.”

My ears capture the new name. “Who’s Hades?” I demand, stepping forward and towering over him.

Ace doesn’t flinch away from my approach. “He’s the boss,” he answers easily. “Or rather, he’s the one in charge of the rest of the Undead. There’s always a hierarchy in every organization. Ours is no different.”

“How’d he get the position?” It’s not my question, but Dean’s as he steps into the living room with Avalon at his side.

Ace’s head turns. “It’s not exactly a democracy,” he says. “In the Undead, might makes right. He killed the last head and took over. No one’s been willing to go against him since.”

Dean glances my way and I know we’re both on the same wavelength. The thoughts are racing through my head, forming faster than any physical words. As I consider the actions we’ll have to take, the caution that needs to be used before we take over and annihilate the men responsible for Troy’s death and Clover’s disappearance, Dean speaks. “I assume Hades isn’t his legal name.”

Ace shakes his head. “No one uses their legal name. Once you fake your death to join the organization, that’s it. Your old name is as dead as the old you.”

“So Ace isn’t your real name?” Avalon pipes up.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Abel and Rylie join the group, coming around the island of the kitchen. Where the fuck is Viks? I scan the room, but he’s not there. He’s here somewhere; Avalon had made that clear.

Ace snorts, recapturing my attention at the offensive sound. “No, sweetheart, Ace is a moniker. I’m Hades’ Ace in the hole … or I was, until this.” He gestures at the group, but it’s clear he doesn’t mean us. He means the situation.

“She’s not your fucking sweetheart,” Dean growls. “Call her that again and I’ll break your fucking arm. You can still talk and give us the information we need without a working limb or two.”

Ace holds up his hands in mock surrender. “Sure, no problem,” he says. “I’ll respect your claim.”

Somehow, I fucking doubt that, but he doesn’t say anything more and Dean’s anger dissipates in the face of all the plans that now need to be made. “We can’t let an organization as dangerous as the Undead run around unfettered,” he says, turning my way.

I nod. “If might makes right, then all we need to do is kill Hades and take over. I assume the other men will step into line if we do that.” Though I don’t phrase that last part as a question, I look to Ace for confirmation.

He agrees with the slight jerk of his chin. “They should,” he says. “Most of those who join the Undead have nowhere else to go. They’ll follow whoever is stronger.”

I feel the smile stretch across my face and it’s anything but amused. “Good,” I state. Because there’s no one stronger than we are.

“Sounds like a plan’s been made.” The whole room freezes as Viks comes out of the shadows. I see Ace jerk and reach for his back before pausing, realizing that he no longer has his gun.

Viks steps from the back doors and moves into the center of the living room, appearing very much the wraith he’s always been despite his massive size and notable tatts. He barely spares Ace a glance as he walks across the floor and approaches me.

“I hear you’ve gotten yourself in a bind, son.” He stops before me and eyes me up and down. “This about a woman?”

My hands clench into fists at my sides and beads of sweat pop up along my spine. For the first time in a long time, the scars beneath the ink on my back ache. “Yes.” I grit the word out.

Viks scans my expression before nodding and with a sigh, he turns back to Dean. “Then I suppose we should be on the move.”

Dean agrees readily. “All we need is a location from him.” He gestures to Ace.

Only then does Viks finally turn to our prisoner. Ace stares back at Viks and to his credit, he keeps his expression placid and unreadable. “Well then…” Tension spreads through the room. Marcus’ gaze jumps from me to Ace to Viks to Dean and back again like he can’t help but circle the room—keeping track of the biggest players, the most dangerous ones anyway.

“I suppose you should start talking.”

Just like that, I know it’s going to be okay. Viks is here and with him on our side, there’s no fucking way Clover won’t come out of this alive. That’s all I need. She can be anything else. Damaged. Scarred. Angry. Violent. As long as her heart beats and oxygen fills her lungs with life, I’ll survive. I won’t accept another outcome.

12

BRAXTON

“COME TALK WITH ME A MOMENT.” I stiffen at those words, not because they bother me but because I can’t refuse them.

Of all the men in this world, I hold Viks in the highest regard. Unlike Dean, Abel, and me—his life began in the gutter and he climbed his way out to where he is now. Richer than most men, even if he doesn’t show it. A couple of years ago, I didn’t really get why he settled down with a mousy little artist that graduated from Eastpoint herself, but he’s been no different since.

He’s still got the cool look and demeanor of a man who has killed and will kill again when necessary. He’s still the man who took me hunting after he found out what my father was doing to me. He taught me how to stalk an animal. How to kill it mercilessly. How to silence the demons spreading through my head until I could maintain a sense of normalcy. Enough anyway, that I could still go to school with Dean and Abel and fake it well enough to distract others.

Without him, I have no doubt that I’d be locked in a penitentiary somewhere, or an asylum. My father—for all his own understanding of the dark desires that lay within my soul—never considered that what he turned me into would be something that I could one day not contain. Viks gave me the skills to not so much imprison it but to camouflage it. For that, I will be forever grateful.

So, when he pulls me to the side as Ace relays information to Dean and Rylie, her fingers flying over her keyboard to track down headquarters and locations, I can’t refuse him.

Viks doesn’t stop at the edge of the room. No, he leads me out onto the back terrace, away from the others. It tells me one thing—he’s going to bring up something he knows I won’t want them to hear about. He’s going to bring up the past.

The door swings shut behind us and Viks moves towards the railing that looks out over the backyard, pulling a pack of cigs from his back pocket. A red flare burns bright against his face as he lights up and turns his face to the sky, blowing out a long stream of smoke that dissipates into the air.

“Want one?” he offers, lifting the pack and gesturing for me to join him. I step against the railing and shake my head. Despite the fact that I do actually want one, I’m too wound up to enjoy it at the moment. "Hmmm.” He shrugs and slips the pack into his pocket along with his lighter. “Suit yourself.”

Several long seconds pass as he lets the nicotine invade his lungs. “This girl,” he finally starts, “she’s important to you.”

It’s not a question, but I answer it as one regardless. “She’s mine.” It’s a simple answer and one that a man like him can understand.

He goes quiet again, just content to stand there smoking his cigarette and letting me fucking stew in the silence. I’m half convinced that the fucker has no idea what’s going through my head, when he turns towards me—his cigarette already half-burned through—and grins. Oh yeah, he fucking knows. Asshole.

“I’m not going to lie,” he says. “I expected Dean to find his and I knew Abel always wanted one, but you…” He pulls the cig from his lips and tips it in my direction. “You surprise me. I always took you as a lone wolf.”

“I’ve always had a pack,” I remind him. Dean and Abel may not be blood brothers but they are my fucking family, and he should know as well as anyone what I would do for them and their women.

“Oh, yeah, I know you’ve always had loyalty to the boys,” Viks agrees. Only he could get away with calling us that. Boys. Ha. As if we’ve ever been young when we’ve been raised our whole lives to know death and power. “That’s not and never has been in question.”

“Then what surprises you?”

Viks drops his ashes over the side of the railing and puts the blunt end of the cigarette between his fingers back between his lips. The cherry red circle burns bright in the darkness. Exhaustion clings to my limbs. Now that he’s here, now that a plan is forming, I realize I’ve been up for well over twenty-four hours and before that, I’d been fighting against the hangover of the century.

How is it that a woman like Clover makes me forget it all? Not having her here. Not having her against me, in my arms, in the safety of my protection is slowly driving me to the brink of insanity.

“You’ve got damage, Brax,” Viks says, quiet and factual. “The things your father did—all of your fathers really, but yours especially—they were never right. And Josie, rest her soul. Her loss didn’t exactly help.”

A scowl tips the edges of my lips, curving them down into a sneer. “There a point to reminiscing about the past?” I demand. “If so, I recommend getting to it.”

Viks arches one brow my way and for all the threat my words hold, he doesn’t exactly spit it out quickly. In fact, the fucker seems to go quiet for even longer—almost as if he wants to prove that there ain’t shit I can do to force him. And fuck him, but he’s right.

I curse and turn away from him, stomping across the back terrace towards the stairs. I stop just shy of them, staring down at the ground. My head bows and something sinister reaches through my chest, curling up around my throat and blocking my airways. I need … help. I need his help to get her back.

“What is it about her?” Viks’ question penetrates my skull. It’s enough to pull me from the dizzying need for violence rising inside of me.

“She…” What is it about Clover that makes me go absolutely insane for her? She’s gorgeous but no more beautiful than many other women. Her ass. Her tits. Her face. It’s like she was carved only for my eyes, for my taste. But it’s more than that. “She can handle it,” I find myself saying.

“Handle what?” Viks’ prompts.

“The darkness,” I tell him, turning back. “She can handle it and more. She never flinched from it or me. She fought back, but she enjoyed it eventually. She didn’t scream for someone to save her, she just accepted the pain I gave her and…” always … she always found some pleasure in it.

And even that isn’t enough to make me understand what she means to me. Clover is different than most women. Strong. Impossibly stubborn. Protective. Loyal as fuck. It wasn’t until I pushed her to the edge, though, that I saw the real beauty in her. The glint that I recognized in her depths. Clover is a woman running from her own demons, yet still accepting of mine.

Viks chuckles. It’s a dark sound in the night, truly amused and yet almost sardonic in its tone. “Who would have known there’d be two of you out in the world,” he murmurs more to himself, it seems, than to me. “And who the fuck could have guessed that you’d find each other?” The question is obviously one he has no intention of receiving an answer to because in the next second he stabs out his cigarette against the terrace railing and tosses it to the ground.

“Alright, Smalls, here’s how this is going to go down,” he says. My back straightens because I recognize the inflection in his voice—like a military sergeant ready to send his troops into battle. It’s always seemed a little funny to me—how society approves of murder so long as you’re wearing a uniform, but condemns it outside of their boundaries, even if you’re protecting your own. “We’re going to get your girl, and you’re going to tell me everything I need to know to get her back to you safe and sound.”

“I’m going after her too,” I remind him.

“Oh, I know that,” he says. “But from what Avalon tells me, you fucked shit up real good before she disappeared.”

I can’t deny the words and that burns my gut. I scowl but don’t speak. There’s no point in defending myself. I was arrogant. I won’t be that way this time. “I’ll tie her down until she comes to accept her new situation,” I tell him.

Viks laughs and this time, it’s louder than before. “Son, that ain’t how you keep a woman,” he tells me. “That’ll only make her hate you more.”

“I don’t think there’s any way to get her to hate me more than she does right now,” I confess.

Viks shakes his head. “Then you don’t know women,” he says. “Women have an infinite amount of space for hatred. You might need to trap her to keep her around at first, but you want what Dean and Avalon have, don’t you? What Rylie and Abel have?”

Silence and then I slowly nod. I’m not one to be jealous of my friends, but over the last year or so, I’ve watched the two of them fall for their respective partners and I’ve seen the kind of strength it’s given them. With Clover, I won’t have to seek out release anywhere else. No more prostitutes. No more fear of my own darkness. She’ll take it all, and she’ll fucking like it. My cock practically pulses inside of my pants at the thought.

It shakes me to my core to know that I fear her. I don’t fear death. I don’t fear torture. But I fear Clover fucking La Roux. She’s the one thing in this world that could bring me to my knees. And the further I fall, the more willing I become to do exactly that if it’ll keep her by my side.

“You need to give up on revenge,” Viks says.

My head jerks up and my fists clench as I narrow my eyes on him. “Never,” I spit the word, growling.

Viks shakes his head. “Then you can kiss her goodbye, and we shouldn’t even be risking manpower and resources going after her now,” he says casually. He waves his hand. “That’s good with me. I’d honestly rather be home with my wife and child.”

“We’re not leaving her,” I snap. “I’m getting her back and then her brother will pay for what he did.”

Viks snorts. “And you expect her to stay after that?” He shakes his head. “If you’re still on this shit about killing him then there’s no fucking way you’re going to keep her. From what little Ava tells me, she’s got a crazy streak and she’s loyal to the bone.” His lips do that weird frown-smile thing where the edges curve down, but I can tell he’s impressed. “Sounds like everyone else here, don’t it?”

“Her brother tortured Avalon,” I practically snarl as if he needs to be reminded.

Viks’ expression doesn’t change. “I’m well aware of your feelings, Braxton, and your reasoning. I didn’t say it was unsound. I just said you’ll have to let it go. Avalon and Dean seem to have done that.” He tilts his head to the side and I can feel the burn of his attention as if it’s a poison slowly seeping into my skin. “Why can’t you?”

“Because it’s…” my fault. I knew what my father was. I always swore to protect my friends from him and I failed.

I don’t need to say where my thoughts are. Viks is a smart man, and I’m not complicated—not to someone who understands the blood I come from. He moves towards me and I freeze, unfamiliar with the feeling of another strong, masculine hand coming down on my shoulder without any pain attached to it. Sure, there’s Dean and Abel—but we’re not usually a touchy feely group. Never have been.

“You’re gonna have to let the past go at some point, son.” When Viks calls me ‘son’ like that, somewhere deep down I get a sense of want. A sense of hope and a desire to wish. If wishes were as easy to grant as that, though, I wouldn’t be the fucker I am today. I wouldn’t feel the need to hurt the women I fuck. I wouldn’t feel the craving inside that even Clover doesn’t know about yet—the worst thing about me.

“The past is what made me who I am.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean you have to let it stop you from becoming who you were meant to be.”

“And who the fuck is that?” I demand.

Viks shrugs. “It’s whoever you decide to be, but don’t let the decision be because of the past. Don’t let your father choose for you.”

“He’s dead,” I snap. “He can’t even if he fucking wanted to.”

Viks gives me a cool look of reproach. “Wise men know that even the dead have a stake in the living. They might be physically gone, but their actions and will remain in the scars and pain they leave behind. You might have hated the man, and he might have deserved it, but don’t delude yourself into thinking he has no hold over you. If he didn’t, you wouldn’t be as hell bent on killing that man in there as you are. Take my advice, Braxton. If you want the girl—if she’s more than a passing amusement—let it go. Or find some other way to enact your revenge that doesn’t include taking his life. If you let your vengeance control you, then you’ll find yourself in much the same position as your father in another twenty years.”

Shock slams into me as violent as a punch. “I won’t be like him.” The words are harsh, but there’s a tremble to them. Because it’s my greatest fear. I know how much he made me like him, my father, but I’d always expected—always hoped—that I would be different when I grew up.

To some, being past the age of twenty-one is grown up—but sometimes, I still feel like the kid who always wondered why his dad was so different from others. Who always wondered where their mom was.

“That’s your choice to make,” Viks says. “And it always will be. You decide not to be him every day. Keep Abel and Dean close. Don’t grow apart. Protect them. Love them. As long as you do that, they’ll keep you grounded and human in a way your father never was.”

Ha. Some human I am. Fucked up beyond belief. Finding pleasure in pain—hurting and … receiving.

I hang my head, shame building up inside my chest when I should be worrying about everything else. I should be more focused on why Viks is here in the first place, in what his role is and in what my goal is. To find her. To bring her back. To keep her. Because I’m starting to believe that the only way I can truly stay human is if she is the one grounding me—not Abel or Dean. They’ve helped these last few years, but they were a Band-Aid to the problem where I think she is the cure.

I open my mouth to say as much when the back door slides open and Abel pops his head out. “We’ve got a hit,” he says, cheeks flushed.

“What? How?” How fast had Rylie worked? I pull out my phone and check the time, realizing that Viks and I have been out here for just over an hour.

“It’s not solid,” Abel confesses. “But Ace confirmed a location of one of the Undead’s headquarters. We wouldn’t have been able to pinpoint it if he hadn’t been working with Rylie and there’s no guarantee she’ll be there, but he says it’s the most likely place.”

He doesn’t sound all too happy about accepting Ace’s help, an inevitability I can’t help but agree with, but if it makes things move all the faster then I’ll take it.

“How far?” Viks asks.

“Several hours by car,” Abel admits. “Less if we take a chopper or jet, but we don’t want to spook them.”

“We can take a jet and get close, and then take cars when we land,” I say. I want this over with. I want this done. Only then will she finally be back in my arms.

Abel nods and then slips back into the house, the door shutting behind him. Through the window, I watch a flurry of movement. Viks’ hand lands on my shoulder. “Come on, son,” he says. “It’s time to suit up and go get your girl. I can’t wait to meet her.”

13

CLOVER

IT’S TOO EASY. As Dom predicted, a guard had come by an hour after our last conversation. A strategically placed scrap of fabric in front of the cell door’s little peephole where they could see into the room had definitely made the fucker make the mistake of stepping inside. Though I hadn’t killed him, I had left him unconscious and tied into a series of intricate knots with the braided rope I’d made. Some of the leftovers I'd stuffed into his mouth and tied around the back of his head to give us some extra time in case he woke up before we managed to finish our escape.

Thankfully, he’d been packing and now, so am I. Behind me, Dom’s quiet footsteps practically scream across the concrete flooring as we head down the hallway. I feel vulnerable out in the open. More so because my ribs are aching motherfuckers. My whole body feels like it’s been beaten to hell and back—probably because it has, but I can’t exactly wait around and hope my captors will give me time to heal. My eyes scan the walls and ceiling, watching for cameras. There have to be cameras, right? No one is coming after us, though. They haven’t even seemed to realize we’re out of the cell.

My heart feels like it’s pounding in my ears—so loud that I don’t even hear my own feet on the floor. I could be stomping and making more noise than an elephant for all I know.

“C-clover?” Dom’s stutter is back and with good reason, but I don’t have time to comfort him right now.

I shush him as the sound of footsteps around the corner reaches my ears. I look down at the gun in my hand and mentally curse. This was a bad idea. I should’ve seen if I could find a knife or something else. There’s no goddamn silencer on this thing. One pull of the trigger will alert everyone of our escape. I tuck it back into the waistband of my pants and instead, I unravel some of the leftover rope I’d brought with me.

Dom’s eyes widen. “Why aren’t you gonna use the gun?” he hisses.

I don’t have a chance to explain. In the next moment, a man rounds the corner of the hallway we’re on. He spots us a split second before I dive for him. The rope circles his neck and he chokes out a warning cry right before I yank the fabric back and cut off his airflow.

“No, you fucking don’t,” I breathe out as he fights back. A fist swings my way and I barely escape it as I duck my head down and let my legs go. My knees hit the concrete with force and the man buckles down as well, choking as I quickly anchor a foot up and use the force of my upward momentum to knee him right in the balls. The adrenaline racing through my body only minimizes my pain; it doesn’t make it disappear altogether, but I can’t stop now. If I do—I’m not the only one who will suffer.

I’ve never been so fucking grateful to be a woman when I see tears enter the man’s eyes as they roll back into his head. I wince when I glance down at the fabric covering my legs. Something dark and wet stains my pants. Yeah, I definitely felt something burst on my kneecap. My attention moves to the man and when I look down, I see a dark stain spreading over the jeans he’s wearing. Vomit threatens to make its way up my throat, but I squeeze it back, hissing through my teeth to keep from hyperventilating.

My chest tightens and I waver as I crawl back to my feet. “C-clover?” Dom’s voice sounds far away. I hold my hand out, staving him off.

Shit, Clover, get yourself together. Now is not the fucking time.

When I reopen my eyes, the world has cleared a little bit and I glance back at the man on the floor. I have no sympathy, though. Not for him or anyone else in this Graveyard. As far as I’m concerned, they were all accomplices in Mama Luda’s murder. Behind me, I hear a squeak and whirl around—half expecting a new attacker, but there’s no one else. Just Dom. He gapes down at the man on the ground, his eyes zeroed in on the place between his legs with mounting horror.

After a brief moment of silence, he swallows roughly. “I think…” he starts. “It would’ve been kinder to kill him.”

I snort as I loosen the rope around the man’s neck and use it to tie him up. I rip a few pieces off the end and shove it inside his mouth. “I never said I was kind,” I remind him.

Breathe, I remind myself as my ribs scream in protest. I can feel the minor trembling in my muscles, but it’s dark enough, I don’t think Dom notices. In and out. In and out.

Dom doesn’t answer, but then again, he doesn’t need to. We both know the truth. The people who end up in the Graveyard are anything but kind, and yes, that includes their prisoners.

I dig through our new victim’s clothes, finding another gun and graciously, a fucking pocket knife. Though it’s a little butterfly action kind and hardly more than a poker, it’ll do far better than a gun without a silencer in terms of discreet disposal. I debate for a long time on handing the new gun over to Dom, but at the end of the day there’s only so many places I can stick a second gun and I can’t really use the knife as well as I should with another in my hand.

“Here,” I finally say, shoving the gun into Dom’s hand.

He stares down at it for a second before turning wide, blue eyes up at me. “W-why are you g-giving me this?” he demands.

“Because I can’t hold it,” I say quickly, stepping closer and pointing to the safety. “Flick this to turn the safety off,” I tell him. “Point and pull the trigger. Do not”—I pause as I lift my eyes back to his face—“point this thing at me, understand?”

“I c-can’t,” he insists as he tries to shove it back towards me.

“Yes, you can,” I growl. “Only use it to threaten someone if they catch me off guard, don’t shoot it otherwise.”

“Please, C-clover, I don’t want—”

“Let’s go,” I say, cutting him off. I don’t stick around for more of his complaints and insistences. We don’t have time. We need to be on the move. Every second down here is another that one of our victims could wake up and set off the alarms. And even if they don’t, I have no doubt that this won’t be as easy as I’m hoping.

We make it down the next corridor and into a stairwell. I pause just inside the big metal door and listen for movement in the enclosed space. If there’s anyone else, I’d be able to hear their footsteps, but luck is with us—there’s no one.

“Keep pace with me,” I tell Dom. “Don’t fall behind and don’t point that fucking gun anywhere but the ground. Hold it with two hands and keep it at your feet.”

He nods jerkily, face flushed and eyes a little wild. It unnerves me to have him at my back with a loaded firearm, especially since it’s clear he’s never used one, but I don’t have much of a choice now. We make it up the next flight of stairs and I freeze when I realize the stairs don’t go all the way up. No, that would be far too fucking easy. Instead, they cut off at the next floor.

“We have to go through the next hallway to get to the next stairwell,” Dom says quietly from behind me. “They keep it confusing on purpose.”

Of course they do. I mentally groan. I’m not sure how much longer I can keep up the facade of strength. My thighs are shaking. My head is pounding. The fight with that last man took a lot more out of me than I want to verbally admit.

“You know how to get there?” I ask.

He nods. I suck in an irritated breath. “Okay,” I say. “Just direct from behind me, got it?”

He swallows but nods his assent once more. Like that, I listen to Dom’s quiet directions as we make our way to the next floor. The lights in these hallways are darker, though, and there’s a familiar scent in the air. The taint of blood and urine.

“It’s the punishment floor,” Dom answers my unspoken question as if he’s plucked it from my brain. Well, that explains the smell. I wrinkle my nose but nod nonetheless and keep going.

The sound of pain-filled groans echo towards us and I pause, glancing back quickly as a door ahead opens. We can’t keep attacking people. I grab Dom and dive into a little alcove, shoving him behind me as quickly as possible as I hold my breath. I wince as something in the wall digs into my arm, past the sleeve of my shirt. It’s a sharp little piece of metal, like a thin nail or something; I’m not sure, but it fucking hurts. I bite my lip as I edge away from the damn thing and listen to the booted footsteps as they march towards us. Crouching down a little lower, I flick out the butterfly knife in preparation, but inside, I’m trembling.

I put on a brave front to threaten Dom, but in actuality, I don’t know how it will be to kill again. The first time … had been nothing but a fit of loss and rage. What if that had been a fluke? Can I even do it again?

The footsteps get closer and closer, but eventually they pass right by us and my heart slowly lowers its racing beat. Dom’s small body trembles against my back. “Come on,” I whisper once the footsteps are out of earshot, this way.

“W-wait,” Dom says quickly, letting go of his gun with one hand and reaching out to latch onto the back of my shirt. “You s-should know, I o-overheard one of the guys say a friend of yours was here. I-if you want to get him out, now’s the chance.”

“A friend?” I repeat. “Ace? Did they say Ace?”

He shakes his head. “N-no, I think they said his name was I-Ivan.”

Fuck. Me. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry right now. Though I’m glad he told me now before we got out and the opportunity was gone, I also know that adding another person to our escape is really going to hinder our chances. Then again … it is Ivan and I doubt the Undead would hire useless men. Ivan is, after all, one of the men who taught me how to shoot and defend myself.

“Do you know which room?” I demand.

Dom releases my shirt slowly as he shakes his head. Fuck, that won’t make things easy. I debate my options. I can check the rooms a hell of a lot faster if I go alone and this little alcove is small and dark. I decide in a split second.

“Stay here,” I order him. “Stay low and don’t speak.”

“What?” Dom’s panicked voice heightens in pitch as it reaches my ears. “You’re leaving me?”

“No, I’m not. But it’ll be easier to do this if you’re not with me. As long as you stay low and don’t move, no one who passes by will see you.” An idea forms in my mind and I turn, running my hand along the wall at my side until that little piece of metal brushes against me one more. Locking my fingers around it, I yank and pull until it comes free.

Maybe luck is on my side because this will come in handy. I doubt the Undead have left all of their torture rooms unlocked to ease my way. Just before I step out of the alcove, though, I turn back and look at the crouched, wide-eyed kid staring up at me like I’m some sort of monster as he clutches the gun between his hands.

“Remember what I said,” I tell him. “Don’t shoot unless you absolutely have to. We don’t want to call everyone else down here before we even have a chance of getting out.”

He swallows and jerks his chin down in acknowledgment. His demeanor, however, doesn’t inspire confidence. I’ll have to make this quick.

Diving out into the corridor, I hurriedly run along the side of the wall—peeking into the doors that have the same eyehole as my cell did. What I see sends chills down my spine. Chains hanging from ceilings, blood splattered floors, and even worse—chairs and metal cots. Sometimes they’re empty. But in a few, there are figures crunched into balls either chained to the cots or hanging their heads, lifelessly, in the chairs—right where they’d been left by their torturers. I don’t see any activity, though. Perhaps it’s nighttime. Do the Undead take breaks? They must. Despite their name, I know the truth. They’re very much alive and if they’re alive then that means they, too, need to eat, sleep, and live. And that also means that they can be killed.

I clutch the knife in my grip harder, pulling it into my side as I bypass the empty rooms. When I reach a room with someone inside, I carefully extract the sliver of metal. I push the end against the concrete wall, curving it to the side before inserting it into the keyhole of the room. It takes several tries and as anxious sweat drips into my eyes, I breathe through my teeth.

It’s painstaking, the process of checking each and every room. Of course, it doesn’t end until I come to the last one at the end of the corridor—furthest from where Dom told me the next staircase was. I open the door and creep inside, scanning the contents.

A metal chair laid on its side, empty, in the center of the room. A broken bulb that twitches and pulses with dim light as it swings back and forth over it and in the back, a single metal cot with a big man on it.

I approach slowly, noting the salt and pepper hair at the top of the man’s head. It’s familiar to me. My heart leaps inside my chest.

“Ivan.” I let the door slide shut, keeping it unlocked as I hurry towards him and drop to my knees. He doesn’t reply and I find myself almost afraid to touch him.

Heat. Sweat. Blood. And tears. That’s all I feel. How fucking hot everything is—like someone has turned on a furnace and is blasting it at full force. I arch over the man on the cot and examine him as gently as I can. Ivan’s face is paler than I’ve ever seen it, and he’s never been a particularly tan man to begin with.

“Ivan?” I try again. My hand comes away with red at the center of my palm and along each of my fingertips. Fuck. What kind of shape is he in? My mind races with thoughts and worries. How the fuck am I going to get him out of here if he can’t even walk?

The answer is fucking obvious, but I don’t want to admit it. I find a chain around his ankle, keeping him strapped to the cot and I shove the sliver of metal inside, working it until I hear the locking mechanism click and it falls away.

Despite the blood coating Ivan’s chest and the missing fingernails—and … missing finger on his right hand—I still try to wake him. There are shadows beneath his eyes, but they finally shift and move when he lifts his lashes, the dim light doing strange things to his features as I bend over him, almost making him look like a living skeleton with white-yellow flesh stretched over his bones. “Ivan? We have to get out of here. Can you walk?”

“Evgenia?” His voice is hoarse and muffled. He blinks and I can’t tell if he can see me or not. His eyes are glassy and glazed over with pain and confusion.

“Yes, Ivan. It’s me. Can you walk?” I repeat.

“You … should not be here.” He coughs and blood touches his lips. “Should not … be here. Go. Leave.”

There’s a weight on my chest, a bad omen. Something telling me this isn’t right, but I have to try. Ivan’s … even if he’s never acted like it, he’s my father. Apart from giving me a name from his home country and saving me from a life in foster care after my mom died, he’s been more of a distant uncle or someone far less connected than a parent. Right now, none of that matters.

“Ivan.” I shake him again when his lashes lower once more. “You have to keep your eyes open. We don’t have time. You need to get up. I’ve unlocked you.”

“I … cannot, Solnyshka.”

I bite down on my lower lip until I can taste my own blood. “Yes. You can.” And if he wants to live, he’ll have to. The kid will only act as a lookout for a short time and I’m still not entirely sure he won’t switch sides again if we’re caught. I don’t exactly blame him, but that makes him untrustworthy as an escape partner. Ivan would be better. Besides, Ivan’s trained at least.

“No, Solnyshka, I cannot. My legs…” I look down at his words and my eyes widen. I hadn’t noticed—or maybe I hadn’t wanted to—when I unlocked his ankle, but it’s … horrifying.

“Oh, Ivan…” My voice catches. “What did they do to you?” But it’s clear what they did.

Bile comes up my throat, but I clamp my hand over my mouth and force it down and take a step back to look at the damage. Oh, fuck. Fuck … he can’t walk … he really can’t.

His ankles are twisted in the completely opposite direction they should be. Like someone just broke them completely from his legs and kept going. His toes are pushing into the threadbare cot he’s laying on and I finally realize that the fabric isn’t dark. It’s soaked in blood. His blood. That explains the pallor of his skin.

“You never call me Papa…” His words are so sudden, and outrageous for the situation, that they startle me.

“W-what?” I gape at him as I lower my hands from my face.

“Papa,” he repeats. “It is what we call our…” He drifts off and winces as a cough rises up to his chest. He doesn’t even have the strength to turn and spit out the blood that’s dribbling from the corner of his lips so I rush back to his side and help him turn his head. I keep my eyes away from his legs. The very memory is forever seared into my mind, but it tells me the truth now. No matter my hopes, Ivan won’t be coming with me.

“I never thought you really considered yourself my father,” I tell him honestly.

He chuckles weakly. “Andrian never called me Papa. You take after him.”

“Andrian?” I frown. “Who—” Dawning realization hits me. “Ace? You mean Ace?”

“Da.” He nods and coughs again.

“I didn’t know…”

“I gave name to him too,” Ivan says. “He not care for it. Also not for calling me Papa.”

A bang on the door tells me there really is no more time. “Maybe not,” I say. “But … what about Dad?”

A small smile forms on his face. “Ah, yes. So American. My Evgenia. My Solnyshka.”

“You’re not coming with me.” It’s not a question, but a statement.

“No,” he says.

My eyes burn, but tears don’t fall. It’s just the insistent heat that’s boiling under my skin now. Until I feel like everything is melting away. “Go, Evgenia. Run. Leave.”

“They’ll kill you.” Another statement.

He nods. “I am already dead man.”

“Undead,” I whisper, reminding him.

“No, Solnyshka. I am traitor to Undead. They no like family, but I could not … abandon you. Now, I am simply … dead.”

A cold feeling enters my chest, slicing through my heart. It would be cruel to leave him here, to leave him for them to torment further before they kill him. With shaky hands, I reach back and pull out the gun in my waistband.

“Wait an hour,” I say. “If you can, please wait … Dad.” I press the gun into his hand. “We’ll be free by then. I promise.”

“No, Solnyshka. You need—”

“I have another,” I say, cutting him off. “Take it.”

After that, he doesn’t argue, but I feel like it’s doing something horrible to me inside to give it to him, knowing how he’ll use it. I stand up and stare down at him on the cot, pale and fragile looking for a man that once stood before me, this massive hulking protective figure.

“Thank you,” I say quietly, my words carrying across the small space between us. “I don’t know if I ever said it, but thank you for saving me. Thank you for claiming me. Thank you for bringing me to Mama Luda. Thank you for giving me Ace. Thank you for … everything.”

His lips stretch into a pain-filled smile. “It is what papas do.”

“You’re right.” My eyes are burning like acid is filling them and not tears. “I love you, Papa. Thank you.”

“You are welcome, Solnyshka. Now, go. You must run if you are to leave.”

Go, he says, and unspoken—leave him behind. I close my eyes as I turn back towards the door. Each step away from him, knowing how it will all end, is a blade in my chest. Each one leaves a scar that I will bear with me forevermore.

14

BRAXTON

“LIE TO HER.”

“Excuse me?” Viks stops moving, his hands halfway across his massive chest as he pauses the process of strapping down his bulletproof vest.

“If you’re the one to find her, she won’t come with you if she thinks you’re with me,” I tell him. I know that much for sure. My eyes scan the distance. We touched down in a small country airfield a little under three hours ago and as much as I want to go in guns blazing, we need to play this smart.

Viks doesn’t say anything, and yet, in his silence, there’s a whole world of words. I just can’t decipher them. Either way, if he’s disapproving, he’ll have to suck it up.

“What do you want me to tell her?” he finally asks.

“Tell her you’re working with Ace.” It burns my guts, but if she thinks it’s her brother then she won’t fight.

“Technically that’s not a lie,” Viks points out as he finishes strapping down his vest and I do the same. Across the big open space just outside of the blacked-out SUV we rented for this, Dean and company are doing the same. Strapping down vests and checking firearms.

I watch as Dean scowls as Avalon passes by him, carrying a massive ass duffle bag. She slaps it down right behind the SUV and unzips it, crouching down to pull out a magazine clip and an unmarked Glock—courtesy of one of our many connections. Sometimes, it really does pay to be as wealthy as we all are.

Avalon ignores Dean’s glare. I get what he’s feeling—if I’d had a choice, she wouldn’t be here, but after the shit that went down with my father and Abel’s, I can also understand where she’s coming from. Avalon’s not going to let Dean out of her sight if she knows there’s danger nearby.

I go silent as I finish packing my gear, strapping several weapons to my sides and back. Crouching down, I finish lacing up my boots and then slip a serrated army knife into the side of each one. Somehow, even with everything I’m laden down with, I still feel unprepared.

Ace stands at the cliff face, looking down into a valley with binoculars at a single metal building that looks like nothing more than an old warehouse. He hasn’t moved for the last ten minutes as he scans the local areas, and according to his intelligence, this place is far enough away that their cameras won’t catch our movements. The only issue is getting close. The majority of the land surrounding the building is flat and empty—dry cracked desert with nothing but spindly dying trees and weeds. There’s definitely nothing to hide behind, but I suppose that was their goal.

“Alright,” Dean calls. “Round up and let’s go over the plan.”

As I lift my head and scan our members, there’s a guilty anger in my chest at Troy’s absence. There’s still me, Dean, Abel, and Viks—and a few extra hands we’ve called in, other men similar to Troy who’ve worked with us for years, but no one nearly as close as he was.

“According to intel,” Dean begins, pulling me from my internal reverie and forcing me to find my focus once more, “there are several below ground levels. The likelihood that our target is being held in a cell below ground is high. Because of that, we’re going to have to assume that the top three levels are no goes. We want to take them by surprise, so we’ll be going with an immediate attack. We don’t want a chance for anyone to raise any alarms. We’ll blow the front doors and go in that way.” He looks up and eyes the group surrounding him. “Masks on at all times,” he commands. “No one reveals their identities, am I clear?”

The group nods, and once Dean seems satisfied that we understand the severity of that order, he moves on. “From there, we’ll travel in groups of twos and threes. Avalon is with me. Abel with Brax and Viks will lead the rest. Understood?”

“What about me?” Ace speaks up, stepping forward as he scowls across the space. “You’re not leaving me out.”

Dean frowns at the interruption but cuts a look to me. “Fine, Abel will lead the men, Viks is with Brax. Ace, you’re with me.” Ace opens his mouth, but Dean cuts him off before he gets a word out. “No more fucking complaining or I’ll gag you with a pair of Abel’s underwear and shove your ass into the back of one of the SUVs until we’re done. Don’t fucking try me, asshole. I still haven’t forgotten what you did. You’re here because you’re necessary, not because any of us fucking trust you.”

Ace holds up his hand. “I’m just here to get my sister,” he states. “I’m not a threat to you or your boys.”

Dean doesn’t even glance my way. “I decide who is or is not a threat,” he snaps back, and with that, Dean turns back and withdraws his cell to scroll through a few images. Seconds later, everyone’s phone beeps.

“I’ve just sent out the schematics of the building—or what our tech could get from records.” I scowl. Records could rarely be trusted, and I hate going into shit blind, but we don’t have the luxury of time on our side. “Remember,” Dean continues. “Our target has not been confirmed. She could be here or she might not be. In that case, we’ll do the best we can and the goal is to get everyone in and out quickly and efficiently.

“Follow your leaders, scan your area, and then get the fuck out and reconvene at the rendezvous point. I don’t want any deaths here. Don’t go out of your way. Don’t do more than you’ve been ordered. Get in, scan your area, and get out. If you find the target—a picture you’ll also find on your cells—radio the rest and get her to safety immediately. We want the girl alive and well. We move out in fifteen.”

Ace curses, but says nothing more as he turns away from the meeting back towards the cliff’s edge. He reaches for the binoculars again and begins scanning the surroundings. A tingle skates up my spine as I turn my attention to the building below.

Come on, Firebird, I think. Be there. Be ready. I’m coming.

15

CLOVER

“DID YOU FIND HIM?” Dom’s question, when I return to him, is met with grave silence. He doesn’t press for an answer after he gets one look at me—which must mean it’s written all over my face.

I feel numb inside, hollow. Like someone has opened me up and scooped out my insides with a rusty spoon. I didn’t think losing Ivan would hurt as much as it does. We were never close, but still … he was someone I could rely on. That, in my world, is a rare thing.

At the very least, though, the pain has faded. Maybe I’ve just gotten used to it. If my thighs are trembling, I can’t feel them anymore. I can’t feel much of anything, but the strong desire to get the hell out of here.

“Come on,” I grit out. “Let’s get moving.”

Dom doesn’t try to hold onto the gun as I reach for it and when I lift the back of my shirt and tuck it away, he doesn’t ask where the other one went. There’s a lot he must suspect, a lot he must instinctively know—after all, it would be strange for him not to pick up on the little hints after living in a place like the Graveyard. He’s a smart kid, though. He doesn’t talk anymore except to give me directions as we hit the next set of stairs and move up the levels.

The concrete surroundings shift as we reach the next level and the walls turn from solid brick and concrete to plaster and wood. Something damp and wet touches my nostrils and I wrinkle my nose, continuing forward regardless. It’s easier to move now, knowing that our time limit is ticking down.

Without care. Without concern, I fucking march through the corridors unimpeded. I don’t feel like I even care if we run into anyone anymore. I’m not hiding. We’re so close I can taste it, and if Ace were here, he’d chew my ass out for risking it. But I feel a little risky. Maybe I’m insane, but I almost want someone to find us. Deep inside, there’s a need that wasn’t as loud before as it is now. A desire to maim and hurt. I want to unleash some of the internal rage that’s built up inside of me.

What would Braxton think of me now, huh?

The question, the thought, is so out there that it slams into me and scrambles my brain. Why the fuck would I care what Braxton thinks of me now? Whatever we were, whatever we had, it’s over. I don’t care—not about him or his sick, twisted friends. I don’t miss Eastpoint. I don’t even miss that bitch, Avalon.

But even as I think that, I also recognize that she would totally think this is badass. She’d come in here, guns blazing, and she would wreck the Undead’s shit because she could. Just for shits and giggles and to know that she was top dog. Against my will, I find my lips twitching into a smile. There are few like her, even I have to admit that. Makes sense why Braxton likes her so much. And just like that, the anger is back and so is the pain. I shake my head and refocus on the next hallway.

Dom trails me on quiet feet; the loudest thing are his panting breaths. He must not be used to so much activity. There’s no telling what all he’s been able to do in his life. Considering his lack of nourishment, however, it wouldn’t shock me to learn that he’s not managed to do anything even remotely strenuous. Still, he follows me without complaint. He’s not like any kid I’ve ever known, that’s for damn sure. I’m curious to know his story, but now is certainly not the time to ask.

I must be too focused on him because as we round a corner, both of our heads ducked and our bodies lowered, I run smack dab into a massive chest full of muscle. Dom’s gasp reaches my ears a split second before hard hands clamp on my arms.

“Who the fuck—”’

I don’t give the man a chance to finish his sentence. All of the ropes from before have been left behind, all that’s left is the butterfly knife in my grasp and the enemy before me. I asked myself earlier if I could kill again. Now, I know.

I can.

And I will.

Before he even realizes it, my blade sinks deep into the man’s neck. With clenched teeth, I slice across his vocal cords, cutting off his scream before it can escape. Nothing but squelching blood and choking responds. I find myself unrelieved, though, and press forward even harder—anger taking over my movements. I slice through flesh and muscle until the knife comes to an abrupt halt at the bone. I suppose bone isn’t that easy to cut through. It doesn’t matter. My weapon has done its job and this man’s life is over.

A sick, wet gurgling noise erupts from him a split second before the blood comes gushing out. It sprays across my face and slips down into the hollow of my throat. That’s not all—it goes further, dripping into the shirt I’m wearing and between my breasts, sliding along my stomach in thick lines. Warm, wet droplets splatter my cheeks and nose as the man coughs—his lips gaping like a fish as he seeks out the air that’s out of his reach.

Behind me, I hear Dom start to gag. “Oh my god…” His words are a harsh, disgusted whisper.

I laugh. I can’t help it. It’s so fucking funny. Hilarious, really.

It’s grotesque. It’s horrific. It’s … empowering.

Killing.

Who would have known that I’d be so fucking good at it?

“Clover!” Dom whisper-screams my name. “Be quiet.”

My head sinks back on my shoulders. I know he’s right. I need to be quiet. We don’t want to get caught. One man, I can take. A whole mob of them, though? That would be too much for me. But I can’t seem to help myself. Another giggle bubbles up my throat and I slam a bloody hand over my mouth, trying to stifle the sound.

Dom stares at me in mounting horror. I’m covered in blood, smearing it all over my face and I know I must look like I’ve lost my goddamn mind. Hell, I probably have. My original goal had been to escape—to find my freedom from this place and from the Undead, but it’s all too much. First, Mama Luda and now Ivan. The Undead—no, Hades—has taken everything from me and I want him right here in front of me, now. I want to wrap my hands around his throat and I want to watch the life drain from his eyes and have him know that no one else was able to kill him except me.

Vulnerable. Overlooked. Unprioritized. Clover Evgenia Volkov La Roux.

Dom glances from me to the man as he sinks to my feet and flops to the side. Huh. Guess, slicing through the throat is a quick way to go.

“Clover?” Dom reaches for me, but just as his hands latch onto my sleeve, the building shakes with the force of a bomb. The walls tremble and above our heads, the ceiling shifts with the violence of the explosion. Dom’s hands become impossibly clingier. His nails dig into my arm as he practically latches himself onto my side like a barnacle. “W-what’s going on?”

“Shit.” The curse slips out. I don’t have time to answer him; the building is being rocked hard by whatever just happened and in the near distance, I can hear gunfire. “Come on,” I snap. “This way.” I grab onto his arm and practically drag him behind me, running back the same way we’d come.

“Where are we going?” Dom demands. “There’s no exit this way!”

“We’ll just have to make one,” I shoot back.

Once again, we round a corner, and find ourselves face to face with unwanted obstacles. Two men, dressed head to toe in black with guns lifted towards us start to move forward with almost military precision. My free hand opens and closes at my side, and I realize I lost the knife when I killed the last guy.

I don’t want to reveal the gun in my possession, so I turn and kick in the door closest, shoving Dom in ahead of me. “Get down!” I order just before slamming the door shut behind me and hurrying across the room. Surprisingly, though, I hear the men outside talking and then another volley of gunfire then … nothing. Just silence.

Sweat collects at the top of my spine and slowly drips down. My mind is racing a million miles a second. There’s a window in the room, but it’s not just locked, it’s glued shut.

“You can’t get out that way,” Dom says as I start searching for something—anything—to break the glass. “There’s an alarm.”

“I think an alarm is the least of our fucking troubles, kid,” I snap as I lift a chair, turn and slam it sideways into the glass. What do you know, though, the chair shatters on impact and I groan. “What the fuck is this, bulletproof glass?”

He shrugs, somehow managing to still seem the rebellious annoying teenager even as he stands back against the wall, slight trembles running through his body. That’s the normal reaction to watching some chick slaughter a man and then running from others with gunfire all around. But I feel calm. Way too calm. Like my mind was made for situations such as these. Or maybe it’s just that my life has been so fucking chaotic, my mind such a riot of everything—a back and forth battle of good and evil—that the external situation has now caught up.

The truth is, I’ve always been in survival mode. This is no different. My only hope now, is that no one gets to Hades before me. If anyone should get the pleasure of gutting him, it’s me.

“What are we gonna do now?” Dom’s question is the same one in my mind, but I don’t have a fucking answer.

Panting, sweating, covered in blood, I drop the remains of the broken chair in my grasp and take a step towards the door. “Stay back,” I say. “I need to check it out.”

“W-what?” His eyes get big and surprisingly, he dives in front of me with both hands up. “No! You can’t go out there!”

“It’ll be fine,” I assure him. “I’m just going to check out the area. Sounds like the guys were gunned down by whoever is attacking the compound. Maybe we can escape during the chaos.”

“What if you get shot?” Dom demands.

That was always a risk, but as I look down at him, I realize that’s not what he really wants to ask. That’s not what he’s really worried about. His eyes stare up at me, pleadingly through strands of hanging dark, greasy hair. I can’t imagine he’s been allowed to shower recently, and this close, I realize it must have been a while since his last because the poor kid reeks. I hesitate for a brief moment and then, with a sigh, I pat the top of his head.

“When we’re out of this,” I tell him. “You’re getting a shower.” Then, against his protests, I pry his hands off of me and move him to the side.

My fingers curve around the doorknob and I quietly pull the door open, peeking my head out. I glance one way—seeing nothing—and then the other. That’s when I see the two men from before—or rather their bodies. Blood splatters paint the walls of the hallway.

“If you go out there,” Dom whisper-hisses behind me, “you’re dead.”

“We’re dead if we stay here,” I tell him, reaching back. “You can stay here if you want, or you can follow me.” I turn and meet his gaze. “What’s it going to be?”

He swallows roughly, but there are no tears. I almost feel sorry for him. I know the kind of life this kid must have lived if he doesn’t even cry in a situation like this. It must have been a life where it didn’t matter how much he cried—no one ever came. No one ever comforted him. No one ever saved him.

“Fuck.”

My eyes widen at the low curse that escapes his lips. “Language,” I mutter absently even as my lips curve into a smile as he shoots me a dark glare.

“Fine, crazy,” he snaps, stomping forward. “Let’s go.”

Despite his decision, he remains glued to my side as we enter the hallway again. I reach back and withdraw my gun, flicking the safety off as I clutch it in both hands. “If you see another gun,” I whisper as we move forward, “grab it.” He nods by way of answer. I curse myself internally because I really should have double-checked the bodies outside of the door, but we don’t have time to go back.

We move silently, and I’m not as reckless now, but still, my heart rate seems to keep pace with the chaos of the outside world. There’s gunfire. There’s the sound of men talking. Radio static. Dom and I keep our heads low, running along on crouched legs and whenever we get to the sound of people, we duck into an empty room and shove ourselves into hidden corners as we sense men coming through to check the rooms.

They do so quickly and efficiently, but it’s still a miracle that neither of us is caught by the time we reach the front of the building. They’re looking for something—these attackers—and I don’t want to be around when they find it.

“The keys…” Dom’s shaking hand enters my field of vision and he points down the hallway as we reach the front hall. I can see the outside through a set of windows. The doors are in reach. “W-we can’t walk,” he says. “There’s nowhere around for miles.”

A car, then. That’s what he’s saying. We need a vehicle. Fuck. That’s another thing I didn’t count on. Genius escape artist, I am not. I suck in a breath and make a split-second decision—I’m making a lot of those lately. “I don’t know where the keys are,” I tell him. “I’ll guard the door, you get them.”

“Me?” he squeaks out.

I sigh. I feel for him, I do, but I don’t have time to baby him. I shove Dom towards the same door he pointed to. “Hurry up,” I snap, lifting the gun. “If I get killed, it’s on you.”

With that, he jerks his head down in a nod and scurries across the hall towards a set of doors. I really have to admit, he’s been more valuable than I thought. I definitely would have gotten lost in the maze of the Graveyard without him. Which makes me wonder—how and why does he know so much about this place? Is he a recruit? That’s the only excuse I can come up with. But who starts recruiting fucking kids for an organization like this?

There are a lot of unanswered questions and the only reason I’m not drowning under the weight of them is because I have more important things to concern myself with—like men who step into the building with a raised Glock and a black ski mask. The shorter of the two—though they’re both massive—turns my way and spots me, but I’ve already got my gun aimed. A familiar voice reaches me, pausing the movement of my finger on the trigger. “Clover…”

Oh no. No. No. No. Absolutely fuck no! Anger bites into my insides. Of course, he would be here. I should’ve known—I did know he’d come after me.

THE DOOR behind me opens and Dom’s breathless voice reaches me. “Got it!” he says, stopping when he sees the man several feet away with his Glock pointed towards the ceiling and away from us.

Any earlier wish for Brax, though, vanishes into thin air as I recall all of the shit he’s put me through. First him and then the Undead. I’m not going back. Not again.

“Clover?” Brax takes a step forward. “We came after you,” he says. “We’re here to take you back.”

A scowl overtakes my face. He doesn’t take off his ski mask, but he doesn’t fucking have to. I’d know that voice anywhere. It’s a voice straight from my wet dreams … and my nightmares. I laugh, low and dark. “If you think I’m going anywhere with you again,” I say, pressing my finger over the trigger, “you’re fucking crazy, Brax.”

16

CLOVER

PERHAPS IT’S vindictive of me, but considering all of the bullshit I’ve been through for the last several weeks, I feel no hesitation as my finger presses down on the trigger and the gun goes off in my hand. The man next to Braxton—a figure I don’t recognize by his silhouette alone—snatches him up and yanks him back. Not quite fast enough, though, because I hear Braxton’s quick intake of breath.

Maybe I didn’t hit him, but I certainly grazed him. I line up my next shot, but before I can get off another round, Dom latches onto my arm. “Wait!” he says. “What if they’re here to help?”

“They’re not,” I snap, trying to jerk my arm away. All it takes is that minor distraction, though, and the man accompanying Braxton has dropped him and charged my way.

He barrels right into me, slamming my back against the wall. All of the earlier bruises and aches come rushing at me. My breath slams out of my lungs and I wheeze as spots dance in front of my vision. The adrenaline that’s been charging through my system for the last few hours has run dry and everything attacks at once. I feel bile threatening to come up my throat as my head pounds.

The man grabs my wrist—the wrist of the hand still holding onto the gun and he slams it against the wall. Once. Twice. By the third time, I feel like he’s going to break my wrist. I don’t want to, but my fingers loosen their hold automatically and the gun falls to the ground.

“Fucking asshole,” I hiss as I struggle against him in spite of my agony.

“V!” Braxton’s dark baritone reaches my ears. “Don’t hurt her!”

“I’m not gonna hurt your girl, son,” the man named V replies, his head twisted to the side even as he casually snatches up my other wrist and turns me, pinning me with my front to the wall and my hands crossed and locked against my back. “I’m just making sure she doesn’t try to shoot at us again.”

“W-wait, I thought you were here to help us?” Dom’s voice is shaking as he clutches a ring of keys to his chest looking for all the world like he thinks he’s about to die. A sudden fear strikes my heart. Braxton wouldn’t kill an innocent kid, would he?

“He’s got nothing to do with me,” I snap, suddenly, pushing back against the wall and struggling against my captor’s hold. “He’s just some kid—another prisoner.”

“Calm down, Ms. Volkov,” the man at my back says. “Ain’t nothing going to happen to the boy. Not right now anyway.” He turns his head. “What’s your name, kid?”

“D-Dom,” he says. “Dominic.”

Braxton approaches and barely spares the kid a glance as he stops alongside me and V. “Let her go, I’ll take her,” he says.

“The fuck you will!” I snap. Behind us, another volley of gunfire sounds and Braxton scowls.

“No offense, man,” V says. “But unless you’re willing to knock her out, there’s no fucking way I’m handing her over.”

Cool, hazel gray eyes turn towards me, and I feel all of my muscles stiffen at once. Though my body rebels against the unnatural tightening, the aches and pains growing alarmingly more agonizing, I can’t tear my gaze away from Braxton’s. “You wouldn’t fucking dare,” I hiss, but I already know that the words are all bravado.

He’s Braxton fucking Smalls. If it serves him, he would dare a lot of fucking shit and this is no different. “Do it,” he commands.

V’s arm wraps around my neck and I shove my knees into the wall, kicking back as he wraps his other hand around my head, holding me still as his forearm contracts against my throat, pressing right into my artery.

“What are you doing!” Dom’s panicked voice sounds far away as I struggle against the hold I’m in.

My vision fades first, the world turning gray at the edges and then black, creeping in until there’s nothing but a pinpoint of the wall in front of me. I gasp for breath, but there’s none to be found.

Svoloch! Bastard!

Mudak! Asshole!

Mat’ Ublyudok! Mother fucker!

My head starts to pound, louder than anything else. Louder than my already screaming muscles. It encompasses everything else as the world fades around me. My struggles grow increasingly unproductive, frustratingly so, until my body just goes limp.

Air finally invades, but I’m already descending into the darkness of unconsciousness. I feel myself being lifted into a set of beefy arms and passed to another—more familiar set.

Prick, I think viciously. I don’t care that he came. I was doing just fine in my escape before he arrived. I would’ve survived without him. I would’ve… I would have…

My thoughts finally stop and the rest of it just floats away. The pain. The memories. The feeling of being carried against his chest. It all goes away and I hate to admit it to myself, but it’s dangerous. It’s dangerous how much I like being held here and how much I like leaving it all behind so I can finally, blissfully, sleep.

17

BRAXTON

SHE TRIED to fucking kill me. I should be offended. Hell, I should at least be a little angry. A normal person would be. But that’s the thing about me, isn’t it? I’ve never conformed to the idea of what’s fucking ‘normal.’ And Clover? She’s not normal either.

“Move out, target has been found and taken into custody,” Viks’ words reach my ears as he radios into the rest of the group.

I press Clover closer to my chest and jog out of the front of the building. The doors have been blown off their hinges. I leave Viks to deal with the kid and letting the others know as I hike it up towards the waiting SUVs. The sooner I get her out of here, the better. Once it’s all over, once she’s back at Eastpoint—then we can work on everything else.

Sand slaps into my eyes through the holes of my mask, stinging and burning, but Clover’s body turns automatically into me even in her sleep, and her face touches my chest, nuzzling right between my pecs. If it weren’t for the bulletproof vest and clothing, I’d be able to feel her breath on me. I want to strip both of us down right here and now, but it’s still not safe. This seems far too easy. She came right to us, and by all appearances, she was already well on her way to her own escape.

Of course she was, I remind myself. She escaped me, too. Clover isn’t the type to be pinned down.

I run the rest of the way up the hill, my thighs burning with the added weight of her—slight though it may be. Finally, I hit the waiting SUVs, and almost as soon as I’ve got the backdoor open and Clover slid onto the seat, a body comes flying up the hill where fires erupt over the building we just exited. I step back and rip the ski mask off, tossing it into the floorboards of the vehicle.

Ace stands there, panting, sweating, bleeding. His mask is gone, maybe ripped off in a fight down below. I couldn’t give a shit. Or actually, I do give a shit. If he got into a fight in the building, he could have at least died there. If he had, then maybe I could have salvaged things with Clover. Then it wouldn’t have been my fault.

“Where is she?” he demands, storming towards me. “I heard over the radio that you had her—” He spots the red hair slipping over my arm as I finish tucking her onto the seat. “Give her to me.” He advances toward me. I turn and withdraw my gun, pointing it at him.

“Your role here is done,” I say, stopping him in his tracks.

“So, what?” He glares back at me. “That’s it? You’re going to kill me.”

“It’s been my plan this whole time,” I remind him. “The whole reason your sister ended up in this mess is because of you.”

“It’s because you couldn’t leave well enough alone,” he grits out.

“After what you did to my family?” I shake my head. “You were never getting away from that, from what you did to Avalon.”

“Still want your pound of flesh, eh?” Ace bears his fucking teeth at me and I can see the slight resemblance to Clover. They’re both like wild animals with no one else to rely on but each other. They’re prickly and often hide their inner feelings—fuck knows Clover did.

I’d thought she was just too different from him. It’s why I hadn’t initially believed her when she told me Ace was her brother, not her boyfriend, but now I see it. She’d just been hiding. Hiding in a way, I suspect Ace has hidden his whole life. In the time after Avalon’s torture, I’d overheard her talking to Dean—talking about the man who’d worked her over. She hadn’t sounded particularly hateful towards him, though it was clear she was pissed. There’d been something she said that had stuck with me.

He had eyes like no one was home—like he had no connections to the world and no emotions to make those connections.

She was wrong. He has them—emotions and connections—and they all lead back to the girl behind me. The one I refuse to let go. I’ve lived my whole fucking life afraid of what would happen to me when I got older, afraid of the day I’d be incapable of taking care of the darker parts of my urges. Afraid that, one day, prostitutes and hookers wouldn’t be enough to satisfy me. I’d never even considered that I’d find someone who not only accepted my darkness but could show me something in themselves that was just as messed up.

What burns me up inside is that, looking at Ace, I can see so many fucking similarities between him and my brothers. I don’t like it. I don’t want to admit that he’s anything like us. It’s a fact, though. An inescapable one.

“I will always want my pound of flesh when it comes to you and what you did,” I say coolly.

Ace doesn’t move a single inch. “So that’s it then; you’re really going to kill me?” He doesn’t sound shocked. “After I fucking brought you here?”

“You had your own reasons.” For a little while, they had aligned with mine. Now that Clover’s safe again, now that she’s back with me, there’s nothing I need from him. “And, aren’t you supposed to be with Dean and Avalon? I hope you don’t think because you led us here that I trust you. That’d be stupid even for you.”

Ace’s eyes darken, but he doesn’t flinch at the gun aimed at him. Instead, he scowls. “You need me, you fucker,” he growls. “Don’t be a dumbass.” Few men have the balls to stand there, loaded gun aimed at their fucking heads, and call the one holding it a dumbass. It’s damn hard not to be at least a little amused, if not respectful of a man who stares death in the face.

“What exactly do I need you for?” I prompt him. Maybe it’s curiosity, maybe it’s because I know he’s right—I know Viks is right. If I kill him right now … Clover might never forgive me.

“Hades wasn’t here,” he snaps. “That’s why it was so easy to get in. Clover is still in danger and even as thick-headed as you are, you know that I can protect her.”

“I don’t know about that anymore,” I say, still not lowering my gun. “You’re a man without backing, Ace. You have no friends. No family aside from the girl behind me. And now, even your organization wants you dead. You admitted as much. If anything, you should be thanking me for ending your miserable existence.”

He laughs, and the sound is anything but amused. “You’re not going to kill me.” Blond hair flops over the side of his face as he shakes his head.

“Feels like I am,” I say, cocking the gun a little forward as my finger contracts, threateningly, on the trigger.

“You can kill me at any time,” he tells me, “but if you pull that fucking trigger right now, you’ll never be able to take it back.”

I think about it. He’s smart. That much, I’ll give him. I have to. I’m not a delusional man. I can see the truth when it’s staring me right in the face—at least, most of the time I can, when I’m not completely consumed by a redhead and the best pussy I’ve ever had in my life. Right now, at least, that redhead is passed the fuck out. Otherwise, I think she might take exception to me holding a gun on her brother.

“You’re quite the fucking talker, Ace,” I finally say, lowering my gun as I spot several familiar forms making their way up the hill behind him. “As much as I fucking despise you, you’re right. I can always kill you later—and if you fuck with my family, I will kill you. Make no mistake, I might be letting you go for now, but you owe a fucking debt to me and mine.”

Ace blows out a breath and it’s only then that I realize he was truly scared—at the very least, he didn’t know if I would really kill him or not. My lips twitch. That makes two of us.

Dean comes up over the hill, disrupting the moment, and I quietly slip my gun back into its holster and turn back towards Clover, climbing in after her. Viks comes around the side of the SUV, pops the door adjacent to us open, and in climbs the kid that had been with her when we found her.

The little guy smells like something that crawled out of the sewers. I lift Clover onto my lap and away from him as he crawls into the back seat behind me and settles into the middle seat with Viks and Ace on either side of him

Abel climbs in next to me and then Avalon and Dean in the front after they stop and talk to the others. The rest of our men climb into the remaining SUV and Dean floors it, the back wheels kicking up dust as a new explosion rocks the ground behind us.

I look back and watch as a column of fire and smoke rises into the middle of the desert before I glance at Viks. “A little overkill, don’t you think?” Ace says as he, too, glances over his shoulder.

Viks smirks and offers nothing more than a shrug. “I like to be thorough when I’m making enemies.”

“Yeah, that’s for sure,” he replies.

And he’s right. I stare down at the small woman in my arms and brush a stray lock of hair away from her face, revealing several splotchy purple bruises running along her cheek, down her neck, and into her shirt. I frown at them, feeling a responding fury inside of my chest that has been reserved for very few in the past.

I slip my hand into the shirt and pull the neckline to the side, revealing more beneath the blood on her skin. I slip my hands over her flesh, but I feel no cuts, no open wounds. It’s not her blood, but the bruises … those make my insides curdle with barely repressed anger. My fingers twist into the fabric of her clothes, and I carefully extract them, one by one, releasing the shirt and letting it rest against her skin once more.

We might have Clover back, but this is far from over. We’ve made enemies of a very private and prestigious organization—one that has been hiding in the shadows for likely longer than any of us have been alive.

Somehow, though, with her soft breaths puffing against my throat—I really couldn’t give a shit.

18

CLOVER

I WAKE to the sound of distant conversation and with the feeling of something warm wrapped around me. My head is fucking pounding—like a hundred jackhammering assholes have taken up residence in my skull. My mouth feels drier than the Sahara, but it tastes like a swamp. And considering that I grew up in one and had, on more than one occasion, fallen into the murky depths surrounding Mama Luda’s trailer—I knew the taste of the filth well enough.

It takes several more minutes of slow awakening to realize that the heat isn’t from a comforter or the fact that I’m no longer in a concrete box of a room, but a body. I stir slightly, recalling the last memories before I was choked to the point of unconsciousness. He’s arrogant, deceitful, and fucking annoying, but even he would know that waking up in his arms would do nothing more than piss me off.

Apparently, that doesn’t matter to Braxton Smalls, because as I turn my head and spot the crop of dark, nearly black brown curled hair sticking out of the sheets right behind me—I realize he is, in fact, in bed with me and wrapped around my body like an octopus. A swell of rage rises up within me—it’s never far from the surface whenever it comes to this man—and I contemplate my method of murder.

Smothering in his sleep? No. He’d wake up and overpower me before I could finish the job. Maybe if I could crawl my way out of the bed and his tentacle-like arms, I might be able to find something more useful. A blunt object, perhaps. Before I can manage to muster up the energy to follow through, though, his long lashes lift and his eyes focus on me.

“Firebird,” he mumbles the endearment in his sleep even as his arms contract around me, pulling me closer.

Without thought, a small squeak erupts from my throat as his forearm presses into a particularly sore bruise and he freezes, his eyes widening in surprise. Then, suddenly, he sits up and reaches for me. His hands grasp at the bottom of my shirt—a new one, I notice, and yank it up. Brax presses the tips of his fingers against my side and scowls.

“The salve wore off,” he mutters, and I can’t tell if he’s talking to me or himself. It’s only when he takes his hands back and releases me to get off the bed, tossing back a, “Stay right there, I’ll get some more,” that I realize he was, in fact, talking to me.

The sheets slip away from his waist and I’m greeted by the sight of a strong naked torso. Against my will, my insides tighten at the sight of muscles stacked upon muscles. I don’t want to, but I can’t help but trace the lines of his body down his abdomen, over the valleys and shadows. I’m only saved from moving further south by him turning his back to me as he strides across the unfamiliar bedroom and stops in front of a dresser, reaching for a small container.

I turn away from the image of his tattoos—and what lies beneath them—and clench my fists into the sheets as he returns. “Here.” His voice is firm, unyielding, but not angry as he pops the cap on a circular container and reaches inside, scooping a liquid gel onto two fingers. “Lift your shirt and I’ll put it on.”

My lips curl back into a snarl and I snatch the container from him. “No thanks, I got it.” I turn slightly away from him before taking the liquid and smearing it onto my aching ribs and stomach muscles. There are more bruises around my back that I can’t reach, but I’ll be damned if I ask him for any sort of help. The smell of menthol reaches my nostrils a split second before the tightening of my skin reacts to the soft burn of the salve. I drop the container onto the sheets and hunch over.

A tingling sensation spreads. “Fuck…” I release a breath and after what feels like a lifetime, I ease up and sigh in relief. The pain has faded from sharp and consuming to something dull enough to forget momentarily.

“It’ll help heal the bruises a little faster,” Braxton says from where he stands now after taking the container back and recapping it before putting it back on the dresser.

I shoot him a dark look. “Am I supposed to thank you?”

He lounges back against the dresser, all tawny skin and rippling muscles. Braxton folds his arms over his wide chest and stares back at me. When did I ever start to think of those eyes as anything other than pure sin and wickedness?

“A thank you wouldn’t go unappreciated at this point, Firebird,” he says. “Maybe you’ll feel more like saying it if I tell you that your brother is here too.”

I freeze where I sit. I’d been half in the process of moving across the bed to the edge, but I stop with one foot pressed to the floor and the other still on the mattress. Ace is here?

Before I can ask, Brax’s lips part and he answers my unspoken question. “He’s alive,” he assures me.

All of the breath in my chest rushes out at once and I sag into the mattress, my other foot slipping off the edge and landing hard on the floor. I bend over, propping my elbows up on my knees and weaving my fingers together as I hang my head. My forehead presses against my knuckles as I suck in breath after breath, relishing in the oxygen that fills my lungs.

My eyes catch on the tops of my naked feet and I feel the bareness of the sheets and mattress against my ass, grounding me to where I am. I sit up, letting my arms fall away completely as I realize that I’m completely nude beneath the shirt. It hadn’t really occurred to me before, but I’m not even wearing underwear, and the shirt I’m wearing is massive in size—a man’s size.

I glance at Braxton, who hasn’t bothered to move closer in light of my vulnerability. I frown at him. “Did you change me?” I demand.

“Avalon and Rylie did,” he says. “We had a doctor check you out. Your bruises are pretty severe, but there was no internal bleeding.”

“I see.” I see. That’s all I can say. What else am I supposed to say? Thanks for rescuing me from the psychotic megalomaniac who killed my grandmother and father? No. Not only would I rather slit my own wrists than thank Braxton Smalls, but I have no doubt that I’ve literally jumped from one psychopath to another. The only bonus is that at least Ace is still around—and alive, apparently. For now. Not so sure how alive he’ll be once I get ahold of him, but that’s an issue for a later time.

“Why?” The word pops out of my mouth before I can think better of it and, after an awkward silence, Braxton replies.

“Why what?”

Why did you come after me when I told you I was done with you? Why is Ace with you? Why are you letting him live? Why did you stop someone from hurting me when I planned to shoot you? To kill you? But most of all…

“Why are you still calling me ‘Firebird’?”

Braxton stiffens all over, his shoulders tightening. Instead of answering, he turns towards the door and changes the subject. “You’re probably hungry, I’ll go see if there’s something to eat in the house.”

“Brax.” He stops, hand on the doorknob, but doesn’t look back. “Answer me or I swear to fuck—”

“What?” He whirls around just as suddenly as he turned away and advances towards me. “What are you going to do, Clover? Threaten to leave again? You think I’ll let you after all the shit I went through to get you back?”

“I’ll leave if I want to, there’s no ‘letting me’ do anything,” I reply, glaring up at him as he towers over me. “Even if you lock me up, you know I won’t stay still. They held me underground, in a prison cell, beat me to within an inch of my life—and still, I got out. You can’t top that.”

There’s silence, and then… “Oh Baby, I can do so much worse than anything they did to you.” Braxton’s shadow falls over me and I scoot back, but it’s too late. A hand lands over my shoulder, shoving me back until my spine is against the mattress. He’s on top of me, between my legs, and all over me.

He punches the bed above my head and looks down at me. “I can make what they did to you look like child’s play,” he threatens … promises.

I force my face to remain passive. I don’t even flinch when he leans close. In fact, I find myself holding my breath because I don’t want the scent of him invading my nose. It’s too enticing. It reminds me of all the fucking things we’ve done before. Of his hands on my skin. His taste on my tongue. His dick in my ass. A shiver skates down my back, over my skin, pebbling my flesh until I’m sure he can see somewhere deep inside me. I’m sure he can see all of the things he does to me that I don’t want him to.

“Anything you do to me wouldn’t hurt any more than what you’ve already done, Brax.” The words escape my lips, making him pause.

His head dips down. I can’t tell what he’s looking at—me or something beyond me. He doesn’t say anything for several long minutes. “You left.”

I blink, waiting for more, but nothing more comes. Brax bows his head over me and those words hang between us. I look to the side and see the veins in his arms practically sitting on top of his skin as he clenches his fingers into the bedsheets hard enough to strain his entire body. Any second and they might rip. His dark hair hangs over his head and still, he doesn’t say anything else.

“What did you expect me to do?” I ask him honestly. He’s so easy to understand sometimes and others, fucking impossible to read.

Right here, right now, it feels like this is the most authentic either of us has been with each other. There’s a vulnerability, an instability, in his body right now. Fine trembles move up and down his arms as they hold him over me.

“You were supposed to stay,” he says. “I thought I made sure you couldn’t leave.”

“You betrayed me,” I remind him. “We had a deal and you…” I take another breath. “You never had any intention of keeping up your end of the bargain.”

A ripping sound finally does reach my ears, and I don’t need to look now to know that he’s torn through the sheets with nothing but brute strength and harsh emotion. “It was a bullshit deal to begin with.” His voice dips low, shakes with the ferocity of whatever he’s feeling. “Ace—”

“Is my brother,” I say, cutting him off. “And I was trying to protect him. You would’ve done the same thing for one of yours.”

“I know.” And this time, I believe him. He really does get it, but that still doesn’t answer any of my questions. It still doesn’t make what he did right.

“Then why did you lie?” I ask. “Why did you give me that bit of hope only to steal it away?”

“He’s not mine to let go,” he replies.

I contemplate that. If he means what I think—then what he’s saying is that because the one Ace hurt is someone else—Avalon—then it’s not up to Braxton to give him his freedom. But if that’s true… “Then he’s also not yours to kill.”

Braxton’s head moves back, and I’m greeted by the sight of his hazel-gray eyes. The pupil has shrunk down to a tiny pinprick in the center of the swirling color of his irises. My body goes cold for just a moment before heat takes over, spreading across my limbs and down through my stomach and further.

“You still left.”

Is he not going to deny that Ace isn’t his to kill? Is he not going to acknowledge my questions? Why is he so hung up on the fact that I left? What… my eyes widen in realization and my heart clenches in my chest.

All of the resentment that I had built up softens ever so slightly. Evgenia shrivels away from the sympathy in my heart. She is the part of me that doesn’t care. The part of me that still feels the harsh cut of Braxton’s betrayal. I can’t deny I don’t still harbor anger, but that anger stems from something else.

Hurt.

“Braxton.” He jerks at the sound of his name on my lips, almost as if he expects it to be accompanied by something painful. I reach up, my fingers against the flat plane of his chest. His heartbeat hammers inside, wild and fast. I let it rest there, not moving and not saying anything more for several long moments.

I still need my revenge. I still don’t trust him. I still … hate him. There's no denying that. I’m pissed. Beyond pissed. He lied to me, used me, betrayed me. I can’t let him just … get away with it. Not without taking my own pound of flesh.

Ace might be alive … he’s been with Braxton for God knows how long and he’s still alive. Whether Brax wants to admit it or not, that has to mean something … doesn’t it? Do I want it to?

As I slip my fingers between Braxton’s pecs, he shivers. Something is missing, though. I frown as I try to pinpoint what it is. Then it hits me—there’s no other movement aside from that shivering. No up and down of his chest. He’s … not breathing. My eyes shoot up to his face which is flushed and his eyes unfocused.

“Brax,” I snap. “Breathe.”

He blinks, his brows drawing down low and immediately his lips part and he inhales sharply. Did he not even realize he wasn’t breathing?

Ice trails in the wake of the heat he creates inside of me. I look up at him through my lashes and then, with a sharp twist, I arch up, hook a leg around the outside of his waist, and shove him hard. The two of us flip over and I land squarely and perfectly seated—right on his dick. He grunts in surprise. I lock my hand over his throat, holding tight.

“You tell me to breathe and then you try to choke me?” Braxton arches a brow, sounding almost human in his amusement. I don’t crack a smile.

I ignore the comment. “I can’t trust you,” I tell him. “After what you did, I don’t want to trust you.”

“You’re going to have to forgive me at some point,” he replies. “Because I’m not letting you go, Clover.”

“I don’t have to do shit,” I tell him. “It’s my life, my choices. For all the power you have, Brax, you can’t force me to love you.”

His amusement drops away and he reaches up, fingers tightening around my wrist. I press into his carotid artery and feel a responding movement against the lips of my sex. I blink and glance down, shocked. “Are you fucking hard? Now?”

“My baby is sitting, half naked on my dick with her hand around my throat,” he replies coolly. “Were you not trying to get me hard?”

On instinct, I release a growl and tighten my hold. “You are so fucked up, Braxton.”

“I could say the same for you, Clover,” he replies. “Or would you prefer Evgenia?”

“I would prefer not to look at your traitorous fucking face, yet here we are.”

“Right,” he agrees readily and then offers me a smug grin before continuing, “with your pussy rubbing against my cock. Perfect place, if you ask me.”

My chest pumps up and down. What now? I think. Do I kill him? Can I? My head fogs over with the desire. “You’re mad at me for leaving,” I say, my words barely above a whisper as his hands creep up the line of my hips. His bare palms skim the outside of my naked thighs.

More heat. More ice. They’re like warring sides within me. One side trying to be calm and rational and the other obliterating it without a care. I can’t tell which will win. I can’t tell which one I want to win.

“But I think I have more of a reason to be pissed,” I continue, trying as hard as I can to ignore those emotions and feelings and the wetness gathering between my legs as he presses his hips upward. The fabric of his low slung, gray sweats rubs against me and I know when I get off of him, there will be a spot of it soaked in my own juices.

“You kidnapped me.”

“I did.”

“You hurt me.”

Braxton’s hands clench against me. “I did,” he repeats.

“You fucked me.”

“And you liked it.”

Fuck him. He’s right. I did like it. A part of me hadn’t wanted to, but he was the fucking best I’d ever had. In my short realm of experience, no man had ever taken me to the same depths, to the same edges as Braxton had. It’d been more than a physical fuck. It’d been a mindfuck as well. As bad as he is, he made me realize something about myself.

I liked the pain.

And I liked giving it as well.

“I didn’t want to come back here,” I admit. “I was set to never see you again for the rest of my fucking life.”

“What were you going to do?” he asks. “Did you really think you could escape me?” He snorts. “I would have found you regardless, Firebird. You were always mine.”

“I own myself.” I believe those words—all the way down to my very core. But another part of me that’s more honest with myself recognizes some truth to his claim. I own myself, but a part of me still lies with him. A part of me wants to belong to him too. “And I’m not the same girl you picked up from the swamp, Brax. I’ve changed. You changed me.”

Blunt nails dig into my flesh as Brax leans up against my hold, pressing his neck more insistently against me as his cock practically throbs between us. I feel a responding pulse in my own core and I fight that stupid, horny bitch back.

“I still want you,” he rasps.

And we can use that… Evgenia’s words in my mind are accompanied by an idea.

Braxton might have rescued me from the hands of the Undead, but my issues with them are unresolved. I’m not so naive to think that I can take them on myself. But a man like Braxton Smalls…

He’s rich and powerful. With similar friends and allies. It wouldn’t be wrong of me to use what he wants against him, not when he did it to me first. They say what goes around comes around, and I hope like fuck Brax is telling the truth because this … this could be my perfect revenge. I can do exactly what he did to me—use him to save myself from further retaliation from the Undead, fuck him, and then leave him all over again.

It’s what he deserves.

But can you handle that? Evgenia asks, despite the fact that this was her idea. It’s a prudent question. Important to consider. Can I handle it?

I close my eyes and my fingers contract on Braxton’s throat, drawing a responding groan from him. “What do you want from me, Clover?” he asks. “An apology? I can offer that.”

“What if I want Ace’s life?” I demand, reopening my eyes and glaring at his stupidly perfect face.

His lips tighten. “I can’t promise anything,” he starts.

“Then—” Before I can tell him, in that case, he can shove his apology right up his ass, he keeps going.

“But we can figure it out later,” he says, his hands creeping up further until they touch my waist beneath the t-shirt. “I won’t kill him now—not until everything with the danger you’re in with that damn organization is figured out. Like you said—if it’s not my decision to make then he’s not mine to kill. I’ll let Avalon and Dean decide. They’re the ones who were affected. Avalon was the one who was tortured.”

He knows … of course he knows. Why else would Ace be here? Why else would Braxton keep him alive? It all makes sense in the end.

He comes closer, until his chest is against my stomach and his face is right near my breasts. Low-lidded eyes gaze up at me out of a handsome, All-American face. It’s a deception. His looks. The quiet baritone of his voice that trembles along my nerves. All of it is meant to catch me off my guard, to keep me calm when minutes ago, I really was contemplating how best to murder him.

Yet, here he is—promising me his protection, admitting that he plans to help me, to keep me safe from the Undead. I should take it. I’m going to, I realize. I have few other options and this is the easiest course of action.

“Fine,” I whisper, easing my hold on his throat, only to thread my fingers back around his head. They tangle into his dark hair as I rock my hips against him, chasing the pleasure I know he can give me.

His chest rumbles against mine as his hands move around to my spine, sliding up my skin over my shoulder blades. My head arches back.

“Does that mean we have a truce?” he asks, voice muffled as he presses a kiss to the place between my breasts through my shirt.

“For now, Brax,” I remind him. My fingers tighten in his hair and I yank his head back, baring my teeth at him. “If you betray me again, then it’s over. At the end of this, I don’t care who makes the decision—if Ace dies, even if Avalon is the one who decides, you’ll be the one to blame.”

He doesn’t flinch from the harshness of my words. “You can blame me, Firebird,” he says, shivering as my nails dig into his scalp. He’s letting me be rough—yanking on his hair, choking him—he’s getting off on it. I wonder if anyone else has ever been given the pleasure of putting a man like Braxton beneath them.

I doubt it. He’s not the kind of man who can stomach being in a submissive position. Yet, here I am. Controlling him, keeping him at bay. It’s enough to give me a new type of high I didn’t know I’d like.

But I do like it … I like it a fuck of a lot.

19

BRAXTON

I COULD POUND nails right now with how hard my cock is. First her hand on my throat and then her wet fucking pussy in my lap. She’s torturing me, and it’s so deliciously painful that it almost makes up for everything else. Almost.

Her skin is under my hands, her body wrapped in my clothes, her scent all over me, and I can’t help but want more—need more.

“Clover…” Her name is a whisper on my lips, a prayer. I want to worship at her altar and let her do horrible, dirty, filthy things to me. I want her to let me do them to her.

Her hand returns to my hair and sinks deep, pulling until she threatens to rip it out by the roots. It sends tingles of pain through my flesh and down my spine. If I don’t get inside her soon, I’m going to come in my pants like a fourteen-year-old kid. A groan escapes me, rushing out in breathless gasps as my hips lift against her.

I wanna be inside, sink into her depths, fuck until she cries or bleeds or both.

“You want me?” she asks.

What a dumb fucking question. “Yes—shit.” The word comes out normal at first and then turns into a hiss and a curse as her free hand reaches down between us and she palms my cock right through my sweats.

“What are you willing to do to have me?” Her tone suggests that this is a game. We both know that if I truly wanted to, I could have her on her back and her legs split apart in under a second. But I fucked up and this is my groveling.

I inhale and exhale rapidly. No one else has ever held such power over me. It’s unsettling and deep down, even if I don’t want to admit it, I know what else I’m feeling—fear. I’m fucking terrified of this girl, this woman. And worse … I think she knows it too.

My eyes slide shut and I bow my head to her chest, pressing my forehead against her breasts. I can feel them, the softness of her flesh, the realness of her. It grounds me, keeps me in the here and now. My scars ache. No one else gets control of me—I remind myself—just her.

“You have me, Clover.” I give her the words she wants. “If that’s what it takes, you have me.”

A beat passes in silence and then she responds, “Take out your cock.”

I lift my head and shift back and down as she releases my hair. My sweats come off. I toss them over the side of the bed as she repositions herself on top of me, thighs on either side of mine as she reaches down and takes hold of the hem of the t-shirt she’s wearing. It flies over her head and disappears, discarded somewhere over the side of the bed.

The sight of her, naked and willing back in my bed, is only minimally marred by the fact that she’s covered in cuts and bruises. The sight of them brings a wrathful demon inside of me to the surface. My lips curl back as I skim the backs of my knuckles over her abdomen.

“Don’t think of them,” she orders me.

I open my mouth to tell her that it’s not possible, but then she proves just how very possible it is by reaching down between us and lifting my hard cock in her small, feminine hand. She pulls it away from where it throbs against my lower stomach, almost reaching my goddamn navel and stands it completely up before lifting one of her legs and placing the head—unimpeded—against her opening.

Clover sinks down over me and I don’t fucking remember any thoughts I’ve ever fucking had in my life. The way she wraps around me, so tight and hot, makes me bite out a curse. My hands clench against her thighs and I smooth them up and over her curves. Her pretty rosy nipples tighten as a flash of teeth catches my eyes. She bites down on her lower lip as she lifts herself back up and sinks onto me once more.

Fuck, but I’m gonna die. She’s going to send me straight to hell and I’ll happily go if this is how it feels to burn. “Clover…” I grit out her name as my body tightens. Sweat pops up along my brow. Veins stand out along my arms and hands—shit, she looks so tiny in my grip. How can such a small thing like her take utter command of me?

“No.” Clover stops moving. “Hands off.”

“What?” I gape at her. She can’t be fucking serious.

She scowls and reaches down, locking her fingers around my hands and practically ripping them from her body as she flings them away from her. I almost say fuck it, right then and there and flip her over in retaliation. No? She’s telling me fucking no?

“You want me to fuck you, Brax? You want to fuck me? Then you do it on my terms,” she says sharply. “And I don’t want you to fucking touch me. I don’t care what you do with your hands. Hold onto the headboard, grip the sheets, do whatever the fuck you want—except put them on me.”

“You can’t expect me to fuck you without touching you,” I snarl; desperation tinges my words and I hate myself for it.

For a brief second, I consider just turning her over and ramming my cock into her pussy. I could shove her face into the bedsheets and fuck her until she begs me to touch her. I could edge her to oblivion, bring her to the brink again and again without ever letting her fall over. It’d be delicious retaliation, a good “Fuck you” because I swear she’s just trying to kill me now.

“I expect you to act like my fucking dildo, Brax,” she replies coolly. “We’re in a truce, but that doesn’t mean we’re fucking friends. I’m using you the same way you used me. You want to get your dick wet—fine—but we’re doing this my way or not at all.”

A growl erupts from my throat and I clamp my fingers into the sheets. “Your way is fucking insane,” I grit out the words as she continues to move up and down on my dick, stealing the rest of what I want to say as the pleasure consumes me. Her pussy grips me like a vise. She rocks up and down, back and forth, doing exactly what she promised—using me like her dildo—and it’s so fucking hot.

Sweat drips down my spine as I arch up, my hips shifting and thrusting into her warm depths. It’s so wet and tight—fuck, I want to touch her. My hands slip down, moving closer to her legs. Almost immediately she stops and glares at me.

“Do you want me to tie you up?” she demands.

I consider it. A strange thrill runs through me. Only one person has ever done that, and I’d rather not think about my father right now, not when I’m as close to heaven as humanly possible.

“Are you really going to stop this if I touch you?” I ask, curious.

She scowls and answers without hesitation. “Yes.”

“Why?” It’s hard to think with her insides gripping me so hard, but the idea of restraints cools my arousal minimally enough to at least allow for some clear consideration.

Clover’s chest rises and falls in front of my face and I have to force my gaze to lift from her tits to her eyes. “Things are different now,” she says, her words biting and cold. “I’m not your captive, Brax. I’m not your bargaining tool. I’m just the chick you fucked and then fucked over. You’re the one who wants more than that now, not me. Why should I give you anything else?”

The desire to touch her is more than a need, it’s an impulse. My hands contract against the sheets, tightening into their softness. It doesn’t matter what she says. Not touching her is an impossibility. My fingertips graze the outside of her legs, but her eyes remain locked on mine.

“You want to cause me pain?” I ask. “Is that why you don’t want me to touch you?” It’s smart of her—even I wouldn’t have considered how difficult it’d be to keep my hands to myself even if my dick is still inside of her.

“What was it you said to me once?” she asks. “Oh, that’s right, ‘you like the pain.’” And damn it, she’s fucking right.

That’s the darkness inside of me. That’s the truth I’ve run from for so long. The very reason I dove into hookers and prostitutes and eventually … her.

There had been nothing sexual about the relationship between my father and me. He hadn’t violated me in that way. The abuse was a turn on for him, something to get him in the mood before he fucked his women—and a lie to the both of us. His reasoning was that he did it for me, to help me learn and understand the pain I’d be causing later in life.

I close my eyes to shake off the memories. I lay back on the bed and squeeze out a breath through clenched teeth. “Fine, Firebird,” I say. “You want to use me—use me. Fuck my cock like I’m nothing but a toy. Just remember, what comes around goes around, baby.”

She smiles, her lips twisting into an expression that is anything but amused—it’s a cruel look even on her. Clover’s hips shift and lift up, slamming down over my thighs. My muscles lock as the sharp jarring of pain slams into me. A hiss escapes my lips.

A soft laugh comes from her and I glare up at the woman riding my dick like she’s chasing something. “What comes around goes around?” she repeats, panting. “You should heed your own advice, Brax. This is exactly what you deserve for what you did to me.”

I open my mouth to reply, but there’s no air in my lungs anymore. Clover throws her head back, red hair flying over her shoulders and I lift my legs, knees bent. It’s small, but her back brushes against my thighs as she cries out, slamming herself down again and again over my cock until the flutterings of her orgasm attacks.

Her insides clamp down on me, tightening until I swear to God she’s going to break my dick. White and black spots dance in front of my vision as a fog descends over my brain. Almost … fucking … there. I can feel the flutterings of my own orgasm racing up my spine.

I close my eyes and thrust up, only to find myself thrusting into cold air as Clover completely ruins the moment and removes herself from me. My eyes fly open and I jerk upright as she slips off the bed and bends over, grabbing the t-shirt from earlier.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I snap, reaching for her.

She turns and levels me with a cool look. “Exactly what I said I’d do,” she replies. “Thanks for the quick fuck. I’m going to take a shower. No need to show me the place, I’ll figure it out on my own.”

A wash of icy anger falls over me, drenching me in rage. It takes every minute inch of willpower inside of my soul not to get off the bed, grab her, and fuck her ass. Time. She needs time. Viks told me I need to be easy with her if I want her for the long run, and I do. This, though, is pushing the limits. It’s pushing the boundaries.

Clover begins to walk to the door. No. No fucking way. I’m off the bed and behind her in an instant. Viks’ words be damned. I slam the flat of my palm against the bedroom door as she reaches for the knob.

“You got yours, but you’re going to leave me before I get mine?” I ask, chuckling darkly. “You really don’t give a fuck anymore about pissing me off, do you?”

“Did you expect me to fall at your feet again?” she replies, turning slowly until she faces me.

No, I didn’t, but I also didn’t expect this level of vitriol either. “You don’t want me to come in your pussy?” I ask. “Fine. Then get on your knees and take my cock in your mouth.”

“I’d rather not.” My hands turn to fists on either side of her. She arches a brow. “What are you going to do now, Brax? Force me?”

I pull a hand away from the door and reach down, squeezing my fingers around the base of my still-hard cock. “Is that what you want?” I ask. “You want me to brutalize you so you can call me the bad guy?”

“You are the bad guy,” she snaps.

I lean forward, keeping my chest from touching hers as much as I can as I nuzzle against the side of her face. The bottom of her ear sticks out of her messy sexed up hair. I sink my teeth into the lobe and hear her gasp. My cock throbs against my palm as I stroke it.

“Sure, baby,” I say, releasing her and looking down at the little markings on her skin I made. I stroke my dick faster, skimming the shaft and pressing down hard as I get to the head. “I’m the bad guy—but what kind of fucked up bitch does it make you if that’s what turns you on?”

“You—”

I hush her as I push my hips closer, damn near sliding my cock head between her thighs. “There’s no use denying it, Firebird,” I whisper against her hair. My muscles spasm and I groan as cum erupts from my cock. It hits her thighs just below the hem of the t-shirt she’s wearing. “You can be mad all you like.” I inhale sharply, trying to find some semblance of control once more. “But in the end, there’s no more running. You need me right now. Your brother needs me—my wealth, my power, my protection.”

My fingers slip between her legs, running over the strings of my cum on her skin. I scoop some and smooth it up to her still bare pussy. I press my thumb against the sensitive little bundle of nerves right above her cunt, swirling my cum and hers together. She jerks and curses as her hands finally slam onto my arm and shove me back, nails digging into my skin and scratching along my flesh when she releases me and retreats against the door.

Cool, green eyes glare up at me. Yeah, that’s what I want, I think. I’d rather take her anger, her hate, than her indifference.

I release her and take a step back, lifting my hand to my lips. I lick off the remainder of my cum, now seasoned with bits of her release from her pussy. “Enjoy your shower, Clover. You might be able to wash away my cum, but you won’t ever be able to wash away the way I make you feel.”

20

CLOVER

DESPITE BRAXTON’S WORDS, I do my damnedest to scrub away the memory of him. It doesn’t fucking work, but I try anyway. Our reunion isn’t exactly as bloody as I would’ve hoped, but at least I don’t feel like I gave in too much. The sex was good—when is it not with him?—and it felt right to take over for a little bit, but it had also given me new information.

My hands still as I rub soap bubbles up and down my arms. The light of interest in his eyes when I’d asked him if he wanted me to tie him down had been accompanied by something more—something I’d never seen from him before. A hint of fear. Of discomfort. He wanted it, but … he was afraid of it too. I guess even the darkest of demons have their secret fears.

I huff out a breath and turn my attention to finishing up. The sooner I get out of here, the sooner I can see Ace—and give him a piece of my mind.

Several minutes later, I rinse off, turn the shower handle until the rainfall of water cuts off, and step out into the massive bathroom. I don’t know where we are, but I know one thing—we’re definitely not in the Tower anymore. The Tower had been massive, but this place is even bigger. The mirror spans the entire length of the wall and I scrub a hand across the surface, swiping away the condensation that had built up from the heat of the water. I bend over the sinks, breathing in the warm air and trying to cool my body.

A knock sounds on the door and then a familiar voice speaks through it. “Room service.”

It takes ten steps to get to the door—that’s how big the bathroom is—but once there, I take hold of the knob and jerk the door open. Avalon stands there, a smirk on her face and a white plastic bag in hand.

“Need some clothes?” she asks, hefting the bag higher.

“Yeah.” I reach out and take the bag from her grasp, but when I go to step back and close the door, she pushes her way inside.

I roll my eyes and let the door swing shut as she marches to the sinks, turns, and props her ass against them. “I was hoping for a little bit of privacy,” I comment dryly, despite the fact that I know I won’t get it.

Avalon shrugs. “I’ve got something to talk to you about,” she replies.

I blow out a breath. “Fine,” I huff. “Then talk.” I drop the plastic sack to the floor before unwinding the towel from around my body and letting it drop to the floor.

She doesn’t even blink. “It’s about Ace.”

I stiffen, but I quickly cover it up by snatching the towel back up to dry the remainder of the water from my skin. “If you’re here to threaten me, I think it’s safe to say that particular piece of blackmail has been tapped out. I advise you to come up with something new.”

“I’m not here to threaten you or him, Clover,” Avalon says, shaking her head. “And for what it’s worth, after you left, I told Brax he was an idiot.”

“Gee, thanks.” The comment is dry as I reach into the bag she brought. I pull out a pair of soft black leggings and underwear.

“I’m serious,” Avalon says. “Believe it or not, I understand where you’re at. Dean understands.”

“And where, exactly, do you think I’m at?” I ask as I yank the underwear and leggings on before moving on to the sports bra I find inside the sack.

“Pissed. Vengeful. Hurt.” Avalon’s not dumb, I’ll give her that. I never thought she was, but sitting there, propped against the sink as she absently watches the sister of the man who tortured her get dressed, she doesn’t bat an eyelash. It’s like nothing fazes her.

I sigh. “For what it’s worth, I am sorry for what Ace did,” I reply, “but that doesn’t mean I’m willing to see him be killed.”

“I get that too,” Avalon agrees with a nod. “You’re not so different from us, you know. You protect yours and we protect ours.”

“Yeah, okay?” I gather the wet strands of my hair up in my fist and bend down, squeezing out as much of the leftover water with the towel as I can. “Then what’s the point of coming to me now? I think you’re aware that Ace and I don’t have a choice in taking Braxton’s help, in taking your help.”

“There’s always a choice,” Avalon replies. “And I’m here to make sure you don’t make the wrong one.”

A snort escapes me as I lift back up and shoot her a look. My lips twist into a sneering smile. “What are you? My fairy godmother?” The words are sarcastic, but Avalon merely grins and shrugs again.

“Who can say?” She doesn’t sound particularly bothered or even insulted by the idea.

I approach the sink and drop the towel into a basket along the wall. “Get to the point.”

“From what I understand, the Undead are after you because of your brother,” she says. “They won’t stop until you’re dead. We’ve got connections, Clover. The guys have the money and the backing that you need to protect you and your brother. We both have something that the other wants.”

She’s only partially wrong—but I suppose no one would know the true reason the Undead wants me now. I doubt even the kid knows so he wouldn’t be able to say as much even if asked. The reminder slams into me a split second after that thought. Holy fuck. I’d forgotten all about Dom. Guilt spears through my chest, but I shove it down. Another time, I tell myself. I’ll ask about him later. For now, I need to hear Avalon out.

“You’re right that Ace and I need protection and backing,” I say. “But what exactly is it that you need from us?”

“Someone to handle Brax.” My nails dig into my palms until I feel something wet dripping from my fists. Avalon’s gaze goes down, but she doesn’t react—at least not visually—to the obvious signs of my anger. “I know it’s not something you want to do,” she continues. “Especially not after everything that’s happened, but you can’t deny that you’re one of the few people that can actually give Braxton what he needs—perhaps the only one.”

“Not you?” It’s stupid and petty—the reason those words come out. Jealousy is not a good feeling, but I’m only human.

Avalon’s lips curve upward on one side and she shakes her head. “No, not me. I love Brax, but not in that way, Clover. He’s like my brother, and just like you’re willing to do what it takes to protect yours, I’m prepared to do the same for mine. He needs you and we need him.”

My hands loosen their hold and I turn my cheek, staring into the wall as I respond. “I want to leave after this is all over,” I say honestly. Maybe it’s a mistake, confessing my intentions to her considering we’re only held together on the same side by tenuous strings, but once out the admission can’t be taken back.

“That’s your prerogative,” she says.

My eyes return to her face. “You’re saying you’ll let me?”

Avalon crosses her arms over her chest. “You’re like me, Clover,” she replies. “If you don’t want to be tied down, you won’t be.”

She’s right about that. After everything that’s happened, the idea of being under someone else’s thumb—the Undead’s or Braxton’s—leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

“You’re proposing that I stay to control Brax until this is all worked out? That I cooperate with you until it’s all figured out? You know that I would have done that regardless.”

Avalon chuckles. “Maybe you think that,” she says. “But like I said before—this is about your brother, Ace. Now that you’re safe, he’s not going to want to stick around.”

“For good reason,” I remind her. “Braxton wants to kill him.” And because I can’t help but point it out, I finish with, “for you.”

“Braxton won’t kill him,” she says. “For now.”

“For now isn’t good enough.”

“I didn’t think it would be, but it’s what you’ve got—you know that. I know that. Ace knows that. Which is why he’s probably going to try and convince you to run. I need you to not do that.”

I shake my head. She’s so fucking hard to understand sometimes. “What makes you think I owe you anything?”

“Didn’t say you did,” Avalon replies coolly. That’s where we’re different—she and I. Where I feel as though I’m filled with nothing but rage and anger, so much emotion swirling around inside of me that it threatens to choke me with its potency—she’s an ice queen. Stone cold. “But you want to live and you want Ace to live—we’re your best chance.”

“You think quite highly of yourselves, don’t you?” I comment.

Avalon levels me with a look—it’s not one I recognize. It’s neither angry nor upset. It’s serious, filled with intimidation. It’s surprising that it comes from such a small, unassuming woman.

“We’ve been through a lot,” she begins. “My guys and Rylie. Each and every single one of us is willing to do what it takes to protect each other. The Undead came after you because of Ace, but you were in our care—which, according to the law of Eastpoint, means they came after us.”

“I’d already left by the time they got to me,” I reply.

“Don’t be fucking dense, Clover,” Avalon snaps. “You were mere hours away from being back. Braxton was on his way with the guys to pick you up. Besides that, however, the Undead made a fatal flaw when they grabbed you.”

I frown, but her features harden. Her brows draw down low over her eyes and her hands clench into fists where they rest in the crossed position. “They killed one of ours.” The words are spat out like venom and it’s the first time I think I’ve ever seen her truly angry.

I’ve seen Avalon irritated. I’ve seen her amused. I’ve seen her mischievous, but I’ve never seen her pissed. If this is what it looks like, then I get why she’s considered the queen. She’s fucking terrifying.

“They killed him to get to you,” Avalon says, and the way she makes it sound, it almost leads me to believe that I should feel some sort of responsibility. Evgenia doesn’t give a fuck. We didn’t kill him. If he hadn’t gotten involved then he would still be alive. That’s all there is to it. But … Clover, on the other hand? Clover feels guilt. Responsibility. She—I—feels it all too fucking much.

“Maybe if they hadn’t, things would be different,” Avalon continues. “I wouldn’t be so willing to help you, but things aren’t different. They happened the way they did and I have to believe that they did so for a reason. The guys have to believe that too. If they don’t, then it means their man—their friend—died for nothing. At least, if they think that he died protecting Braxton’s girl they’ll be able to sleep at night. If they think he died because they fucked up…” She lets her words trail off, but my mind is focused on one thing.

I’m not Braxton’s girl. The words are there on my lips, but I can’t say them. Avalon’s gaze is still on mine and it’s almost as if she’s keeping them from coming out. Silently forbidding me from denying her claim. As if she can see into my head and knows exactly what I’m thinking.

“So, what do you want from me?” I demand, finally.

“Stay,” she says. “Convince Ace to stay. We’ll do the rest.”

“If you’re going to do the rest, why do you need us to stay?”

“Because Brax needs to believe that he’ll get you in the end,” she says.

“Even if he doesn’t?”

Avalon arches a brow, but doesn’t deny what my question reveals about my intentions. She has to know that forgiveness isn’t that easy. Not for her and certainly not for me. Instead of answering me, however, she tells me something else.

“The Undead is a dangerous organization,” she says. “They’ve got ties all over and it appears that they were the organization responsible for what happened to me. Ace just happened to work for them. Think of staying as a way of saving him if you need to.”

“You plan on taking the entire organization down?” I gape at her. She can’t be fucking serious.

She tilts her head to the side and a lock of inky black hair slides over her shoulder. She doesn’t respond—that’s answer enough.

“You just admitted they were dangerous!” I snap. “It doesn’t matter how much money in the world you have, it’s not something a bunch of college kids can do!”

Avalon grins. “That’s where you’re mistaken, Clover. We’re not just a bunch of college kids. We’re the Eastpoint Heirs. We’re sick down to our souls, sweetheart. There’s nothing we won’t do to protect our family.”

21

BRAXTON

SHIT USED to be so goddamn easy. Dean and Abel and I used to run around just fucking everything and getting drunk or high and not giving a damn about the rest of the world. We threw parties and we reigned supreme. That was it.

Then Avalon walked in. Then Abel noticed Rylie. Then … Clover came. Or, I should say, I dragged her ass into our lives kicking and screaming.

Now nothing is fucking easy anymore. It’s complicated—beyond complicated—it’s fucked up.

“Hey.” A hard smack strikes me up the side of the head, knocking me out of my internal thoughts. Dean ignores my irritated scowl and rounds the island in the center of the kitchen with a folder in his hands. “Got some more info on the Undead that I thought you should take a look at.”

“Anything about Hades?” I ask as I grab the folder from his outstretched hand and flip it open. I scan the documents provided.

“Not much,” Dean admits. “He’s just like the rest of the people in the organization—a practical ghost.”

“They’re not ghosts,” I say. “They just like to think they are. Untouchable is what ghosts are. These people are very real and very human. They can be dead on paper all they want, but until their hearts stop beating, they can feel pain and I have every intention of giving it to them.”

Silence meets that statement. I don’t look up as I turn the page and let my eyes keep scanning. There are a lot of unrecognizable names—insignificant people—but people we probably need to be familiar with regardless. Especially if we’re going to follow through with our own plans to completely eradicate the current leaders of the Undead and take over.

Dean’s quiet for so long that I forget he’s there as I completely immerse myself into the paper trail Rylie’s put together. That is, until he speaks again. “Can I ask you a question?”

“You just did,” I reply absently.

Two fingers touch the top of the file in my hand and push it down, forcing me to look up. Dean stands on the other side of the island, one hand clamped on the edge of the countertop and the other on the papers in my grasp. “I’m serious.”

Eyeing him cautiously, I lean back. It’s an unspoken movement for him to continue, so he does.

“What are your plans for Ace?” he asks.

I contemplate that question. The man in question sits not but twenty feet away on the sofa of Dean’s living room. He’s been there for the last twenty-four hours, or however long it took for Clover to wake up. She would have woken up fairly quickly if it hadn’t been for the drugs we had Dr. Riviera bring when he checked her out. He’s a good doctor—but it’s obvious he’s not cut out to be a personal asset. He’s too self-righteous, and unlike me, he still believes in the good of this world.

“Ace isn’t my priority,” I say quietly. “Clover is.” Dean’s gaze bores into my skull and I can only guess at what he’s thinking. For as long as I’ve known him, there’s still always been a piece of him that was unreadable to me.

Just as he’s about to open his mouth, though, and give me some insight into that enigmatic mind, Avalon’s voice rings through the building. “—and here is the living room,” I hear her say loudly. “Complete with several douchebags and the dude that tortured me for money … oh, I mean your brother. Same thing, though. Happy family reunion.”

There can only be one person she’s talking to and when I look up, my eyes bounce off of a pair of mossy green eyes and an apathetic expression. Clover’s dressed in the clothes we had Marcus run out to pick up for her and she’s got her red hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. With all the black she’s sporting, she’s almost on par with Rylie.

“Ace.” Clover pulls her gaze away from me as she approaches her brother. Ace doesn’t waste a second getting up from his position. He takes her into his arms and I feel my upper lip curl back in distaste.

“Solnyshka.” The Russian endearment is gruff coming from the man’s throat. I narrow my gaze on him, but as Clover awkwardly hugs him back, looking for all the world like she’s a little lost by the physical affection, I feel a piece of me pull back.

Space, I remind myself. She needs space. I don’t necessarily like giving it, though.

Ace finally pulls away from Clover first and as he tucks a stray flyaway strand of hair behind her ear he turns to Avalon. “And I’ve already apologized for my part in your torture, do you have to keep bringing it up?”

“You apologized?” Avalon tilts her head to the side and taps her chin, thoughtfully. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard an apology. Rylie? Have you heard an apology?”

Rylie’s head pops up from where she’s sitting with her legs crossed on the floor in the corner of the room with Abel standing over her. “Nope, there’s been no apology,” she states and goes right back to clicking away on her keyboard as Abel shifts from side to side. Poor bastard has been trying to convince her to take a break for at least an hour.

“There, no apology, dickbag,” Avalon says snidely.

“Fine—I apologize for hurting you, Ms. Manning,” Ace says through gritted teeth.

Clover stands back and glances between the two of them and finally—blessedly—her gaze returns to mine. There’s very little of the old Clover in her expression. She’s cold enough that I half expect ice to be dripping from her fingertips as she reaches up and tightens the band holding her hair.

“Where’s Dom?” she asks. Her gaze moves from me to Ace and when he doesn’t give an answer, she looks to Avalon.

Avalon shrugs. “Don’t know who that is,” she says.

Clover’s lips twist into another deep scowl. “The kid,” she says, her attention returning to me. “Where’s the kid that was with me?”

“You brought a kid?” Ace frowns. “Where the fuck did you pick up a kid?”

“The Undead,” Clover replies coolly. “You know, the organization you work for. The one that kidnapped me. The one that killed Mama Luda and Ivan. That’s where I picked up the fucking kid, Ace.”

Silence follows in the wake of her irritated comments as Ace’s face goes from shocked to angry to cold. “You aren’t supposed to know that.”

Even I know that’s the wrong thing to say to a woman like Clover right now. And my assumption is proven correct when Clover rears back and slugs him right in the face. Ace stumbles a bit—more from surprise than anything else—and slams into the side of the couch.

“Fuck you, asshole,” Clover hisses once Ace manages to lift his head back up to meet her gaze.

God, she’s fucking hot like this. Angry. Violent. It doesn’t hurt that she’s taking her irritation out on the man that started all of this bullshit. I let the file in my hand fall back to the island as I get up from the stool and move quickly and quietly across the room. I pause just beside the coffee table.

Her spine is stiff, her back straight, and maybe it makes me a bastard, but I love that I can see what she’s feeling. Not the cold-hearted bitch that was in my bedroom earlier anymore. No, she’s not even trying to hide her emotions.

“If you hadn’t kept this whole thing a secret from me, then none of this would have happened!” she snaps.

Ace wipes his lip—his thumb coming away red with blood from where the corner of his mouth split under her blow. “I was protecting you.” A feeble excuse, but he says it nonetheless.

Clover pants, no less angry, as she advances on him. “And how did that fucking work out for you?” she demands, shoving him back. They move from the couch to the wall and she doesn’t stop until he’s cornered. I watch carefully—waiting for Ace to make a wrong move.

Brother and sister or not, if he puts hands on what’s mine, he’s dead. I’m locked tight and just fucking waiting for the second he cracks under the pressure. My hands twitch towards the back holster I’ve got on beneath my shirt. When Clover left me to take a shower earlier, I, too, had gotten changed—and with all the shit going down, not being ammoed up is a bad fucking idea. All it would take is just one bullet, and Ace would be done. Gone. Buried in the ground. I’ve killed before and I’ve killed for less. Fucking hell, though, what I really want is to just kill him.

“How do you know if Ivan’s dead or not?” Ace asks. “Did you see him?”

Clover acts as if the two of them don’t have a crowd of onlookers—as if Dean, Avalon, Rylie, Abel, Marcus, and I aren’t all standing here, watching this go down. Maybe she’s forgotten. Or maybe she just doesn’t give a fuck anymore.

“Yeah,” she says. “I saw him.” I’m close enough to see her jaw tighten as she grits her teeth and grinds them against each other. “I was going to have him come with us—with me—but he couldn’t…” She stops and swallows before continuing. “He couldn’t walk anymore. They broke his ankles.”

She’s hurting. My baby is hurting and this ain’t something I can fix. The place we left behind was blown to shit before we got out. The fire raged as we’d put the pedal to the metal and gotten the hell out of dodge. There’s no doubt in my mind that the man they’re talking about—if he was there—didn’t make it out.

“Maybe he—”

Before Ace can finish the bullshit words coming out of his mouth, Clover cuts him off. “He didn’t,” she says. “I gave him one of the guns I stole off the guards.” I can practically hear her breaths they’re so harsh. Avalon remains surprisingly quiet and when I glance back at her, she’s watching Clover with a touch of respect.

“I’m—”

“Done,” Clover stops Ace’s words. “You’re done. With the Undead and with leading. No more. They’re gone—every fucking person I’ve ever cared about is gone.”

“I didn’t know it was them at first,” Ace, the dumb fuck, starts talking. As if giving life to all his admissions will lessen her anger. How much does he even know his own sister? I wonder absently. “I told you that I was going to find who did it. I was going to make them pay. I didn’t know it would lead to this.”

“But it did.” Clover’s reply is final. At the end of the day, it doesn’t matter what Ace’s intentions were. He kept secrets. He hurt my girl. Now, she’s here—half broken, but fully enflamed. She’s like a Phoenix rising from the ashes—a violent vengeful spirit taking flight. She looks up and locks eyes with Ace. “You’re not in charge anymore, Ace.” She turns and nods to us. “They are.”

He scowls. “You trust them to—”

“I trust no one,” Clover spits. “And that includes you.”

With that, Clover steps away from him. She turns and as she moves to leave the room, she passes me by. I half expect her to avoid my very presence—to pull her shoulder back at the last second to keep from touching me entirely. But she doesn’t. Her arm brushes mine and the scent of her—clean, fresh, cotton—fills my lungs.

My heart beats faster in my chest. Need devours me. Silence hangs in the room for several seconds after she retreats. I turn to follow—maybe she hadn’t meant it. Maybe she hadn’t even recognized that I was in the room. But it doesn’t matter. She touched me, and it meant something.

“Brax!” Dean calls after me.

I stop just inside the hallway and look back, but already my muscles are jumping and chomping at the bit to go after her. “What about him?” Dean asks, nodding to where Ace stands against the wall, his head hanging against his chest.

“What about him?” I snap, irritated.

Dean arches a brow. “What do you want us to do with him?”

I don’t care. I glance at the man and scowl. “Whatever the fuck you want,” I say, and then I disappear down the hallway—trailing in Clover’s wake. Hoping that I can catch her before it’s too late.

22

CLOVER

MY EYES BURN with unshed tears. They swell up within me and threaten to come bursting out. I don’t know how I find my way back to Braxton’s room, but once I do, I turn and shut the door, leaning my back against it as my chest coils and my lungs deflate.

All of the oxygen in the room runs out. It evaporates. It leaves. It does whatever the fuck it has to in order to get away from me. Whatever the case, it leaves me gasping for it—dying inside and out as I slip down the door until my ass hits the floor. My bones ache with the memory of all I’ve been through. My lips part and before I can stop myself, I let loose a terrible wail.

So long—it’s been so fucking long since Mama Luda died—but watching Ivan … giving him the gun … I didn’t realize at the time what it would do to me. And Ace … I meant what I said. I can’t trust anyone anymore. I’m all alone.

I’m tired.

Sad.

Angry.

Lost.

My head rings with an annoying buzzing. The door against my back moves, pushing against me before pausing.

“Clover?” Fuck no, I think. Not him. Not now. I wipe beneath my eyes, but the tears just fall harder. They spread, streaking my cheeks and dripping down my chin and neck. I can’t get them to stop. A dull throb has started up in the back of my skull and spreads. I don’t want him here.

“Clover, baby … Firebird…”

“I hate you…” is my only response to Braxton’s gentleness. I don’t want it. He’s never been gentle before. I don’t want him to be now. “I fucking hate you…”

He doesn’t reply to my words though. Instead, I hear the hard thump of his fists on the outside of the wood at my back. “Open the door,” he orders, and I laugh.

It’s not an amused laugh but one of broken anger. That’s all I am, now. Broken and angry. Damaged and reckless. If I open that door now, I’m afraid he won’t find the girl he kidnapped—she’s long gone. In her place is someone much different.

“You know what I thought when I saw you back in that place?” Braxton’s words are quiet through the wood, but I know what he’s talking about.

“I don’t care,” I say harshly, wiping more tears from my chin even though they never stop.

He continues as if I haven’t spoken. “I thought you looked so fucking pretty covered in blood.”

I huff out another laugh. “Of course you would, you psycho.” Only Braxton would look at me after I killed someone and think—yeah, that’s the girl for me.

My chest rises and falls in sharp movements and I realize something—in his words, the world has come back to me. I can breathe again. He’s distracted me. Not from everything, of course, but enough.

Slowly, I turn and press my cheek to the door, knowing he’s on the other side. As if he can sense the direction of my thoughts, there’s another small thump against the wood.

“Are you ever gonna let me in?” he asks.

No, I think. Never again. But the words he says bring forth something else—an old memory. And as I stand there, staring at the white polished wood of his bedroom door, my mind is catapulted back into the past.

“COME NOW, MILAYA, EAT YOUR FOOD.”

“Miss Luda—”

“You call me Mama,” the woman responds with a decisive nod. Her gunmetal gray curls are pulled back tight into a bun at the back of her head as she bustles around the small kitchen. I sit at the table against the window and stare down at the bowl of … something sitting in front of me.

There are scratches on the table—hundreds, if not thousands of them. They mar the already broken surface, but one might still mistake me for the queen of England for how the woman Ivan and Ace brought me to flutters about. She’s cooking up a storm—far more than any one person could eat.

A glass of sweet tea sits on one side—a southern American classic, Miss Luda had said when she set it before me. Next to it, though, rests a red drink that she called Kompot. I’m not exactly sure what it is, but hesitantly—and more out of curiosity than anything else—I reach for it and lift it to my lips.

Something sweet touches my tongue. It’s unique in flavor and definitely not something I’ve ever tried before, but it tastes a little like fruit, though which one I can’t put my finger on.

“Do you like it, milaya?” Miss Luda asks.

“Uh, yeah,” I reply, setting the glass down as I lift my spoon. “It’s sweet—but my name is Clover, not milaya.”

“Oh, yes, I know, I know,” Miss Luda nods as she moves from one pot on the stove to the next. “It is sweet name.”

Sweet name? I think. Does she mean endearment? Maybe that’s it. I mean, it would make sense because from the low, guttural notes to her words, it’s clear that English is not her first language. It’s probably Russian—like Ivan’s. Like … my father’s.

I clear my throat. “Miss Luda, I—” I try again.

“Mama.” I blink and look up, my spoon poised above the bowl in front of me. The woman turns from where she stands in front of the stove that is at least thirty years overdue for an update and smiles at me, waiting.

“Um … I’m not sure what you know about me,” I say, my gaze sliding to the side. I slowly lower the spoon and take my hand back. “But I’m not super comfortable—”

“You are Ivan’s doch’.”

“Doch’?” I repeat the word, the vowels sounding wrong on my tongue. “I’m his daughter…” At least, that’s what he told me.

It feels almost … unreal. That at the exact moment I need a savior, he shows up. How can that be normal? What exactly are they hiding? I don’t want to believe it, but I can’t trust this woman either—no matter how kind she is or how sweetly she smiles at me.

No one smiles at a stranger like that for anything other than deceit.

“You are tough one,” Miss Luda says knowingly and I jerk my gaze up to meet hers, half surprised by the words.

“W-what?”

She tilts her chin down and I almost see her wrinkles overlap themselves as she gazes at me. I feel like a butterfly pinned beneath a microscope. It’s almost as if she’s digging beneath my flesh and bone, seeing right where I don’t want her to.

“You are hurt now,” she says almost knowingly. “You feel not safe—as if no one in world is on your side.”

I don’t reply, but she doesn’t need me to. It’s not like what she’s saying isn’t true. That’s the disturbing part about it. That’s exactly how I feel. Trapped like a bird in a cage.

That grateful feeling I’d had when Ivan and Ace had showed up in the motel room and stopped me from following through on my—her—threats to the man who’d come back with the intention of fucking my mom is long gone and in its place is nothing but severe mistrust. The fact of the matter is, I don’t know these people. They could be traffickers wanting to keep me compliant until they find a good buyer. Bad things happen to pretty girls all the time and though I’m not a fucking knockout, I’m not ugly either.

“What do you want?” I snap, pressing my nails into the already scarred wood of the table.

“I want you to be happy, milaya.”

“Stop calling me that! I don’t know what it means!”

Miss Luda merely smiles. “You will learn,” she says. “I will teach you.”

Anxiety skitters up my spine. She’ll teach me? Teach me what? Russian? What if I don’t want to learn? Do I have a choice? Suddenly, I feel my throat closing in and the reality of what I almost did the night before last hits me. I almost killed a man. Maybe I’d stopped—she had stopped—right before it happened, but I can’t deny that I’d wanted to.

I gasp for breath and shake my head as tears fall from my eyes. “Oh, milaya.” I hear Miss Luda’s words a split second before the clatter of her spatula against the vinyl counter. Soft, floral perfume invades my nose as her warm arms wrap around me. It’s too much. I can’t … I can’t…

“You will be safe here, milaya,” she says. She mutters something else, something in Russian that I can’t understand. “Ivan will teach you. Ace will teach you. You will never be alone again. You will be strong—like good Russian.”

I’m not a queen, though, I want to tell her. I’m a peasant. Tired. Cold. And alone. Her arms contract around me. Holding me close. Holding me tight as the tears continue to leak out.

I’m scared, I realize. Terrified of the future ahead of me. My mom’s gone—for so long, she was the one constant I clung to. It didn’t matter that she couldn’t take care of herself, that she was a child in an adult’s body. She needed me and I needed to feel needed. Now … she’s gone and no one needs me anymore.

I am what I’ve always been—alone and adrift in a very cruel world.

Little pinpricks of feeling dance along my flesh, coming alive. I sniff hard, wanting so badly to reach up and wipe away more of the tears coming but it’s kind of awkward when she’s holding me so tightly. No one but my mom has ever held me this way—but whenever my mom held me, it was … more like she was clinging. Like she was terrified that if she let go, I’d disappear and she’d end up all alone.

I close my eyes against the memories that pound against the inside of my head. I’m sad she’s gone, but worse … a part of me feels relieved too. The burden has been lifted. I don’t have to worry about where I’ll live anymore, about how we’re going to eat.

That’s wrong, I think. That’s horrible. I shouldn’t think of my mom like she was a burden, but … she was.

Every second of every day, I worried. I worried about where she was, who she was with, what I would come home to. I worried about rent and food and safety. I didn’t make friends because I didn’t want anyone to know about what things were like. A part of me, deep down, already misses her. I miss her warmth in bed next to me when she felt alone. I miss her touching my hair the way Miss Luda is right now. I miss hearing her voice murmuring something to me, reminding me that she was there. That there was someone, at least, that cared if I lived or died. Even if that someone was constantly in trouble, constantly begging to make it all better.

Another part of me, though, can’t help but feel freed from her bindings. Even Evgenia, as callous as she is on the inside, feels guilt over the fact that the both of us see so much potential for a future without mom.

More tears fall and I can’t stop them. Miss Luda’s hands don’t feel clingy or even heavy. There’s no weight of responsibility, just comfort. Something I haven’t had without strings in a long time if ever.

“Shhh. There, there, milaya,” she whispers. “It be okay now.” Even her broken, jarring English is kind of soothing. “You are family.”

Family, she says. I’m family.

My breathing goes from shallow and hiccupping to smooth and easy. I reach up and latch onto her arm. This, I think, is what a mom should be.

My chest clenches against the thought and I gently push her back as if to hide the sensation. “I’m fine,” I insist, quickly spreading my hands over my cheeks to rub away the evidence of my over-emotional state. I’ve never cried like that—or at least, I haven’t in a long damn time. I just add it up to everything that’s happened over the last few days, including my mom’s death.

Miss Luda looks at me, but she’s not angry. She merely turns around and moves back over to the stove to stir what’s in one of her many pots. “You will open up one day, milaya,” she says quietly, almost too low for me to hear. I would think she hadn’t meant for me to hear if it wasn’t for the fact that she’s speaking English and I’ve already heard her mutter in Russian to herself many times since Ivan and Ace dropped me off. “It take long time for healing. You will open when you feel safe.”

Maybe she’s right. Maybe I’m just not ready. Maybe I don’t feel safe yet, but as I pick up my spoon again and stare at the glass of sweet red Kompot in front of me, I think I could here. I think this place could really be good for me. I’m not ready to open up yet, but maybe one day … I will be.

BACK IN THE PRESENT, I hear Braxton’s body move against the door as he shifts. I imagine him turning and placing his own back against the wood between us. My breath catches. His question still hangs in the air—are you ever gonna let me in?

Logically, I know he means into the room, but there’s still that other question that dangles between us like a fucking blade on the end of a spider’s string. He’s not willing to let me go and I’m not willing to forgive him for his betrayal. Where does that leave us now?

“Clover…” I squeeze my eyes shut against the raw note in his voice.

“Go away, Brax,” I mutter, ducking my head down against my knees as I draw them against my chest and wrap my arms around my legs. My breasts press into my thighs, making it difficult to completely fold myself into a ball, but I try nonetheless.

Braxton’s voice comes through the door muffled and harder to hear, but at the end of whatever he says, the last words that enter my head before he pushes against the wood and the sound of his footsteps fade down the hallway are, No matter what, you’re still mine.

23

BRAXTON

BE ANGRY, Firebird. Be whatever you need to be. Hurt me. Damage me. I can take it, but never forget. No matter what, you’re still mine.

I shove away from the door and head back down the hallway. We have very little time to put a true plan together and even less to give her to mourn all that she’s lost. Her home—not that she knows it yet. Her father. And her past. Because it doesn’t matter now where she goes after this—I’ll follow.

If she wants to live in the gutter and eke out an existence as a nobody in a dead-end town at a dead-end job, I’ll go after her. I’ll support her. I’ll be with her. Whatever I have to do, even if it means I need to leave Eastpoint and the Smalls’ businesses behind. Leaving Eastpoint doesn’t mean leaving Dean and Abel. We can stay in contact. I’ll always come when they call, but Clover … Clover needs to be a singular constant in my life from this moment forward.

I don’t know that I could live without her; I don’t know if I’d even want to try.

After extracting a promise to look after her and keep her from leaving if she gets any crazy ideas in her head from Avalon and Dean, I snatch up my keys and gesture to Ace where he sits on the couch with his head hung low between his hands. “You,” I snap. “Get up. We’re heading out.”

He looks up at me and narrows his eyes. “Where?”

I ignore his question and keep walking towards the door that leads into the adjoining garage. I leave it open behind me as I move down the line, clicking the key fob that illuminates a pair of headlights at the very end. Footsteps behind me tell me that he got the message—follow me or risk the consequences.

I unlock the black Lexus at the end of the row and slide into the driver’s seat. A moment later, as the garage door slowly slides up, the passenger side door pops open and Ace steps inside, shooting me a dark look. I make no comment and instead just turn the ignition before placing my hand on the back of his seat and looking over my shoulder as I back out of the slot.

“Where are we going?” Ace asks again.

I cut him a look and whip the Lexus around the SUV that still sits outside—noting, as we pass, that someone has already taken the precaution of changing the plates out—before steering towards the main road. There’s a lot on my mind and not a lot coming out of my mouth. Not because I can’t, but because I don’t know how to put it all into words.

Months ago, my one goal had been finding this man and killing him. Making him pay for everything he’d done to Avalon. Avalon is solid. She treats me like a brother and when it comes down to it, she’ll go to war like a brother. I have no excuse for not doing the same for her.

Pavement flies beneath the wheels of the Lexus. I hit a button, and the window rolls down, letting in quickly cooling air. I take Ace past Eastpoint, wondering how long it’s been since we contacted Coach. Shit, he’s gonna be pissed when we get back. The last time we met, he’d straight up told me to let him know if shit was up and we just left. For a good reason, but he doesn’t know that. He can’t know it.

My head thumps back against my seat and an irritated groan fills my chest. Shit, when did it all become so complicated? Was it Avalon? No. Maybe before that. If I really think about it, it all started when we began our training. When Dean was forced to kill for the first time. Abel was forced to fuck for the first time. And I … a twisted smile overtakes my face, nah, I’ve always been a complicated fucked up mess.

“Are you taking me somewhere to kill me?” Ace asks, disrupting my thoughts.

I roll my eyes as the smile drops from my face. “I’ve had an opportunity to kill you long before now,” I reply. “And if I want it, I’ll have the opportunity to do it again.”

“That’s not a no,” he says, his tone even and unbothered.

My lips curve upward once more. “You’re right,” I agree, casually. “It’s not a no.” It’s also the only answer he’ll get from me in regards to that particular question. “We have a problem, you and I,” I say after a moment more of silence. Maybe he’s trying to think of what to say. Whatever it is, though, I don’t want to hear it. He’s not the one in charge. I am.

“If it’s about Clover, then it’s not a problem,” Ace replies. “Once this shit is over and done with, I’m taking her with me.”

I laugh. I can’t really help it. The amusement comes up my chest and doesn’t stop as I slow at a stop sign and lean into the steering wheel as I wheeze for breath. “I took you for a smarter man than that, Ace,” I state as the laughter finally dies off. I shake my head and the car starts forward once more. I glance at him out of the corner of my eye and note that he’s watching me like a man watches a predator. Good. At least he’s wary of me. He’s not a complete idiot—then again, I already knew that. He had, after all, managed to keep me from finding him for quite some time.

He doesn’t comment on that last statement. “Then why did you bring me with you?” he asks instead.

My fingers contract against the steering wheel. “Because I needed to make something clear to you.”

“And that is?”

“That you’re wrong,” I answer before tilting my head as I consider that. “No, not just wrong,” I continue, “but delusional if you think that I’m just going to allow you to take Clover and disappear.” I cut a look his way when he grits out a growl. “And I warn you—before you start to make any threats of your own—I have a lot more power than you do.”

Not just right now, but I’ve always held the power. The keys to the kingdom, so to speak. Maybe it makes me a cold bastard, but Ace is nothing but an insect in the wake of all I control. Now that he’s in my grasp, I could just as easily crush him. The only thing keeping him safe right now—untortured and alive—is Clover.

Ace scowls but doesn’t respond. And they said old dogs can’t learn new tricks. The best trick a dog like him can learn is how to keep his mouth shut at the right time and finally, it seems like he’s catching on. Animals usually bow to the more powerful authority, after all, and I am and always will be.

“The plans we have for the Undead are simple enough,” I say. “The man who took Clover is as good as dead—”

“He won’t be that easy to kill,” Ace interrupts, disproving my last thought. “Hades hasn’t lasted this long because he’s incompetent. He’s one of the oldest members of the Undead—and he took over—because he’s good at what he does. Tracking and killing.”

“That might be true,” I agree. “But tell me something, do you know where Hades comes from?”

“Where he comes from?” It’s clear from Ace’s response that he’s confused by my question.

“The Undead, I assume, is made up of men like yourself,” I state.

“Yeah?” Again, he’s not getting the obvious.

A frustrated breath escapes me and I tilt my head forward a little as I explain it. “The Undead is made up of easily disposable men. No one blinks when they die—not the first time, when they enter the organization, or the last time, when they leave by way of coffin. The men you worked with are invisible. That means they come from nothing.” I lean to the side and glance back at him with a smirk. “I don’t come from nothing, Ace.”

Ace’s face is drawn into a scowl. “What the fuck is shoving your money and status in my face supposed to prove?” he demands.

My head thumps back against my seat. He’s still not getting it. Maybe I should put it into a better perspective, or…

The car slows as I finally turn onto the street to our destination. A row of bricked up townhouses line one side complete with black wrought iron gates and plaques. I stop in front of Viks’ townhouse and cut the ignition. Maybe I should let him explain.

“Come on,” I say, popping the door open and pocketing my keys as I round the front of the Lexus.

Ace catches sight of the plaque beside Viks’ front door as we make our way through the iron gate and into the tiny front garden area. He spots the plaque on the side of the door. “You brought me to your fucking shrink?”

I chuckle. “Oh, I think you’ll recognize him as more than just a shrink,” I say. “Just think of him as the mindfucker from hell.” I pause in front of the door and knock.

Several minutes later, the locks click and Viks appears with an arched brow. He glances over my shoulder at Ace before looking back at me. “Took you long enough.”

“You just open your door to anyone, asshole?” I ask.

Viks rolls his eyes and jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “Cameras, kid,” he replies. “And a whole lot of ammo. Get inside.”

Ace doesn’t say shit as he follows me into Viks’ home. I wrinkle my nose as the smell of lavender and paint assails me. To my left a whole wall has been painted over white and half of it is already started with the makings of some sort of landscape mural. Viks catches me looking and closes the door.

“Problem, son?” he inquires.

I shake my head. What he lets his wife do ain’t none of my fucking business. A soft cry from the upstairs comes down and I stiffen. Viks chuckles and slaps me on the shoulder as he passes by on his way to the kitchen. “It’s a baby, Brax, not a bomb.”

Same difference, I think, but I follow him regardless, very aware of the man that shadows us. I take a seat at the island and lean forward.

“What are we doing here?” Ace finally demands, choosing to stand rather than take a seat.

Viks glances at me, but I give him nothing more than a long leisurely blink in way of my response. He blows out a breath. “I guess you expect me to answer that.” It’s not a question, but I nod and he scowls, shaking his head. “I’ve got other things to do, you know.”

My easy amusement falls away and I lean forward once more, placing both elbows on the countertop of the island. “You took the kid with you when you left,” I say. “We want to see him.”

Viks stiffens and crosses his arms over his chest as he leans back against the kitchen sink. “And if I want the kid to be under my jurisdiction?” he inquires.

I scowl. “You can do what you want with him,” I say. “After. We need to know what he knows.”

Viks eyes me for a moment more before sighing. He drops his arms and leaves the kitchen, striding around the island and disappearing up the stairs. I can practically feel Ace’s vibrating restlessness in my bones.

A few minutes later, the creak of wood alerts us to Viks’ return. He comes down the stairs followed by a much smaller figure. Instead of stopping, however, Viks nods to a small side hallway. “This way,” he says quietly. “Away from Haley. She’s trying to put the baby down.”

I don’t argue as I slip off the stool and the four of us move towards the darkened hallway and into a small office-like room. Viks moves for the large oak desk and takes a seat, leaning over as he steeples his fingers together and watches the three of us. The only one to take a seat is the kid.

My attention lands on him. When I’d first seen him, I hadn’t really given much thought to who he was or his appearance. My sole focus had been on Clover. All I remember is a scrawny dirty frame and greasy dark hair. That same hair has since been washed and pulled back from his face, revealing jagged, half-starved features and big eyes.

“Who is this?” Ace’s question is only partially shocking. From what he’s told us, he hasn’t exactly been on good terms with the Undead for the last few weeks.

“Dom,” Viks gestures to the kid. “Introduce yourself.”

Skittish and obviously nervous, the kid draws his arms around himself and looks up at me and Ace. “M-my name is Dom—Dominic.”

Before either Ace or I can ask, Viks answers my unspoken question. “He says he doesn’t have a last name,” he says.

I hum in the back of my throat as I circle the room. I move behind Ace, my lips twitching as I feel him stiffen upon my pass and move until I’m leaning against Viks' desk with my arms crossed. “Alright, Dominic,” I say as I lift my gaze to his and lock eyes with him, “I’d like to make a deal with you.”

“A d-deal?” Dom glances once at Viks before returning his attention to me. “What k-kind of deal?”

Ace doesn’t speak, but I can sense his scrutiny. His curiosity. What could I possibly want with a seemingly victimized child? What information could this one possibly have? But that’s exactly what I want to find out.

He was with Clover when we found her. My gut tells me he knows exactly what happened to her, who hurt her, and why. We already know the head of the Undead’s name—thanks to Ace—but even he doesn’t know the details of Clover’s kidnapping. This kid does. I want more than Hades. I want names. I want faces. I want death. And this kid is going to give it to me.

“Brax…” Viks’ tone is warning. He’s always been soft on kids, but looking at this boy, despite his size, I know better. Viks has done bad things, but he’s done them with good reason. I don’t have that moral compass of his. I’ve done bad things just because I can.

Dom might seem small and frail. There might be scars on his arms and bruises on his skin, but when I look into his eyes, I see something that I see in all of my brothers. I see it in Avalon and Rylie. I see it in Clover.

I see a survivor. And survivors all have one thing in common—they have and will do anything for the sake of living.

“If you want to make sure you never go back to the Undead...” I begin, uncrossing my arms as I move to stand in front of the kid. His shoulders start to shake as I crouch down in front of him, meeting his gaze on his level. “Then you’re going to tell us everything you know.”

And once we have all that we need, I’ll start down the list. Every single person involved in Clover’s pain will be eradicated. Once and for all.

THE SUN IS SETTING by the time I’m done with my interrogation of the kid. I should feel guilty for the lost, half terrified look in his eyes as Viks opens the door to his office and gestures for him to go free, but I don’t. Instead, I watch with suspicion as he scurries out into the hallway and back up the staircase, the sound of a door closing echoing in the distance—like a rat back to its hole.

Ace watches him go with an unreadable expression. I still can’t pinpoint what he’s thinking—not if he’s as suspicious about the kid as I am or if he has some sort of human emotion in him that might allow him a small modicum of sympathy—but so long as he’s under my thumb I don’t care.

“Let’s go,” I grunt as I head towards the front door. It’s been too long since I’ve been with Clover, and even if she doesn’t want to see me—I’m looking forward to falling asleep with her by my side tonight.

“Hold up.” Viks’ hand on my arm stops me. I glance back, but he’s not looking at me. His attention is over my head—a feat that not many men can accomplish—on the staircase where the kid went. He continues staring after the kid before his gaze switches to Ace briefly and then to me. “I need a quick word before you head out.”

I sigh. “Fine.” Viks releases me as I turn, tossing the keys at Ace. Surprised, but still fast-reacting, he catches them and then just stands there, brow creased in confusion. “Do you need me to spell it out for you?” I ask, with an arched brow.

“You trust me with your ride?” he asks.

One corner of my mouth tilts up. “Try it,” I offer. It’s a dare, and fuck but I wish he would do it. It would give me the excuse. “You won’t get far. You’re back in Eastpoint, but the men you used to work for are dead. The old rulers are dead and you’re not protected anymore. You’ll be back here faster than you can turn the corner.” Besides, he won’t even bother—not without Clover. I don’t trust people but motives are always solid.

Ace scowls and flips me the bird before stalking off, and even that amuses me. It shouldn’t, considering I hate the bastard. Once he’s gone, I return my attention to Viks. He gestures for me to move back into his office and I do, though I don’t bother to sit as he closes the door behind us and takes a seat at his desk.

“I want to keep the kid with me,” he says.

I frown, but I’m not particularly surprised. He’d said as much earlier, but curiosity still has me asking, “Is there a reason?”

Viks puts one hand on his neck and rolls his head back on his shoulders. “I’m sure you can guess,” he hedges. “But suffice it to say, I don’t know what will happen to this kid—and it’s not like you can take him.” He’s right, and it wouldn’t hurt to have someone we trust looking after him, but I don’t say as much because I have a feeling that Viks has more he wants to say. A moment later, my suspicions are proven correct.

“Have you thought anymore about what I said?” he asks.

“About not seeking revenge?”

He nods.

Yeah, I have, but there’s still a big empty void of space inside of me that is the answer. “It’s up to Ava and Dean,” I say.

“And if they decide to kill him?” Viks asks.

“Then I’ll kill him.”

He doesn’t bat an eyelash. “Even if it hurts her?” There’s no question of who the ‘her’ in this situation is.

I clench my hands into fists. “Is this a session?” I ask. “I thought you weren’t involved in our world anymore? The only reason we called for you was because of Troy, because we needed—”

“Don’t avoid the question,” Viks cuts me off. “You know if you kill him then she’ll leave.”

“What the fuck am I supposed to do then?” I demand. “It’s not as easy as you’re trying to make it out to be. Dean is my fucking brother! If he wants the fucker who almost killed his girl dead, then he’s as good as dead.”

“I’m not suggesting that you betray Dean, Brax,” Viks replies. “I’m not even suggesting saving Ace from whatever his and Avalon’s decision is. I’m just trying to help you prepare for any eventuality. You want her. She wants her brother to live. A lot of stuff hasn’t been decided yet. It’s up in the air, and you know as well as I do that when decisions haven’t been made, it can cause a lot of confusion.”

I unclench a hand to scrub it down my face in frustration. “What do you fucking want from me, Viks?”

“A little honesty would be good,” he replies. “With yourself and with me. You should consider opening up to her, at least, if you want to start making things right.”

I blanche at that. “Are you suggesting what I think you are?” No, not just no, but hell fucking no.

“You’ve never let anyone else know about those desires of yours,” he says.

“For good fucking reason!” I snap.

“There’s nothing wrong with it, Brax,” Viks says quietly. “The only reason you avoid it is because of your introduction to it.”

I close my eyes for a brief moment, inhaling through my nose into my lungs before releasing the breath. “I don’t want to start our sessions again,” I tell him.

“I think it’s a good idea.”

It takes effort not to tense up all over again. “I don’t.”

Viks tilts his head back and drops his hand from his neck. Pinpricks dance along my neck and down my spine. I know exactly what the fucker is doing—he’s done it to each and every one of us, Dean, Abel, and me since we were teens.

“Don’t start shrinking me, dickhead,” I mutter, leaning back on my heels. “There’s no fucking time for sessions right now; we’ve got other things to work on.”

Viks shrugs. “We can start them up after it's all through.”

“I don’t got shit to say.”

Silence. Viks stares back at me, keeping his lips sealed as he watches me carefully. Those eyes of his never leave my face, but I know he can see all. I know he’s examining every small movement—the stiffening of my shoulders, the veins standing out on my forearms, and even the thready pounding of my pulse in my neck. Fuck him and his silence.

“Keep the kid,” I finally say, turning my back as I head for the door, “but don’t let him go. He might know more.”

“You and I both know, that kid was probably as much of a pawn as your girl was,” Viks replies.

I pause with my hand on the doorknob. I don’t like him referring to Clover as a pawn, but I can’t deny the truth of it. Clover is—was—a pawn. To me. To Ace. To the Undead. But no more. Now, she’s just … mine.

24

BRAXTON

18 years old…

THE INSIDE of the tattoo shop smells like ink and cleaning supplies and something medical—like an ointment or something. I’ve been in them multiple times before but never for myself.

Viks stands across the room, through a doorway, talking to a scrawny man who looks like he should be hoofing it on the side of the highway. He’s got a long wispy ginger beard. It’s not full, but kind of pathetic looking—pointing straight down into the heavily inked collarbone revealed by the jagged edges of the neck hole of his black band t-shirt where someone either cut or tore off the seam. I clench and unclench my hands, digging the dull points of my nails into my palm.

The pain slips through me, clearing my head of all the unwanted thoughts crowding it. I’m reminded why I’m doing this in the first place. My father hates tattoos. He likes seeing his handiwork on my back, but I’m done reminding him of what he did to me. He won’t be doing it anymore.

I stop digging my nails into my hands as Viks enters the lobby I’m sitting in. He’s carrying a large black binder that the tattoo guy handed him. I look up. “So?” I prompt.

Viks gives me a small smile and hands me the binder. “Take a look through that,” he says. “See if anything jumps out at you. Are you sure you don’t want Haley to come up with a design for you?”

I shake my head. “Nah. I’m good.” It doesn’t matter what goes on my back as long as it’s big enough to cover the marks already there. “You make sure he won’t talk?”

Viks takes a seat next to me, the plastic chair creaking under his weight as he extends both legs and crosses them at the ankles before folding his arms over his chest. “Kipper is a solid dude,” he replies. “He won’t say shit about your scars. He’s seen worse.”

I doubt that, but that could be my ego talking. Scars are different when you wear them rather than simply see them. I open the folder and start turning the pages. I can feel Viks’ attention on the side of my face as I scan the contents.

There are angels and tribal markings. Lots of the sketches and premade tattoos I see are too small for consideration. I pass them by quickly enough, looking for something much larger. The scars on my back go from the top of my spine all the way down. I want to cover as much of them as I can—almost like erasing their existence.

Viks sits back, quietly observing me. I can feel the heat of his gaze boring into the side of my face. My vision starts to blur. My hands start shaking.

“Brax.” His voice calling out my name makes it all come back. I stop flipping through the pages. “It’s okay. We don’t have to do this today.”

“No,” I snap. “It has to be today.”

Today, I’m eighteen. He can’t control me anymore. He can’t say what I can or can’t do. It’s finally within my reach. Maybe I can’t kill him, but I can erase his mark. This body is mine. Not his. Mine.

Bile dances on the back of my tongue, and I don’t realize that I’m crinkling the edges of the pages with my fists until Viks reaches down and touches the back of my hand. Immediately, I release the binder and nearly send it tumbling to the floor. Viks catches it before it goes that far and with careful, gentle hands, he sets it back on my lap.

“Alright, son,” he says. “Then we’ll get it today. Kipper’s got the whole day. There’s no need to rush. Just find something you want.”

My eyes shoot to the door of the shop. Before I can ask, Viks answers my unspoken question. “Your dad’s away on business, Brax,” he says. “And the shop is closed to everyone else today.”

I should feel relief, but I don’t. I hear his words, but I don’t trust him. My skin itches like someone is watching me. Like he’s fucking watching me.

Hurry. Hurry, just pick something. I return my attention to the binder and start flipping again. I turn the page again and again. It’s all too small. Fucking damn it, why the hell do the scars have to be so big? I need something bigger than any of this. I’m more than halfway through the thick binder and losing hope until I land on a page with a single design.

I stop. It takes up the whole paper, from top to bottom. Thick lines of black up and down. A sword. Feathers. Wings. Something. It doesn’t matter. It’s perfect.

“This.” I point to the image and even go so far as to grab the paper and rip it free. “I want this.”

Viks takes the binder from me and nods. “Alright, I’ll let Kipper know you’ve decided.” He reaches for the paper too, but I clench it in my fist, pulling it closer. I don’t know why I do that—I’m not an idiot. He needs it for the stencil. Viks somehow gets it, though. Whatever I’m feeling, even if I don’t understand it myself, he waits patiently for me to pry my fingers from the page and hand it to him.

Without a word, he then heads back into the back room to meet with the artist. My foot begins tapping against the cheap tile flooring. Tap tap tap. It echoes around the otherwise empty lobby and my eyes scan the plastic chairs and magazines decorating the side tables. I try to focus on something, but my mind is running a million miles a minute. I keep glancing at the clock, at the locked door.

It isn’t until Viks walks back in and gestures for me to follow him that I stop. My sneakers squeak on the floor as I head into the backroom. Kipper snaps a pair of black gloves on his hand and holds up a large waxy looking paper big enough to cover my entire back. I don’t need to be asked. I quickly strip off my shirt and turn. There’s a pause and my spine goes ramrod straight.

He’s looking, I realize. I squeeze my eyes shut.

“It’s fine, Brax,” Viks says in front of me. “You need to relax so he can put the stencil on. Loosen your muscles—yes, like that. That’s it, son.”

Kipper puts the paper to my back and I jump at the coolness of his touch. I don’t like it. I don’t like being touched on my back at all, but I breathe through my mouth as I force myself not to turn around and start swinging.

“Be fast.” Those are Viks’ words, not mine, but he’s right to say it because I’m starting to realize just how hard this is truly going to be.

A forearm goes across my upper back over the paper and I feel it slowly slide down, making sure each piece of the design sticks to my skin. Once the paper is pulled away, I look back over my shoulder, but I can only see the briefest piece of the outline in purple on the upper curve of my shoulder.

“Breathe, Brax,” Viks’ suggestion is low and soft.

“Go ahead and lie down on the chair,” Kipper says, his voice gruff and indifferent. “Front to the back so I can work.”

I do as he says. A minute later, a buzzing sound fills the room. “Are you going to be okay?” Viks asks.

I don’t have an answer to that question. My only response would be something like I’ve never been okay, but I can’t exactly say that here and I don’t feel comfortable enough to with a stranger in the room. I’m starting to wish I’d actually asked Abel and Dean to come with me after all.

“Do it,” I bite out, holding onto the chair.

The first pierce of the tattoo needle shocks my system and sweat pops up along my brow. It doesn’t hurt. Not really. It’s feels kind of like someone is holding a magnifying glass up to the sun and slowly tracing over my back with a small burn. The issue isn’t the pain … it’s how it makes me feel.

“Fuck,” I curse. Disgust moves through me as my cock throbs on the inside of my jeans. I want to vomit. I close my eyes and try to think of something else. Football practice. Classes. Abel puking up last night’s alcohol all over the bathroom this morning. That last one works a little bit and I finally feel myself relaxing—at least until I hear a knock on the door to the shop outside of the room.

My eyes burst open and I look back. Viks leaves the room and Kipper acts like he didn’t hear a damn thing as he continues to work with a concentrated expression. “Try not to move too much,” he says.

“You expecting anyone?” I demand.

He doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t need to because a moment later, Viks reappears in the doorway, followed by two shadows. I gape at them.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

Abel smirks as he saunters into the small room—made that much fucking smaller by all the men now inhabiting it. “You didn’t invite me to your sausage fest,” Abel says before chuckling at his own poor joke. “So, Dean and I decided to crash the party.”

Dean moves up and lifts a fast-food cup holder and bag. “Brought food,” he says. “Figured you might not have eaten before you came.”

“Why—”

“Dude, don’t bother,” Abel cuts me off rolling his eyes. He turns and snatches one of the cups out of the container in Dean’s hand before shoving the straw in my face. “Just take a sip, say thanks, and then finish getting your first tatt.”

An unnamed emotion wells up within me. “Fuck you,” I mutter before taking the end of the straw in my mouth and sucking. Shit. I cough and splutter at the straight whiskey.

Kipper’s needle leaves my back as I shove the cup away. “Asshole!” I snap. “I can’t drink alcohol while getting tattooed!”

Viks chuckle resounds and I look back to find him leaning against the doorway and shaking his head. Abel and Dean laugh before Dean takes the cup from Abel and hands him a new one.

“We know,” Dean says. “It was a prank.”

I narrow my gaze on him as I sip from the new drink and thankfully, only taste Coke. I relax back against the seat and Kipper leans back over. The burn hits me again and my thighs tighten, but it’s easier to ignore now that the guys are here. I don’t know how Viks’ guessed, or when he told them what the plan was, but I’m glad they came. It only feels right that they should be here to watch me take back the shit ass life I’ve had with my own hands.

Ignoring the mixture of pleasure and pain that’s sliding through my system, I drink and eat during the breaks over the next several hours. It takes a long time apparently to cover such a massive expanse of skin. No one leaves—not Viks, not Dean, not Abel. They stay the entire time.

Once the tattoo is completed, Kipper stands up and pulls off his gloves. The snapping sound they make is enough to wake Abel, who’d fallen asleep with his legs propped up on one of the plastic chairs that he dragged in here hours before. He snorts and jerks up, looking around with bleary eyes as I stand and stretch my muscles.

The skin along my back feels tight and wet. “Here.” Viks steps up and hands me a small hand mirror and points to another that’s attached to the wall. “Take a look.”

I move towards the mirror and turn my back, holding the smaller mirror up so I can see over my shoulder at the full image.

My eyes widen. It’s gone. The lines of scars are practically invisible. They are invisible at least to the naked eye. I can’t see them anymore. All I see are the lines of ink that cover me and even dip into the back waistband of my basketball shorts. A tingle shoots through me. Something powerful and meaningful.

The scars are gone. Instead, the only thing that remains is what I put on myself. The design doesn’t matter. It’s what it means that matters.

"He did pretty well for a first timer,” Kipper comments as he starts to clean his station.

“That he did,” Viks agrees.

“Now, you’re one of the in crowd, my dude.” Abel smiles. “Soon enough you’ll be covered just like Viks.”

At the comment, I lower the small mirror and look at the man, himself. Viks looks at me and gives me a nod of approval. I could see it, I realize. I could see myself absolutely covered in tattoos from my back to my legs to my chest to my throat. It wouldn’t be a bad look for me and fuck knows I’d like the pain—but that’s why I can’t.

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “This is it. This is the only tattoo I’ll get.”

“Awww, come on, really?” Dean, Viks, and Kipper are all quiet in the face of Abel’s whining tone. “That’s such a waste, though. You’d look so badass.”

I smirk. “Wouldn’t want to look like a douche canoe like someone I know,” I reply.

Abel’s face goes slack and he glances from me to Dean. “Dude, are you gonna let him talk about you like that?”

Dean laughs. “I don’t think he means me, Mr. Douche Canoe.”

Abel flips him off and the two of them launch into a playful brawl. My attention turns back to the mirror at the lines of ink covering me. I reach back and gently probe them. The fresh, raised lines are secreting blood. Just a little bit. When I press on them, new bites of pain slide through my system and I shudder in pleasure, yanking my fingers back.

Kipper steps around me with a bottle of ointment. I jump as his hand touches my spine, smearing the medicinal stuff down my skin. “Keep the skin back here hydrated for the next couple of weeks,” he says. “There will be some cracking and scabbing, but you’re young. It should heal quickly.”

He continues talking, but the more he touches me the less I hear. Instead, all I hear is my father’s voice in the back of my mind. People will do anything to escape pain. They will betray, fight, or surrender to be released from its bonds. Pain will serve you well. Learn to master it.

My lips curve into a sardonic smile. How fitting, I think. Hiding the pain he gave me with the pain I give myself.

Already, I want more. Tattoos. Piercings. Cuts. Bruises. I want to fight. I want to fuck. I’m practically vibrating with the desire. The pain of the tattoo only made me thirsty for more. That’s why this really will be the one and only tattoo I ever get.

The line cannot be crossed because once I go, there won’t be any coming back.

25

CLOVER

Present Day…

I SHOULD HAVE LOCKED the door. It’s the first thought that hits me when I wake to strong arms that are wrapped around me. Now that I’ve had some time, the aches and pains in my body are finally taking their toll. I’ve been sore all day, but none of that compares to the hurt in my chest as Braxton buries his face against the nape of my neck.

His chest expands against my back as he inhales. “I missed you.” The words are barely a whisper—almost impossible to hear, but hear them I do. His confession is just as torturous as being strung up and beat. I close my eyes and clench my fingers against the sheets, trying to will away the old emotions that rise up within me.

“I’m not doing this with you again, Brax.” The words come out strong, unshaken. Far better than how I’m feeling on the inside.

Brax is quiet for a moment, but his hands don’t retract. Instead, they move south, smoothing over my stomach until he touches my hips. He pulls me back against him until I can feel the hard ridge of his erection pressed between my cheeks. I grit my teeth and try a different tactic.

“What do you think forcing this will accomplish?” I ask him. “Do you think I’ll just get over how you betrayed me?”

His mouth opens, but no words come out. Instead, he licks a path over the back of my nape. He kisses my skin, bites down until I arch against him and breath leaves my chest. “Damn it, Brax!” I push away from him, but he merely clamps down harder, bites down harder. A gasp draws up from my lungs as I feel him break flesh and dig deep.

My pussy tightens from the pain. Fuck him. Tears touch my lashes. “Stop…” I hate the way the word comes out like a plea, like I’m fucking begging for him to just leave me the hell alone.

He releases me from his teeth, kissing the wound he just created. “I can’t stop, Clover,” he whispers into the darkened room. “I want you too much to stop now.”

My rib cage seems to compress, pulling inside, squeezing my heart and lungs until it threatens to burst. “It’s too late,” I tell him. “It’s over, Brax. You lost. There’s no more going back.”

The rough pads of his fingers trace patterns against the skin of my stomach and thighs. Back and forth. He glides his hands over me, teasing me, testing me. Despite myself, I react. My insides soften and a yearning opens in my soul. More tears gather. No matter how much I fight them back, they don’t go away.

A hand lifts and touches my cheek, wiping away the wetness. “You’re pretty when you cry, Clover,” he says. “You were even prettier covered in the blood of your enemies, though.”

“You are my enemy, Brax.” My words are cutting, little daggers I fling at him in the hopes one of them lands and gives me some reprieve. “And if you don’t get your fucking hands off of me, I’ll make you bleed too.”

He wraps his arms around me, forearms contracting as he grips me and pulls me closer. “Okay.”

I blink, my eyes adjusting to the dark bedroom as I wait for more, but no more comes. “Okay?” I repeat the word, confusion clear in my tone.

“Yeah,” he nods against my hair, inhaling deeply before blowing out a breath. “Make me bleed.”

Carefully, slowly—unsure of whether or not he’ll even let me move—I roll over, facing him in the darkness. It’s hard to see him, but I can just make out the outline of his head and some of his features. I know he’s looking at me—staring down at me with glittering eyes. Like a demon in the night.

“You think letting me hurt you will make me feel better?” I ask the questions with surprising sincerity. Even children are taught that hurting others won’t make you feel better.

“If you think it will, I’m willing,” he says. “Whatever you want, Clover, whatever it takes to make you realize that I’m…” Braxton stops talking, but there’s an unspoken ending to his sentence. I wait for it, wondering if he’s arguing with himself. Wondering if it is what I think it is.

“You’re what?” I press. “Don’t tell me you’re fucking sorry—I won’t believe you.” He doesn’t say anything, and that just solidifies it for me. I roll back over and reach for a pillow, squishing it against my chest as I try to ignore him. “Go away, Braxton. I don’t want you near me.” Not right now. Not ever again.

Braxton doesn’t move. He doesn’t get up. He doesn’t leave the room. Though he doesn’t force himself against me once more, he doesn’t pull me into him, the heat of him remains a constant presence at my back. I bite down on my lower lip, trying to keep my anger at bay. He needs to go. With him gone, I won’t have this niggling desire to cave into him in my head. I can’t cave into him. I just want him gone. What is so fucking hard to understand about that?

“I was taught what pain was before I was ever taught what love was.”

I close my eyes against those words. “I. Don’t. Care.” I shouldn’t care.

“I killed my father,” Brax continues. “Because he was going to kill my best friend. I promised myself I’d hide what he was—I failed at that. So, I promised myself that I’d protect my friends from what he was—but I failed at that too.”

My chest is a hollow mess, empty and void of anything but pain and sympathy. The way he talks is so cold, so dispassionate, that one might think he’s relaying the details of a story unrelated to himself. I know more than most what a father’s choices can do to their child. How it can affect them after they’re gone—though mine hasn’t been gone for long. The sympathy I feel doesn’t go away even when I wish for it to catch fire and burn.

Braxton’s hands pull away from my sides and for the briefest of moments, I think he’s done. This is it, he’s going to get up and leave and that will be the last I ever hear from him. For some reason, that thought makes me impossibly sad. The idea that the last words he’ll ever speak to me are how he failed.

“Sometimes, I’d lay in my bed after he whipped me and I’d wonder if other people understood it.” I tense up as he starts talking again. “But as I got older, the more I talked to Dean and Abel, the more I realized that we were different—that I was different—I realized that what I felt wasn’t right. If it weren’t for them, I’d probably have lost it a long time ago.”

His body shifts behind mine, his fingers still tracing over the bite mark on the back of my neck. He pushes my hair away and leans forward, pressing his lips to it. My stomach drops. My breath picks up speed. It feels impossibly loud—the sound of my own breathing. It is a fight—not against him, but against myself.

“The man you saw back then—when we found you—his name is Viks.”

“You mean the one who choked me out?” I ask testily.

“Yeah.” He doesn’t move away, not even at the sound of my irritated voice. Brax has nothing if not arrogance and audacity. “He’s actually a shrink—a head doctor or whatever you call those. The kind that sits you down on a couch and asks you about your feelings. Dean has talked to him a lot; he used to work for his dad. When Dean figured out the shit going down with mine, he pressured me into talking to him too.”

“Therapy?” To say I’m shocked would be an understatement. “I thought psychopaths and arrogant assholes avoided people who tell them they’re fucked up in the head.”

A low, deeply masculine sound echoes into the room—a quiet laugh. It makes the hairs on the back of my neck and along my forearms stand on end. “You’re right,” he agrees. “It took a long time to open up to him.”

“Good for you,” I mutter. “Can you please stop talking now? I’m tired.” More than tired, I’m fucking weary. There’s grit beneath my eyelids and the longer I lay here, the further away my attention drifts.

Braxton’s arms find themselves around my waist again. “I just want you to understand, Clover,” he says. “What I did … it wasn’t about you.”

I scoff. “Of course it wasn’t,” I say, and as much as I try to keep it out of my tone, I know I can’t completely erase the sarcastic sting of my voice. “It never is.” I’m always the last thing anyone thinks about. “I’m no one’s priority,” I say, not even my own. But now that has to change. I’ll be my own goddamn priority even if it kills me, and it just might.

“You’re mine,” he disagrees. “It’s about you now. I’ll do whatever it takes to get your forgiveness. If you want to hurt me, then hurt me. If you want to use me, then use me, Firebird.”

“Stop calling me that,” I snap.

“No.”

“I thought you said you’d do anything to get my forgiveness?” I shoot back. “Don’t you think that should start with you doing whatever I say?”

“Sure, if it’ll actually get your forgiveness. Taking away that nickname won’t. It means something.”

“No, it doesn’t,” I growl, denying his statement.

“You want to know why I call you ‘Firebird?’” he asks.

“No.”

“You asked before,” he reminds me.

“Well, that was then and this is now,” I huff out. “I don’t want to know.”

His chest rumbles against my back, another laugh. “Yes, you do,” he says, seeing right through me. “I’ll tell you.”

“You told me it’s because I was your fucking pet,” I say. “That was enough of an answer.”

“It was a lie.”

I close my eyes, falling into a darkened abyss where I can’t even see the outline of the room. Unfortunately, it has the added effect of making me hyper aware of his presence—of his touch and my reaction to him. “You always lie,” I whisper back, hating the tremble in my words as much as I hate the wetness gathering between my thighs.

There’s a moment of silence, of nothing but the sound of our combined breathing and then he begins to move. Braxton’s body slides against mine, his hands grip me by my wrists and he pulls me over, back so that I’m facing him. My eyes slide open as he gently lifts my arms around him, placing them at the back of his neck as his go to my waist. A muscled thigh slips between both of mine.

“I’m not lying this time,” he says. “It’s simple—I call you ‘Firebird’ because of your hair.”

I scowl. “What? Like asking if the curtains match the drapes?”

“No,” he says immediately. “And if anyone fucking asks that, tell me. I’ll cut their fucking eyeballs out of their head and feed them up their ass.” I don’t respond. Not because it’s a grotesque image, but because I’m actually sure he means it. “Your hair looks like fire,” Brax continues. “But you’re more like a bird—you flutter your wings, you fight against your cage, you should be free.”

“How ironic for my captor to say something like that,” I say dryly. “You’re a hypocrite.”

“I’m not your captor anymore and you’re not my captive,” he replies. “You can leave whenever you want.”

“Is that a fact?” Despite the fact that I know he can’t see me, my brows arch up. “What would happen, then, if I were to get up out of this bed right now, go downstairs, and walk out the door?”

“No one would stop you,” he says.

“But I wouldn’t be going alone,” I guess. He doesn’t respond. He doesn’t have to. I sigh. “That’s not freedom, Brax.”

“I won’t stop you from going or doing whatever you want, Clover,” he says. “I’m just going to ensure I’m right there at your side.”

“Even if I don’t fucking want you there?”

“There are a lot of things we don’t want but need.”

My lips purse and I don’t have to look into a mirror to know that my expression is twisted and ugly. “How philosophical,” I mock him. “Did you need your father to beat you to become the monster that you are?” I ask, digging into those old wounds of his and hoping he bleeds.

“Maybe,” he replies calmly. “Or maybe I was just born a monster.”

This is just too messed up. It’s all a tangled mess—my emotions, his presence, all of it. I try to yank my hands back, but he doesn’t let go.

“Don’t run,” he whispers. “Please don’t.”

“I can’t trust you anymore, Brax,” I say. “There can’t be a relationship without trust. I don’t forgive you and you can’t force me to.”

“You can’t deny that you want me,” he replies. “You can’t say that you don’t feel anything for me—you wouldn’t be as mad as you are if you didn’t care.”

“Maybe,” I agree. “But it isn’t my job, nor is it my responsibility to fix you, Brax.” I blow out a slow and steady breath. “I’m not one of those girls. It’s never been my intention to make you what you aren’t.”

“And what’s that?”

What a stupid question, I think. The answer is so simple. “Human.”

Silence meets that statement. He doesn’t speak for a very long time, and the word hangs between us—an invisible barrier. The truth.

“I don’t want to force you to forgive me,” he finally says. “I just want to show you what life can be like with me on your side. I want it, but it would mean nothing if I just took it.”

“Do you think you deserve to be forgiven?” I try instead, half curious and half frustrated by the brick wall it seems I’m talking to.

In the dim lighting, I see one corner of his mouth tilt upward—the shadows over his face moving with the small difference. “Oh baby,” he replies. “If I waited around and tried to only take what I think I deserve, I’d have nothing in this world.” Well, I suppose at least he’s honest with himself. “I don’t deserve you, Clover, but I want you. I want you more than anything else.”

How curious, I think. “More than revenge?” I ask.

“Yes.” There’s no hesitation. I want to believe that, but like my mom always said—put want in one hand and shit in the other and see which fills up faster…

The truth is simple: life is unfair and we can’t always have what we want.

“I’m done talking about this, Brax,” I say. “Let go of me. I’m going to sleep.”

“Just give me a chance, Clover.” His voice turns pleading. I can honestly say I never expected it from him. Begging does not suit a man like Braxton Smalls. “Whatever you want—the Undead will be taken care of, Ace is alive, you can go to Eastpoint, we can live together.”

Why now? Why not before? Why couldn’t he have professed this before I left? Before it was too late? It’s almost a cruel twist of fate that he’s like this when it’s already over. Does he really want me or does he want the idea of me because I’m the first one to ever tell him no? A dark insidious idea forms, something cruel and far different from anything I’ve ever wanted before. “You’ll do anything?”

As if sensing a weakness—a chink in my armor—he leaps on the words. “Yes.” Braxton’s hands tighten on me. “Anything.”

“Fine then,” I say. It’s time to test him. “I want control.”

I swear he stops breathing, but then, he gives his response. “Alright.”

“What?” I pull my head back, staring hard at his shadowed face.

“You want control?” he repeats. “You can have it.”

“You’ll let me tie you down?” I ask.

The muscles on the back of his neck where he keeps my hands anchored bunch and jump beneath my fingertips. His heartbeat picks up speed. “Yes.”

“You’ll let me do whatever I want to you?” I ask. “What if I want to hurt you?”

At that, he chuckles. “You should know by now that I like the pain, Firebird. If it’s you, I promise to be a very good boy. Whatever you want—you can have it. It’s yours and it’s been yours since the moment you accepted my darkness inside of you.”

He bows his head towards me until our foreheads touch and his scent invades me. I have the feeling that no one else has ever been given this offer. No one in the world knows him this way. It’s for me and me alone. He’s all over me. All around me and despite the fact that he said I can leave, I feel trapped by his arms, by him.

“I’m yours, Clover. Please realize that. From this moment on, I’ll be your shadow, I’ll be your dog. Use me to your heart’s desire, but just be forewarned, once I’ve sworn my loyalty there’s no turning back.”

I freeze, my body going hot and then cold. This is different. This is new. His words have signaled a change him, but maybe it’s not just him. No, I know it’s not. He’s not the only one who has started to change. He speaks as if it hasn’t already happened, but I’m scared … fucking terrified that it’s already too late. For both of us.

26

CLOVER

IN THE DAYS following Braxton’s offer, I feel a stillness—just like one might when standing in a great field with a storm on the horizon. All around me, there was a flurry of movement and I was a part of none of it. Ace came and went as he gathered information and contacted those that he trusted not to turn him over to the Undead—seemingly trusted by Braxton and his friends, but that wasn’t true. They watched him carefully, cautiously. He was aware of it. We all were.

Despite Avalon’s belief, Ace doesn’t approach me or try to convince me to leave. I would turn him down even if he did—not because of her, but because of Braxton’s offer. If I’m honest, and I feel like I have to be at least with myself if not with anyone else, I want it.

I want to take control of Brax. I want to know what it’s like to have complete and utter power over a man like him, in a way I’ve never had it before. Not over myself or my life or my circumstances. He’s willing to give it to me, and isn’t it my right to take it? It’s the least he can do for all the shit he’s put me through.

On the morning of the fifth day after being ‘rescued’ from the Undead, I wake up alone. It’s the first time all week. I roll over in bed and stare across the room at the gauzy dark curtains fluttering against the wall over the window. I lay there for several long moments, contemplating the point in even getting up when there’s a knock on the door.

With a groan, I toss back the covers and stand up. I’m still in the white t-shirt I fell asleep in, and though Braxton has since brought me back a few extra outfits to wear, I don’t bother to change before answering the door.

I crack it and find myself staring up at a semi-familiar face. “What?” I ask.

Marcus frowns down at me, his eyes skimming to where the hem of the t-shirt barely grazes my thigh before he turns his eyes up. “Meeting downstairs,” he says. “Brax didn’t want to start without you.”

A meeting? I think. This early? “What time is it?” I ask.

Marcus’ frown deepens. “It’s half past noon,” he says. “You’ve been sleeping later and later every day.” A fact that he sounds irritated about.

I arch a brow. “Does that bother you?” It’s surprising that he even cares. Last I recall, we hadn’t exactly left each other on a good note.

“It should bother you,” he replies. “Don’t you give a fuck about what your man is trying to do?”

I roll my eyes. “My man?” I prop my hip against the door letting it swing inward, revealing the rest of the mostly untouched bedroom. “I’m not sure who you’re talking about unless you mean the dickwad who kidnapped me the first time, dragged me here, and then got pissed when I left after he broke our promise. Then I have no regrets in informing you that he means nothing to me. I’m not his fucking girl and he’s certainly not my fucking man.”

Marcus blows out a breath, appearing for all the world like he’d rather be setting himself on fire than standing before me right now. “Just…” He grits his teeth and turns away. “Get your ass downstairs. You’ve got five minutes.”

Maybe it’d be easier to give in. To close the door and get changed and follow him down to whatever little meeting Braxton and his crew are having. I don’t really understand why they’d want me there considering no one has even bothered to ask for my input or opinion on whatever plans they’re concocting. But it would be the best thing to just go along with it for now, to let them handle everything and let them think they’re including me.

Then again, no one has ever accused me of choosing the easy path.

“No.”

Marcus pauses and looks over his shoulder at me in shock. “What?”

“I said no,” I repeat calmly. With that, I turn and head back into the room, leaving the door open. I’m sure he’d just break it down anyway if I locked it. That’s just the kind of asshole he seems to be.

Despite that thought, though, half of me expects Marcus to just leave—to run off and tell the others that I refused to come. Instead, he follows me inside and slams the door behind him. I glance back as I find the sacks of clothes on the dresser and start rifling through them.

“You really haven’t learned your lesson, have you?” I ask casually as I withdraw a pair of jean shorts and a long sleeve black Henley.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he growls, advancing on me.

“Split personality disorder probably,” I say, reaching down and ripping the white t-shirt up and over my head. “Among other things.” Depression. Apathy. Anger issues. Obsession with a psychopath. “After I die, maybe doctors can dissect my brain and figure it out, but considering I need it right now, we may never know.”

Marcus freezes at the sight of my half-naked body and whips around so fast, I’m shocked he doesn’t accidentally trip over his own two feet. I snicker as I grab the shorts and thread my legs through the holes.

“Do you have any fucking clue what we’ve been doing for the last few days?” he demands. “What we’ve been risking?”

I pull the shorts up and quickly button them before reaching for the Henley and yanking it down over my head. Flipping my hair out of my collar, I reply. “No, I have no clue what you’ve been doing,” I say. “No one’s told me, no one’s even bothered to ask me—so I have no clue why you’re wanting my cooperation now.”

Marcus’ back stiffens as he listens to the sounds of my movements. “Braxton will fucking kill me if he thinks I saw you naked,” he mutters.

Fucking baby. “I wasn’t naked,” I remind him. “I was wearing a bra and underwear.”

“Same fucking difference.”

Should I feel bad for Marcus? Maybe. Do I? Not at all. But he’s right. Braxton wouldn’t care if I was completely covered—Marcus will be in trouble for just being in the same room as me, alone, with the door closed, especially after our last encounter.

“You can turn around,” I say. “I’m decent.”

Marcus glances over his shoulder once as if he doesn’t trust me to tell the truth before he fully turns towards me when he realizes that I am, in fact, covered. “I’ve known Braxton damn near my whole life,” he snaps, moving towards me. “And I’ve never fucking seen him like this, but do you care? Fuck no. You don’t. I’ve never known Braxton to let someone live once he’s decided they’re dead. He doesn’t change his fucking mind, but your brother is down there right now sitting in Dean’s house—living in Dean’s estate—like nothing ever fucking happened.”

“From what I understand, you weren’t here when shit went down between them so why do you even care?” I ask.

Marcus growls. “Those men are my fucking brothers,” he snaps. “They’ve done shit for me and kept my fucking secrets. It doesn’t matter that I wasn’t here. I owe them. So do you.”

I level him with a cool look. “Let me guess”—I suck in a breath—“you needed to get rid of someone—maybe you needed to do it to protect someone else—but at the end of the day, you had a problem and they solved it. Your problem went away because your friends helped you and you’ve never been able to repay them. Do I have it right?”

His eyes widen, but his nonresponse already tells me everything I need to know.

I place my hands on my hips and shake my head. “Let me tell you something,” I say. “Friends don’t owe friends. Braxton wants something from me—so this, what he and I have? It’s not a friendship.”

“You heartless fucking bitch.”

I laugh. “Yeah, maybe I am. I’m a bitch and you’re an asshole. What’s new?” I gesture to the rest of the room. “Was that your big plan when you stormed in here after me after not getting what you wanted? To insult me into doing what you want? You’ve gotta work on your game, man. That’s not how you do it.”

“I’ve never seen Braxton so fucking hung up on some chick,” Marcus replies. “He fucking loves you and you don’t care.”

“Because I never asked for his fucking love!” I scream. My face flushes hotly and I already know that the redness that overtakes my skin when I get overly emotional is creeping up my neck. I just can’t find it in me to care. “In case you forgot,” I snap, advancing on him, “your brother kidnapped me. He took me as trade for my actual brother and he fucked me right before he fucked me over. Maybe he helped you, but he never helped me. Everything he’s done for me has been for nothing but his own gain.”

My chest rises and falls rapidly. My palms start to sweat and my stomach turns. “Everyone in this fucking life always wants something,” I continue. “They don’t do things because they care or out of the goodness of their heart.”

“Do you honestly believe that?” he asks.

“Yes!” I’m panting, well aware that my voice is rising higher and higher in volume, but I can’t stop. It’s like all of the emotion I’ve pushed down over the last few days is coming to the surface. Boiling over. “Braxton doesn’t fucking love me,” I tell him. “I’m just an obsession. He can’t have what he really wants, so he’s trying to keep the next best thing.” A bird in a cage.

Marcus’ shoulders loosen and his balled-up fists go slack at his sides as he takes a step back and tilts his head at me. “Your brother should be dead,” he begins.

“Don’t start with that fucking bull—”

“He should be,” Marcus interrupts. “Braxton gave up his kill rights to Dean and Avalon, but Dean hasn’t killed him yet. Don’t you want to know why?”

I know before he even gives me the answer. Avalon had told me as much. “Because they care about Braxton,” he says. And I would never forgive him for killing Ace.

“How nice for them.” I seethe, feeling violent and angry. Tears well up in my eyes and I turn away out of instinct. Fuck these fucking tears, I think. I hate them—almost as much as I hate Braxton fucking Smalls. “That has nothing to do with me.”

“It has everything to do with you!”

My spine stiffens, but I don’t turn around, not even when I hear the soft pad of Marcus’ feet over the carpeted floor. He doesn’t touch me as he comes closer. A part of me almost wishes he would, because I have half a mind to grab whatever hand he touches me with and break it.

“You locked yourself up here,” Marcus says. “And you haven’t said so much as a thank you to the people trying to take care of you. Just drop the fucking act—I thought at the very least after everything that’s happened, you’d figure out that you’re not exactly in a position to reject our help, but maybe we’ve been too nice.”

I snort and finally turn to face him. “You? Nice?” I shake my head. “Don’t make me laugh.”

He ignores my statement. “I’m not fucking nice,” he says, gripping my arm and turning me in a fast movement before slamming me up against the dresser. “We’ve got a lead on the head of the Undead. So, you’re going to march your ass down there, sit and listen like a pretty little empty-headed doll. Then shut your mouth and let Braxton take care of shit and maybe—just fucking maybe—you’ll get out of this alive.”

I stare up into Marcus’ brown eyes. They’re like muddy waters surrounding a black island. “I think you’re mistaken, Marcus.” My words come out calm and cold. “It’s my own fault, I recognize that. I came here under different circumstances the first time. I seemed weak to you—enough so that you feel confident in threatening me like this.” I reach down and grasp his balls through his jeans and his eyes widen in shock. No, he hadn’t been expecting that. I squeeze until he chokes. “You. Don’t. Command. Me.”

“Fuck,” he grunts, reaching down and grabbing onto my wrist, tightening his hold until the bone inside creaks. I laugh and squeeze harder, until he’s wheezing and turning blue. “I’ll … break … it…” Sweat beads against his skin and slides down the side of his face.

“Break it then,” I say, tilting my head to the side. “You think I can’t take a little broken bone?”

He gags in response.

“I think you’ll learn your lesson this time, Marcus,” I tell him slowly, just enough so that he can still understand my words through the pain no doubt radiating through him. Men are so weak in certain spots, and I never really realized how easy it was to overcome them with a handful of something so soft and vulnerable. “Stay out of my fucking business. You worry about Braxton, and I’ll worry about myself.”

With that, I release him and shove him back. He stumbles back and cups his hand over his groin with a dark glare as he sucks in breath after breath. I walk in front of him, grabbing the handle of the door and yanking it open only to slam into a familiar chest.

Ace stands there, hand raised to knock, but when he catches sight of Marcus behind me his expression goes dark. “What—

“Don’t,” I warn him, cutting off his question. “It’s been handled.”

Ace lowers his arm and I push past him, heading for the end of the hall. “Clover, wait!” I don’t wait, I start down the stairs, hearing him follow. “Damn it, Clover. Just let me—”

I stop on the next landing and turn, glaring up at him. “Let you what?” I ask and before he can answer, I take a wild guess. “Apologize? I’m real fucking sick of people apologizing to me. Instead of doing that, why don’t you actually stop doing shit to apologize for in the first place.”

“Don’t you think I’m trying?” Ace bites out. He takes the stairs down two at a time and stops in front of me. “I’m not going to ask what happened between you and that guy—” He gestures behind him.

“I wouldn’t tell you even if you did,” I say. “It’s none of your business.”

“I know you’re pissed—”

I cross my arms. “Understatement of the century, but go on.”

Ace grits his teeth and shoves a hand up through the hair on top of his head. “I’m fucking trying, okay,” he says. “I really am. I know what happened is my fault—Mama is … dead, and it’s my fault. You were taken. Ivan…”

“You could’ve warned me,” I tell him. “Maybe I would’ve been prepared.”

“Ivan made the decision years ago,” he argues. “And when we found you, we didn’t want to put any more pressure on you. I thought just teaching you a little would be enough. I never intended for any of my work to come home with me.”

“But it did.” And he can’t take it back.

His fingers dig into the back of his scalp. “Yeah … it did.”

“Is this why you’ve been so helpful?” I ask. “Why you’re letting Braxton call the shots?”

“I thought that’s what you wanted,” he replies. “That’s what you told me to do.”

Yeah, I had, but I’m surprised it’s been this easy for him. “I honestly thought you’d try to convince me to leave by now,” I say.

“Would you?”

I blink at the question. “Would I leave?” I clarify.

He nods.

Maybe if he’d asked me when I first woke up, but after talking with Avalon, I know staying is better—not just for me, but for both of us. “No.”

“That’s why I haven’t asked,” he says. “I didn’t think you’d go.”

Huh. Guess Avalon had called that one wrong, I think. I turn to head down the rest of the stairs. “He’s obsessed, you know.”

Ace’s words give me pause and even turned away, I can feel the intensity of his stare as it bores into the back of my head. I close my eyes and inhale deeply, trying to stave off the infuriating rush of emotion that fills me.

“Why do you think I care?” I ask without turning around.

Ace chuckles and the sound actually forces me to look back at him. His lips are twisted, but the laugh he releases is anything but amused. It’s dry and almost sardonic. “Solnyshka…” He shakes his head at me. “You might pretend otherwise, but you care.” He says it as if the very notion of my denial is preposterous.

I scowl. “No, I don’t,” I snap.

Ace takes a step off of the landing and moves down towards me. “You are just as aware of his presence as he is of yours,” he tells me. “That man is undeniably consumed by you and you are to him as well. Maybe you’re trying not to be, but it’s a losing battle.”

“I can lose a battle or two,” I say defensively as he comes to stand right next to me and I turn to face him fully. “But I don’t have to lose the war.”

He smiles at me, brows lowered and expression sympathetic. Ace lifts his hand and pauses, just before touching the side of my head, fingers bare inches from my hair as his gaze shifts to the side and down. I don’t have to follow his attention to know that someone is watching. He waits a moment before finally dropping his hand.

In my periphery, I catch sight of a massive shadow at the bottom of the staircase. Ace leans forward, pressing a gentle kiss to my cheek before he whispers his response. “Remember, baby sis, obsession is a weapon easily used.”

My body stiffens at his words, but before I can summon a response, he passes me by and moves down the stairwell. I wait several seconds before turning and following him and just as I suspected—Braxton stands at the bottom of the stairs, waiting and glaring at Ace as he shoots him a quick smirk and disappears down the hallway towards the living room.

He wants to ask. I can see it on Brax’s face. Above me, I hear movements and that stirs me to hurry my ass up. I’m sure Marcus will tell the others about our little argument, but I don’t need to be around for that. I move down the last few steps and bypass Braxton, trailing my brother and trying, for all I’m worth, not to inhale too deeply the spicy male scent of the man that I once saw as a damaged psychopath who needed someone as much as I did.

The fact is, it doesn’t matter if Brax is damaged. It doesn’t matter if I’m damaged. Two damaged people cannot fix each other and like I told him before, it’s not my responsibility to try and fix him. I need to focus on myself, and that’s exactly what I plan on doing.

27

CLOVER

IT’S difficult not to focus on someone when your entire being is so viscerally aware of them. Braxton must know that about me, too. He must surely realize that I see every movement of his. I hear every word he says. I feel every goddamn breath he takes because he refuses to leave my side.

Marcus glares at me as he enters the living room minutes after I’ve already taken my place against the wall just next to the couch. It’s packed full of people, far more than I’ve seen before. A semi-familiar man stands against the wall, his tree-trunk sized arms bound over his chest and covered in tattoos. He lifts his head and offers me a smile, but I don’t return it, not when I’m too busy being interrupted by Marcus as he bypasses me, scowling my way.

I roll my eyes. “Something the matter?” I taunt him with a cruel twist of my lips. He merely flips me off and storms over to where Dean sits in a chair, Ava perched on the cushioned armrest. He stands behind them and mimics the motion of the tattooed man by folding his arms across his chest.

Pussy, I think snidely before returning the focus of my attention to the man standing in the center of the room. Or at least … I try.

Braxton moves in at my back, shifting ever closer. I can feel the heat of him and it takes everything in me not to react, at least not externally. Inside, I’m a rioting fucking mess.

My body, the traitorous bitch that she is, misses him. My pussy doesn’t understand that we shouldn’t want the monster that stands behind us like a violent knight in blackened armor ready to defend us and break the bones of anyone who dares to touch us. We don’t need a protector. Not anymore. We protect ourselves because men are what they’ve always been—unreliable.

“Alright, now that we’re all here…” The man in the center of the room claps his hands and spins in a circle, his shaggy blonde hair swishing above his shoulders as he looks around as if to double check. I frown, recognizing him briefly as the guy from the club all those weeks ago—the one Braxton hadn’t been too happy to have me dancing with. Why doesn’t it surprise me to find out he’s with these men?

“You said you had information for us, Luc,” Dean says, his voice growly and unfriendly. Ava smirks, but quietly smacks his arm as a silent gesture for him to behave. I’ve never been in a relationship like theirs myself—I certainly wouldn’t consider what I had, as in past tense, with Brax, anything similar, but I understand the dynamics nonetheless.

Hmmm, maybe not exactly with them then. Not if Dean’s responding glare at Ava is any indication.

Luc nods. “I have more than information,” he agrees before he reaches down to the coffee table overflowing with papers and folders. He picks up what looks to be a regular manila folder and holds it up. “I’ve got a fucking meeting with the Undead.”

Shock hits me. A meeting? I look back and Braxton’s eyes meet mine. An unreadable conversation flows between us. Is it real? Can it be trusted? He merely nods towards Luc and I return my attention to the center of the room, finding it easier to ignore Braxton’s heated breath on the back of my neck in favor of hearing about our mutual enemy.

A purple flurry of hair jerks up from the couch. I watch as Rylie practically leaps up and out of Abel’s arms, thrusting the computer she’d previously had perched on her thighs into his lap as she snatches the folder out of Luc’s hand and quickly flips it open.

“How the fuck did you manage that?” she demands, a scowl turning her lips downward. “I’ve been trying for the last several days just to get a contact.” She flips the pages contained within the folder and begins pouring through them, her brow creased with irritation. “I’ve gotten fucking nowhere.”

I press my lips together to stop myself from smiling at the clear insult in her tone—as if she can’t believe he beat her to the punch. I don’t need to hold off my amusement for long because Braxton moves ever closer, practically pressing himself into my back and my body goes rigid. Did I say it got easier? I was fucking lying to myself. A low buzzing noise starts up in the back of my head, taking over and winding through my ears.

Calm the fuck down, Clover, I warn myself. He’s just a man. There’s nothing special about him.

“It wasn’t easy,” Luc admits. “Becoming a new client is a rough process and an effort in futility—their contracts and connections, how to contact them as well, it’s all ridiculously complex.”

“It needs to be,” Ace replies. “It’s an organization for killers after all. They can’t exactly keep regular business hours and have a shop for you to walk into and make your demands.”

Luc arches a brow at my brother but continues on as if he hadn’t spoken. “As it stands, we technically aren’t new clients,” he continues.

“Your father had connections,” Dean says.

Luc nods. “Yes. Though I couldn’t figure out what he’s used them for—”

“What’s his name?” Ace asks.

Luc finally looks back at him. “Thomas Kincaid.”

All eyes are on Ace as he stiffens and then slowly moves towards Luc and Rylie. Abel thrusts Rylie’s laptop off of his lap and stands as well, his muscles tensing. I know why. Ace is an outsider to these people. I am too, for sure, but I’m also not responsible for anyone’s torture here. Not enough to earn the promise and threat of death anyway.

“May I see?” Ace holds out his hand for the folder. After a quick glance at the rest of the room—or more specifically, Avalon, Dean, Abel, and Brax—Rylie gently closes the folder and hands it over.

Ace slips his fingers into the open side of the folder and flips it to the first page, his eyes scanning the words on the document there. “I see,” he says quietly. “Yes, Thomas Kincaid is a client of the Undead.”

Luc’s shoulders move back and down. It’s interesting to watch because he tries not to show the stiffness in his muscles or the way Ace’s words bother him, but anyone watching close enough can see he’s not comfortable. He’s angry, and he’s trying to hide it. “What were the services he requested?” His tone is light. Casual. As if he doesn’t care if Ace answers or not. I know better. He cares.

Ace presses his lips together and I can see the battle on his face—to answer the question that would likely betray his old organization, but at the same time, their obvious actions and intentions to kill him make it so that he owes them no loyalty. It’s not easy to go against all you’ve ever known. The thought turns my gaze to the man who made me realize that. And as if he’s not taken his eyes off me even once in the entire time we’ve been in this room, Braxton’s gaze meets mine.

My throat feels tight. I swallow against the feeling, like sandpaper is making its way down my windpipe. The swirl of the hazel in his eyes captures my mind and refuses to release me. His hand touches my arm and moves down.

No, I tell myself. No, I don’t want this. I can’t want this. Not after everything that’s happened between us. My breath rushes in and out of my lungs—painful and aching. My chest practically throbs with the want inside of it. He leans closer. Too close. Too much. I can’t fucking take it anymore.

“Clover, I—”

I don’t get to hear what he would have whispered. It’s interrupted by Ace’s answer to Luc’s question. “He never requested assassination,” Ace says. “But he did request the falsification of documents.”

“What kind?” Luc demands.

Ace hands the folder back over before lifting his gaze to the man before him. “I wasn’t involved with the documentation requests,” he says. “All I can say is that it had to do with someone’s medical records.”

“Medical records?” Luc’s hand clenches against the folder, the manila material crackling under the harsh grip. “Whose records?”

“I don’t know.” Ace shakes his head. “But you should probably understand that it wasn’t an uncommon request. A lot of people in the political and business world try to attack their enemies by having them falsely documented as legally insane or something similar. It could’ve been a court case or something else. I wouldn’t know. I wasn’t privy to those details. I’m sorry I don’t remember much more. I wasn’t directly involved. All I ever did for Thomas Kincaid was facilitate hiding some properties. Most of my work involved…” Ace’s voice gets quieter as he looks around the room. “...other things,” he finishes, and there’s no doubt from anyone else what those other ‘things’ were.

A tense silence descends over the room, cutting through the people in it. I try to focus on Luc, considering he seems to be the most upset by Ace’s answer—Dean and Avalon and everyone else just seem resigned to it. The only one who isn’t even watching him is the man at my back. Braxton’s sole focus is on me and it’s hard to ignore.

“We have a meeting then,” Dean says, breaking the quiet and drawing the subject back to the matter at hand—going after the Undead. “What’s the date and time?”

“Next week,” Luc answers, dropping the folder onto the coffee table. “They wanted to meet at a club outside of Eastpoint. It’s called Stonewall. The meeting begins at midnight, but we should be there early.”

“Are we going back to classes between then and now?” Rylie asks, turning to Abel with a frown.

Abel blanches and looks down to her still barely noticeable bump. “Do you really think that’s a good idea, riot girl?”

Her frown turns into a scowl. “I am not going to be a college dropout, Abel,” she snaps. “At the very least, one of us needs to talk to the administrators and give a reason for our absences.”

“Coach is probably pissed,” Marcus comments in agreement.

I glance back at Brax as he sighs. They can’t be serious. Are they really worrying about classes and school? When we have more important things to worry about—such as a dangerous underground organization made of supposedly dead people coming after me to kill me and my brother.

“You think it’s pointless, don’t you?”

I look up at that question and meet the speaker’s gaze. Avalon stares back at me with a raised brow. I shrug.

“Isn’t it?” I reply. “The school isn’t going anywhere, but I might be dead tomorrow.”

A low growl starts up behind me and the sound prickles along my nerve endings. Braxton’s obvious anger at my words continues to rumble and distract me even as Avalon responds. “In chaos, you still need a center,” she says. “Eastpoint is that for all of us. Well…” She hedges glancing to Luc. “Most of us.”

“Don’t give me that,” Luc huffs. “I’ve been working on this shit to get transferred to your damn Eastpoint.”

“And what? Become an Eastpoint Heir ally?” Abel snaps back.

“Why not?” Luc replies. “It’s not like we’re enemies anymore.”

I’ve had enough of this. “I’m going back to my room,” I say, halting the conversation. “Go back to school like civilians if you want. I’ll be figuring out a way to kill Hades when we go to that meeting.”

“You’re not going.” My whole body locks into place at those words and slowly—ever so fucking slowly—I turn to meet the gaze of the man who spoke them. Braxton stares back at me, his eyes unwavering and his expression stoic.

“The fuck I’m not.” The words are out of my mouth before I can think better of them.

“Clover—”

“Don’t fucking ‘Clover’ me,” I growl, cutting him off as I slide closer, slapping a hand against his chest and shoving him back into the wall. “I am going to that fucking meeting and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

“Alright,” Dean says as he claps his hands behind me, but I don’t care—I’m not listening. I’ve given up trying to ignore Braxton and have now let myself be completely consumed with his presence. “Why don’t we…” Whatever Dean says is lost on me as Braxton leans closer to me and speaks, drowning out all other sound.

“You said it yourself,” he reminds me. “You could die.”

“That won’t stop me,” I tell him. “It doesn’t stop you. Why the fuck would I be any different?”

“Because you are different,” he replies. “You’re not trained—”

“You don’t know shit about my training,” I interrupt. “I know how to shoot a fucking gun. Give me one and I’ll prove to you here and now that I can pull the fucking trigger when needed.”

“Are you threatening to kill me?” His lips curve up into a smile. “You should know the only thing that accomplishes is turning me on.”

I snarl at him as I yank myself away. “You’re sick.”

He shrugs. “It’s part of my dark charm, don’t you think?”

“No. I don’t.” The denial shoots out of my mouth quicker than the thought that he could be right crosses my mind.

His eyes glint, knowing. “Yes, you do, Firebird.” I move to slide past him back into the hallway, but he grabs at my wrist—fingers locking around my arm—and stops me. “You’re not going to that fucking meeting, Clover.”

I turn and let him see the seriousness in my eyes before I carefully extract my arm from his grasp. “Try and stop me, Brax,” I whisper-hiss back. “I fucking dare you.”

28

BRAXTON

I DRAG the side of my finger down the cold, condensation covered glass as I stare into its amber contents. It’s my third … no, maybe my fourth one. I can’t remember. I started strong, but now I’m drifting. Losing interest in drowning myself. My thoughts have been a haze of regrets and future plans as I’ve sat at the nearly empty bar of Urban drinking whiskey like I’m some sad sack of shit that’s been kicked out of his marital bed because of some perceived insult.

The unfortunate fact is—I feel like that sad sack of shit.

With a scowl, I stop fiddling with the damn glass and wrap my hand around it, lifting it up until the rim touches my lips and I drain the liquid inside.

“You asked me to meet you here?” Dean’s voice comes just over my shoulder as I set the glass back on the counter.

Usually Urban is crowded with partiers and drinkers—but it’s a fucking Wednesday and even spoiled rich college kids need to pretend that they’re doing something at college other than making poor decisions that will follow them into the rest of their lives. It’s not one of the most profitable nights and that’s exactly why I asked him here. Away from prying eyes and more importantly, away from Clover and the house that she’s been trapped in since she was rescued from the Undead.

“Yeah,” I say, sliding the glass over to the bartender who picks it up and refills it without a second’s hesitation before sliding it to me. “I did.”

I feel Dean’s eyes on me, but he doesn’t say anything more as he takes a seat next to me and lifts his fingers. A second glass of whiskey comes down the countertop next to my own. He picks it up. I can’t believe I’m contemplating this—what I’m about to ask. Every piece of me fights against it, denies it, but if I’ve learned anything in the last few months it’s that sometimes … situations are inevitable.

Clover is inevitable. I didn’t know it then—when I broke her. I do now.

“Have you made a decision?” I ask.

Dean doesn’t need clarification; he knows what I’m referring to. “Avalon has the final say,” he tells me. “But from what I understand, she’s willing to let shit go in the face of … certain realities.”

I shake my head. Certain realities. A snort leaves my mouth, buzzing through my throat. When the fuck did we become the types of assholes who hint at shit?

“So, you’re not going to kill him?” Ace. Clover’s brother. The reason for her hatred.

Dean is quiet for a moment. “She wants you happy, brother,” he finally says.

I grip my glass and stare down over the rim. “She’s fucking infuriating,” I admit absently. “Clover, I mean—though Avalon can be too.”

That has him chuckling. “The best ones always are,” he agrees. “Have you talked to Viks yet?”

I groan and lift my glass, downing half in one go before setting it down. “Fuck, don’t bring him up,” I say. “Yes, I’ve talked to the fucker—and he’s all about letting this shit go if it means I can get her in the end.”

“Then do that.”

My head whips towards him. “You serious?” I stare at him hard, trying to see something beyond the mask of calm he’s wearing. It used to be easy. Now, I find it hard to believe because that’s all I see. Just the calm, the acceptance.

Fuck, he’s just like me. I’d fought the idea. Damn near tore myself to shreds to get away from what I think I’ve always known, and he’s just … sitting there. No judgment. No anger. Like he, too, has known all along where this would end up. With me giving up everything to please a woman.

“I can’t lose her, Dean.” The words come out a whisper, but in my head, they echo. Over and over again. A reminder. A fear.

“And if you kill her brother—if we kill her brother—you will,” Dean says.

Yes. That’s the fucking problem. Loyalty is not gray. It’s black or white. You’re either all in or not at all. I’ve always been all in and this is the first time my loyalty has ever been tested. Them or her. I can’t choose. I won’t.

“If you decide that he has to go…” The words are like shards of glass as they come out of my throat, cutting through my mouth and making me feel like my insides are bleeding and raw. “Then I’ll accept it.”

Dean’s eyes bore into the side of my face. It’s hard to look back at him, knowing what I know about him. We’ve been raised to rely only on each other, to only believe in each other. There’s never been an outside that has threatened that. Even Avalon didn’t threaten it the way Clover does.

I want Ace dead, that’s the truth. And I want Clover alive. I want her with me. The two desires cannot coexist. Either he lives and she stays. Or he dies and she leaves. My chest aches with failure, a deep pain that ricochets into my ribcage and sinks into my muscles.

“We would never hurt you like that, Brax.” Dean’s words are low, meant only for my ears. When he says them, they ease something inside my chest. They make me release a breath I hadn’t even realized I’d been holding.

As if to distract myself from my own deficiency, I lift the glass back to my lips and just before I take a sip, I ask a question. “Do you think it was obvious from the start?”

Dean chuckles again. “That you had a thing for the girl?” he clarifies. “Yeah, I guess a little bit. I could tell you were interested in her. Why do you think you were warned not to get too close.”

“I don’t think I had a chance,” I admit. “Not from the first moment I chased her ass down and tackled her into the muddy swamp beneath her fucking ugly ass trailer.”

“You do seem to like the fighters,” Dean agrees as he drinks from his own glass. “I can’t say I don’t understand the appeal of a chick who won’t take your bullshit lying down.” The sound of the bartender washing glasses at the end of the counter and the weekday DJ pounding less than enthused beats to the few patrons scattered around the upper ledges and in private booths fills the air around us.

“I don’t want her at that meeting,” I tell him.

Dean nods. “I don’t want Avalon there either.”

“Call Luc and have him change the meeting time and the location,” I say. “Don’t tell the others.”

“They’re going to figure out something’s up when we all go missing,” Dean replies.

“We can leave Abel behind with them and take Marcus with us as backup,” I say. “Avalon and Rylie won’t consider that we’d leave him out.”

“Abel won’t like that idea.”

“He’ll like it better than leaving Rylie on her own with Avalon,” I remind him. “Especially with that extra package she’s carrying. I don’t know if you’ve fucking noticed, man, but he’s a little fucking crazy when it comes to her.”

“Aren’t we all?” Dean laughs, and I shake my head, but after a beat, his laughter trails off and he tilts his head to the side in contemplation. “We can possibly move it up to this week. We’ll say something happened and we need their services sooner.”

“If it’s a trap on their part, they’ll be scrambling to get shit into place,” I say.

“I doubt they’ve figured out the connection. As far as most of the media and the rest of the world is concerned, the Kincaids still have beef with the Carters—and you’re attached to me indefinitely.” He sets his glass down and scratches the side of his chin as he stares across the bar, eyes unfocused, but in the direction of the dozens of colorful and variously shaped alcohol bottles lining the mirrored backdrop. “We’ll have to give Luc the greenlight at the end of this and let him transfer to Eastpoint. He’s done too much for us now. We can’t put it off anymore. There’s no more reason to.”

“I still don’t like that prick,” I mutter.

“It’ll be good, though, to have the rivalry over with,” Dean replies. “I’m done with that bullshit. It was getting old. Hell, we’re getting old. We don’t have the luxury of worrying about insignificant petty fights anymore.”

I ignore the old comment, though I can’t say I don’t agree with him. Nearly twenty-two feels a hell of a lot like eighty when you’ve been through the life we have. “When do you think we’ll actually go back?” I ask.

“To Eastpoint?” Dean clarifies, glancing my way once before fingering the top of his glass. “Not sure. I know Rylie wants to go back soon, but this shit needs to be cleared up first. I don’t think she understands the severity of the organization we’ve just attacked. I had Abel contact Coach and explain that we won’t be back for the time being. We’ll be sat out for at least the next month.”

I sigh. “Sorry, man. I know how much you miss it—the ball and the field.”

Dean inhales a breath and then lifts his glass, draining the last of his drink before setting it firmly back onto the countertop. “I do miss it, but maybe this is for the best. I’m not exactly in the best shape. The doctor only gave me the green light because of all the improvements from physical therapy—but at the end of the day, I’m not going to be the same after the shooting.”

“I’m sorry, man,” I say. “You don’t know how fucking sorry I am.”

Dean blows out a breath and shakes his head. “You ain’t got shit to be sorry about, Brax. It wasn’t on you.” I open my mouth to reply, but before I can get a word out, he continues, cutting me off. “And before you go off about how it was your father, don’t. None of us control our old men. You wouldn’t blame me if it had been Nicolas on the other side of that barrel and if it had been aimed at your chest.”

“But it wasn’t aimed at my chest,” I remind him. “It was aimed at you and Avalon.”

“And the reason happened long before any of us were old enough to understand the kind of life we’d been born into.” He cuts a look my way—a dark glare that tells me to drop the subject. “None of us had a choice—not you, not me, not Abel, not Avalon. What happened in the past should stay there. We’re nothing like those bastards and our turn is coming. It’s here. We won’t live the way they did. Things will be different for us. All that bullshit, the training, the killing, the threats, and corruption. It ends with us. So keep your fucking sorry, I sure as hell don’t need you to be sorry for a damn thing. You’re my brother. You always have been and always will be. No matter your future choices.”

I don’t know what to say to that. It’s hard to contrive any fucking response. My hand touches the edge of the counter, wraps around the underside, and tightens. “I’ll make sure you don’t regret it,” I say hoarsely. “Not killing Ace.”

Dean’s lips twitch and he grins, nodding my way. “Ace is smart. He knows a good alpha when he sees one. He’ll become a loyal dog. The Eastpoint Heirs’ bitch. He’ll be a useful tool, but at the end of the day, he’ll be alive. Your girl will have to live with that.”

A groan rumbles up my chest and I lean back against the stool. Speaking of Clover reminds me of all the fight still left in her. “I’m not even sure this much will soften her towards me,” I admit. “She battles me every step of the way. The only time I can even get close to her is when I force her.”

Dean shrugs. “So?”

I blink. “Viks says pushing her will only push her away,” I tell him.

Dean smirks. “Viks is a therapist. That’s what he’s supposed to say. You tried his way, didn’t you?”

“Yeah.” I blow out a breath. “Fat lot of good it’s done me too.”

“I’m sure it’s done something,” Dean replies, “but now it’s probably time for you to switch tactics. You’ve let her have space. You’re thinking too hard about this. The most difficult part is figured out. We won’t kill her brother. Now, all you need to do is get her to open up.” He lifts a brow at me. “Just do what you do best, Brax. Take what you want.”

The desire—no, the need—to do just as he says rides me harder than a fucking high. It’s all I’ve wanted to do all along. I’ve fought my instincts—fought to give her time and space even though my head told me it was the stupidest thing to do. Dean is right. I’ve got to get Clover to open up to me. If she won’t do it on her own, then that just means I’ve got to get my hands a little bloody.

It’s not like that particularly bothers me, but I have the feeling that ripping Clover open will only damage both of us. What I really need to do is rip myself open, bare my own guts, and show her my old wounds—far more than I ever have before.

I need to give her something that no one has from me. Not my father. Not the bitches that came before. Not even my brothers.

I’ve got to give her everything.

29

CLOVER

THUNDER IS ROLLING OVERHEAD, above the ceiling, shaking the windows of the house and I can’t sleep. It hasn’t started raining yet but it will. My body aches with the knowing as I roll over, sliding beneath the skin warmed sheets. I tuck the pillow I flip over beneath my head once more and huff out a breath, squeezing my eyes shut, trying to force sleep. It feels like they’re only closed for a mere moment before I hear the creak of the door behind me opening.

Electricity sizzles down my spine beneath the tank top I’m wearing and I don’t need to look back to know who it is. “Go away, Brax,” I grumble. He doesn’t respond, but he also doesn’t leave. His presence grows closer. Outside, the wind slaps against the windows and rattles them again.

The sheets are ripped away from me. I gasp and snap upward, turning towards him. “What the fuck!”

“Get up,” he says. “You’re coming with me.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “You can’t be serious.” He stands there, in the dark, a shadow among shadows, watching me, waiting. “I’m not going anywhere with you, Brax. I told you I’m done.”

I reach for the sheets in his hand, but he merely pulls them back and holds them up. I could get up. I could pull them away from him, back onto the bed and roll over and pretend like he doesn’t exist, but I suppose that’s what he expects. With a growl, I slide off the other side of the bed.

“Fine, you can sleep in here,” I snap. “I’ll find somewhere else to stay.” I start to round the bottom of the bed when he replies.

“I didn’t come here to sleep.” He drops the sheets to the floor and steps in front of me, halting my forward movement. I glare up at him and I part my lips with every intention of giving him a scathing reply. Before I get the opportunity, however, he bends down, places his shoulder against my stomach, wraps one arm around both of my legs, and then stands back up, effectively lifting me from the floor.

“Brax!” I pound a fist against his back. “Put me the fuck down!”

He doesn’t say a word as he turns and heads for the door. I struggle against him, kicking and punching his back and side, but I could be nothing more than a fly buzzing around his head for as bothered as he appears. No one comes out of their rooms or even tries to stop him as he carries me down the hall, down the stairs, and into the garage.

Braxton doesn’t stop until we’re next to a familiar SUV. Only then does he hit a button on his key fob to unlock the vehicle and pop the passenger side door open. I scowl at him as he drops me into the seat.

“Don’t—” Brax ignores me and reaches across my chest, gripping the seatbelt and tugging it down until the buckle snicks as it clicks into place. I curl my hands into fists, digging my nails into the palms of my hands as I resist the urge to claw at his face. “I don’t like being manhandled,” I snap.

Braxton lifts his gaze to mine and doesn’t say a damn word in response. His silence is unnerving. He backs away and closes the door behind him and I’m left to watch him through the windshield as he circles the front of the car and gets into the other side.

I shake my head. “Where the hell are you taking me, Brax?”

Still no answer. Instead, he hits another button that has the garage door behind us lifting before he plugs the key into the ignition and turns it. The SUV rumbles to life and I shiver as air-conditioned air slaps me in the face.

Crossing my arms over my chest as my nipples harden beneath the thin fabric of my tank top, I continue to glare at him. “I don’t know if it’s escaped your notice, but I’m not dressed to go anywhere.”

Braxton’s gaze skims back to me and slowly slides down my body. Ridiculously, my nipples harden even further. Betraying bitches. I turn my face away as heat I try to tamp down rises to my cheeks. “Don’t worry,” he says. “We’re not going far.”

Yet, he still doesn’t tell me exactly where we’re going. I sit silently fuming as he backs out of the parking spot inside the garage and as soon as we’re free of the house, the wind outside howls. I look up and watch the dark gray clouds swirling overhead. There’s no moon tonight, or if there is—it’s hidden far beyond the darkness and impending rain.

The SUV heads down the long winding driveway and I stare at the trees as they fly by, growing more and more angry the further we go. “I don’t know what you want from me, Brax,” I say after what feels like several minutes of silence. “Because the moment I think I do—you change. I can never trust what you’ll do next.” And a part of me kind of liked that, in the past, even if I was scared of it. Braxton is unpredictable in his actions, but there’s one thing I do know—he never takes no for an answer. Just like tonight.

“You want me to trust you,” I say, “and yet you pull shit like this. You don’t give me a choice and you take whatever you fucking want. How am I supposed to trust someone like that?”

I look back at him, but his eyes are focused firmly forward. His lips are tilted down, little lines crinkling the edges of his eyes as he stares through the windshield.

“What?” I prompt him. “No response?” Nope. Nada. Nothing. My anger grows. “What do you think this will accomplish?” I try instead. “Taking me somewhere in the middle of the night? Do you think going on a drive will have me open up to you? You betrayed me, Brax. You took my fucking deal and all along you were planning on killing my brother. The one fucking family—” I cut off as my eyes begin to burn.

I might be mad at my brother right now, but he’s all I have left. Mama Luda is gone. Ivan is gone. Without Ace, I’ll be alone. Abandoned all over again. I reach up and swipe under my eye as a tear escapes. Fuck me.

“When Hades is dead,” I say through a rough throat. “It’ll be over. I’ll leave and you’ll never see me again, Brax. Stop trying so hard. It’s over.”

“You’re not going to the meeting, Clover.” Braxton’s words are surprisingly quiet. It’s not his usual commanding and stern tone. That doesn’t stop my fury, though.

I slam the flat of my palm against the console and turn to face him. “I have every right to kill him!” I snap. “I have more of a right than you—than any of you. I swear to God, Brax, if you stand in my way, you’ll regret it. He killed my—” I stop. Brax doesn’t know about Mama Luda. He knows about Ivan, but he doesn’t know about her. I shake my head. “You wouldn’t understand,” I finally say. “Who have you lost? One of your minions? No one was more important to me than my family. Your family is still alive—the ones that you care about anyway.”

His mouth tightens. “I’ve lost people too, Clover,” he replies, his tone low. It’s the quiet that bothers me, I realize. I hate him this way. Reserved. It makes me feel like the bad guy and even though I’m no fucking hero, neither is he.

I return my gaze to the window. More trees are passing and I realize, we’re going away from Eastpoint, away from campus. It hasn’t been that long, but instead of buildings and stop lights, I see nothing but vast forest. I should be frightened, and deep down, a part of me wonders if he’s taking me out into the woods to off me, but I know better than that. Brax isn’t the type to take his victims out back and shoot them like dogs. If he ever actually kills me, it’ll be bloody and violent. It’ll be a fight probably combined with a fuck. The psychopath would probably get off on it.

Several more minutes go by and finally, the SUV begins to slow and the trees break open. A tall wrought iron fence lines the side of the road and Brax turns into an entrance. I frown as he stops by what looks like a speaker box. He presses a few buttons and the gates slide open.

What kind of place is this? No sooner has that thought crossed my mind, than I start to see the headstones. Hundreds of them. All tall and fancy. They range from crosses to regular curved stone plaques. The road turns into a cobbled pathway that’s too small for the oversized SUV. Brax doesn’t mind it even when the wheels slip off into the grass a couple of times; he keeps going.

My heart starts to beat faster as we head up a smaller hill towards the center of the cemetery. I lick my lips as I look around. There are a few tall iron light posts scattered along the pathway, switching from either side the entire way. They’re placed just far enough away that we’re almost in complete darkness before we pass into the circle of muted illumination.

The SUV comes to a stop nearly at the top of the hill, right in the mouth of two other pathways. Straight ahead is a massive mausoleum that looks like some pantheon of the dead. I swallow around a suddenly dry throat as Brax cuts the engine and a split second later, thunder rumbles overhead once more. What a night for a scenic adventure into a graveyard. A real one this time—where there are no undead. Just … bones and regret.

“Come on.” Brax opens his door and steps out.

Something tells me fighting whatever it is he’s trying to show me would be pointless now. We’re already here. So, instead of remaining in the vehicle, I let my curiosity lead me. I unbuckle my seatbelt and follow him out. A single drop of rain falls from the sky and lands on my forehead. I reach up as it slides down my temple and wipe it away. Thankfully, though, the clouds don’t immediately open and pour down on us.

Braxton doesn’t say anything more. He just starts walking towards the entrance to the mausoleum. I wrap my arms around my body and shiver against the wind that whips my hair around my face. The strands slap against my cheeks, sticking them to my skin. For Braxton, though, nature’s ferocity appears to have no effect. He stands as regally as he ever has, turning back as he reaches the bottom steps. His hair flutters over his forehead. He doesn’t flinch or blink against the roar of the wind.

“Why are we here?” I ask.

He tilts his head and for the first time since I truly came to know him—who he is inside, the darkness he holds close—I see him like a child. Young. Innocent. Broken. Sad.

This place means something to him. It has something to do with his past. A past he’s now showing me. A part of me knows that if I really want to leave him later, if I really want to forget him and move on with my life, then I need to turn my ass back around and get back into the car. This is the point, the final destination, the point of no return for us. If I cross the line, there is no going back.

“You want to know what I’ve lost,” he says. “I’m about to show you.”

I bite down on my lower lip. The mean-spirited words that I said before are coming back to bite me. They dig their little teeth into my flesh and draw blood, making me feel nothing but guilt. I swallow back the apology on my lips, though. I can’t be sorry for how he made me feel. Yet, that doesn’t make my internal battle any easier.

Surprisingly, he doesn’t push me. He doesn’t urge me or hurry me along or even stride back down the steps and lift me up to carry me inside against my will. Braxton waits as if he’s filled with infinite patience. I have to be the one to make this choice. And despite my words of hatred, I never realized how fucking hard it would be to actually turn my back on him when faced with the opportunity.

I take a cautious step forward and another and another until I’m standing below him on the ground, looking up. My breath saws in and out of my chest, louder than the shaking of the trees and the wind. It fills my ears with its unsteady sound.

Can I do this? Whatever rests in that building is going to change things. I don’t know how I know it, but it exists as a truth inside of me. He wouldn’t have brought me here otherwise.

My gaze moves from his face, half shadowed by the darkness of night to the upper part of the mausoleum where there’s something etched into the surface of the stone. I squint my eyes as I try to make out the words.

“Flectere si nequeo superos, acheronta movebo.” I read the phrase aloud, stumbling slightly over the unfamiliar language. Once I’m done, I look back to Brax. He says nothing. “What does it mean?”

Braxton continues to stare down at me, his face impassive, unexpressive. I can’t tell what he’s thinking. Finally, after what feels like forever spent in silence, he responds.

“If I cannot bend the will of Heaven, I shall move Hell.”

How arrogant. How very much like him.

He holds his hand out again. “Come.” And this time, I can’t resist him. There is no going back now. I reach up and let him lace my fingers with his. His hand is warm against my cold skin. He tugs me closer and slowly, the two of us ascend the stairs and step out of the wind into the waiting opening of the building.

The inside of the mausoleum is dark and cold. Surprisingly, though, there are windows in the roof that allow the dim lighting from the outside lamps to come down and illuminate the interior with a gray sort of haze. Despite how big it looked on the outside, when I step through the open doorway, the inside appears quite small.

There are three walls—one on either side and one at the very back, parallel to the entrance. Each of them is lined with named plaques and likely bodies beyond those. In the center, there’s a flat stone coffin with the same inscription that was over the top of the entrance etched into the face of it. I touch the edge with my fingertips, wiping away some of the dust and cobwebs. For such a fancy cemetery with security and lights, the mausoleum is apparently not maintained as well as the grounds.

The only sounds inside are that of my breath, Braxton’s, and the rumbling of the skies. Goosebumps rise along my flesh, over my bare legs and underneath my sleep shorts. I turn and lean against the coffin and lift my eyes to Brax where he stands in the doorway, his body blocking the rest of the light coming in from the front.

“There’s only been one person in my life that’s ever treated me like I was human,” he begins. “One person who recognized that even as fucked up as I am inside, I was still a child, too, at some point.”

The fact that the setting makes his words echo around me as they reach my ears forces them to be repeated in my mind over and over again. He says them like they’re fact, but they confuse me.

“I’m sure your friends see you as human,” I reply.

Brax takes a step into the building and turns, allowing half of his face to be revealed in the light. One corner of his mouth tips up in what appears to be sardonic amusement. “Don’t let them fool you, Firebird,” he replies. “Even my friends—my family—don’t see me as human. They see me as the monster I am. They know what I like, what I do to the women I fuck. They know what I want done to me. They accept me, but they don’t view me as human.”

I can’t think that’s true. They love him. Even I can see that.

“You think I haven’t lost,” he starts again, “and you’re partially right—I haven’t lost as much as you—but I have lost. I’ve lost my will to fight against my desires. I’ve lost my chance to turn back the clock. I’ve lost my humanity.”

“Braxton—”

“Her name was Josephine.” Shock hits me, stopping my words. “Josephine Frazier.” He points to the coffin behind me and I pull away from it, pivoting to stare down at the plaque. Glancing back at him, Braxton’s face tightens. He stares down at it like it contains nothing more than venomous snakes that threaten to lift the stone lid from its place and slither out to strike at him.

“She was like a mother to me," he admits. “She was Abel’s mother. The only fucking person in our world that cared about the three of us and didn’t … want to use us.”

I don’t know what to say. In the car, I was angry—I was ready to claw at him and hurt him, but right now, there’s no insult on my tongue. No way I can hurt him more than he already is. I can see that. I picture him young, small, fragile—at the mercy of the adults around him. I remember the feel of the scars on his back beneath my fingertips. I’m not so naive that I don’t know that there are more scars beneath the flesh. If anyone knows how painful invisible scars can be, it’s me.

“Being what I am—being who I am,” he says. “Means giving up the luxury of choices. You can’t run from blood. It follows you wherever you go. Torments you even when you cut yourself open and try to bleed it all dry.”

My throat feels tight—like it’s closing up—as I try to swallow. “You didn’t…”

Tell me you didn’t, Brax, I practically beg silently, unable to get the words out of my mouth. Of all people in this world, he’s too … he can’t have. Was there once a time so terrible in his life that he tried to … kill himself?

Braxton turns his head, but once again, his face is shadowed and whatever expression he’s wearing becomes invisible to me. “Aunt Josie found out about the scars on my back a few weeks before she died,” he continues, ignoring my words. My suspicion goes undenied, but also unconfirmed. “She cried for me.” He sounds confused by that and his next words solidify that. “It was kind of strange,” he continues. “I’d never seen anyone cry for me like that. By the time she found out, I’d made many women cry. I’d fucked them and hurt them and relished in their tears. But watching her cry—knowing why she was crying—felt different. It felt wrong. I didn’t like it.”

Because he didn’t understand why she would cry over something like that? Over someone like him? Or because it felt like he was intruding on someone else’s private sorrow even if he was the reason for that sorrow?

The questions remain in my mind. I don’t know if I even want the answer. Instead, I ask something else. “How did she die?”

“Car crash,” he replies easily. “She loved cars. Was probably the only wealthy heiress who actually liked getting her hands covered in motor oil and grease. She gave Abel that damn Mustang he loves so much. She left each of us something, but for me, nothing was more important than her presence—I didn’t realize how good it felt to be cried over until she was gone. To have someone else look at me and not see a tool or a monster.”

The wind whistles through the building, stirring up the dust on the floor and swirling it around our ankles. “Why are you telling me all of this?” I ask. What is his purpose in bringing me here? To make me feel sympathy? I clench my hands into fists as I stare at him across the short space between us. I do feel sympathy. I can’t help it. That doesn’t mean I have to show it, though—at least, not yet. Not until he gives me a good reason to give in.

My insides are trembling. I’m wavering. This is a manipulation. I should know better than to trust him. I don’t trust him.

But you want to. I close my eyes against that truth. Evgenia is sometimes too honest for her own good. For my own good.

Braxton continues as if I hadn’t spoken. He doesn’t answer my question, doesn’t even bother to acknowledge it. Instead, he steps closer until I’m pinned back against the stone coffin once more. At my front, there’s heat and male flesh and danger. At my back, there’s cold death. It shouldn’t make my thighs immediately soften and part as I press my ass against the edge of the stone sarcophagus. It shouldn’t turn me on.

But it does.

“I learned a long time ago, Firebird,” Brax whispers, lifting a hand to my face. He traces a single finger down my cheek. “That whatever I am—human or monster—it’s something only I can be. When my father whipped me, when he left me with these scars, he did it for his own enjoyment.” My chest swells as he presses closer, pushing into me, sliding a leg through both of mine. “And somewhere along the way, I learned to enjoy the pain. That fucked me up in the head far more than any of the actual marks he left. It felt wrong to like it—giving it and receiving it—when he held it against me like a weapon.”

“Braxton.” His name comes out of my lips, but I don’t know what I’m trying to ask for. More or less? All I know is that he’s driving me crazy. His nearness, his breath in my face. It’s all too much. I can’t stand it. My head is swirling with the intensity of his body against mine. He’s like a drug, and it’s been so long since I’ve had a taste. I just want this aching to stop once and for all.

“I am the weapon, now, Clover,” he tells me. “I’m the blade hanging above the throats of those who would take from me. Aunt Josie was taken from us—from me—but I can’t let you be. I fucking need you.”

I shake my head. “I can’t. No, Brax—”

“Ace will live.” That one sentence, three short words, has me freezing where I stand.

My head jerks up. “What?”

“If that’s what you want, then he’ll live.”

“I thought you said it wasn’t your choice to make anymore?” Hope blossoms in my chest. I want to stab it. How the hell can I let myself be tricked by him again? He promised the same thing once.

Braxton lifts his head and his gaze meets mine. Staring back at me from the face of a handsome all-American jock, is the secret of a killer. A monster. “I would give you the world, firebird, if you’d let me.”

My breath catches and my jaw drops. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what I can say to that. All I can do is stand there and feel him—his fingers trailing over my skin, down my jawline, over my throat.

“Dean and Avalon have agreed to let him go, with conditions of course, but he’ll be breathing, that’s all that matters,” he continues a moment later when I still haven’t managed to formulate a response. He presses a thumb against the beat of my pulse.

“How do I know that this isn’t another lie?” I squeeze the words out, forcing them despite myself.

Brax leans down and nuzzles against my cheek. The scratch of his beard lights me on fire. “No more lies,” he whispers. “Just this. Just you and me. This is where the Eastpoint families are laid to rest. This whole cemetery is our ancestors, our past, but you … I want you to be my future, Clover. Evgenia—whoever you want to be. You’re a part of me now. You’re part of Eastpoint. I’ll have you here too. Whatever you want, Clover. It’s yours. I’ll burn the world for you or offer it up on a silver platter, all you have to do is ask.”

My heart hammers inside of my chest. My vision blurs and narrows down to just him. He turns his head, and I can’t stop it anymore. His mouth touches mine and a small bomb detonates in the back of my mind. I reach for him and latch on like he’s the only lifeboat in the midst of a stormy sea.

Braxton parts his lips and ignites the flames, bringing everything around us crashing down.

Fuck me. I’m going to regret this. I just know it. Braxton is going to kill me and even if my heart doesn’t stop, I have a feeling that if this ends, I’ll be torn to shreds either way.

I’m already lost, so why can’t I just enjoy the fall?

30

BRAXTON

IT’S BEEN TOO long since Clover didn’t fight me. When she opens her mouth under mine and kisses me back, I feel like I can finally breathe. I inhale her, devour her, take her the way I’ve always wanted to.

Violently.

My hand slides up against her spine, pressing her closer to my chest until I feel the hard points of her nipples digging into me. My cock throbs against the inside of my jeans. She smells like rain and tastes like fire on my tongue. I should feel depraved for wanting her in a place like this, in front of Josie, but I can’t stop myself.

Clover moans against my lips and digs her nails into my arms, arching up against me like a cat. Her bare feet are filthy, covered in dust and dirt. It doesn’t help, but I lift her up, regardless, and set her back on the lid of the stone coffin. Her legs part and she welcomes me back against her, cradling me between her thighs. Thighs that I want to suck and lick and kiss and bite.

I’m panting like an animal in rut. My head is a fucking mass of insanity. All I can see or feel or taste is her. I open my eyes and pull back. Her chest rises and falls with rapid movements and her upper lashes slowly separate from the lower ones as she, too, opens her eyes and gazes back at me. Mossy green eyes stare at me, open and so pure, I feel like a dirty old man for all of the horrible, bloody things I want to do to her.

“Brax…” My name whispers across the air, soft on her lips. She swallows roughly and then reaches down, gripping the hem of her tank top. Without removing her gaze from mine, she inches the fabric up, revealing the flat of her stomach, her navel, and then the underside of her ribcage. I wince at the yellow and greenish bruises that mottle her skin. They make my insides churn with rage and guilt.

“Don’t think about them,” she whispers as if she can hear what I’m thinking.

I lift my eyes back to hers. “What should I think about, then?” I ask, leaning into her once more, and lowering my voice. She likes that—the deep gravelly tone of my voice as I speak to her in this quiet intimate place. I bet she’d like it even more if I were to hum against her pussy.

“Me,” she pants, her chest rising and falling.

“I am, firebird,” I promise her. “I am.”

I’m entranced by her movements. Completely and utterly absorbed in her as she pulls her top further and further up until the ripe rosy pink of her nipples is exposed. If I thought I couldn’t get any harder than I am now; I was so fucking wrong.

A growl rumbles up my chest and I reach for her, my fingers skimming across her stomach. “I don’t mind you covered in bruises,” I tell her. “I’d just like to be the one putting them there.” She gasps, the flesh beneath my own pulling back with the quick inhalation and before she can reply, I yank her off the coffin and rip her shorts and underwear down. The rending of fabric reaches my ears but I don’t pay it any mind. I’m so focused on getting her under me, her pussy on my tongue, her taste in my mouth, her juices down my throat that it’s all I can think about.

Clover gasps again as I lift her back onto the coffin and then push her back until she’s reclined. I hook one of her legs over my shoulders and then the other. “Well, well, well,” I chuckle darkly as I spread her open and look down at the tender flesh between her legs. “Looks like someone likes the idea of being made into a meal in a graveyard.”

Slender fingers spear into my hair, pushing the curls back away from my forehead. She looks down. “Stop teasing me, Brax, and just do it,” she whispers.

“Be careful what you ask for, baby,” I say just before I close my eyes and sink my tongue into her innermost depths.

I find her bare pussy with my tongue, licking up her center until she trembles under my tongue. Slowly. Slowly, I try to urge myself. I want to savor this. I want to remember her taste for the rest of my life. It’s hard to hold back.

I think I get it now. How Dean fell so hard for Avalon. Why Abel is willing to do anything for Rylie. If anyone were to try and separate Clover from me right now, I wouldn’t hesitate to kill them. Then I would fall over her, like a starving animal, covered in their blood, and fuck her until she couldn’t think of a single thing but how complete she feels with me inside of her.

This right here is the taste of nirvana. When she moans, the proof of her pleasure echoing against the stone interior of the mausoleum, it resounds in my ears. It sounds like everything I’ve ever fought for. I suck on her clit until her back bows and her fingers clench down against me. Her nails dig in. She pulls at the strands of my hair, the pain of her ministrations lighting me up.

I fuck her with my tongue. In and out, until she’s gasping and panting beneath me. Her body writhes against my lips. Just as she’s about to crest over the edge of orgasm, her insides squeezing my tongue, I pull out and turn my head, biting down on her inner thigh hard enough to elicit a startled scream from her.

My lips curve into a smile because when I pull away and reach between her thighs, rubbing against her clit, I feel a new gush of wetness leaking out of her. The mark on her skin is already darkening. My teeth tingle with a need and I turn, biting down into her other thigh and her whole body bows up. Clover rises completely, curving herself over my head as I sink my teeth into her and break her flesh.

Blood rushes onto my tongue and she gasps, trembling. “Fuck…” Her voice is hoarse, and when I lift my head from her bruised and broken skin, she grips my face in both of her hands and yanks my lips back to hers.

“If you want to fuck,” I tell her, grinning against the ferocity of her kiss, “I’m happy to oblige.”

She groans. “Oh my fucking god, Brax.”

“A fucking god,” I say. “Yeah, I like the sound of that.” Before she can get irritated or complain, I clench my hands against her, shut my eyes, and then, I devour her mouth the same way I had her pussy.

I shove my tongue against hers, pushing my chest into her hardened nipples and feeling the needy little buds scrape against my pecs.

I close my eyes and let myself sink into her kiss. She is everything to me now. Whether she realizes it or not. She is the beginning of the rest of my life and the end of my past. She is what I must protect.

She can kill to her heart’s desire, and I will always save her from the consequences. If she wants Hades, she’ll have him. Dean and I will lure him in, and I’ll bring him to her as a present. If she wants, we can even kill him together. It’ll be a bonding experience and perhaps even … an engagement present. Because I cannot picture my life without her anymore.

“Braxton,” she whispers, pulling back from the kiss. “I want more.”

I smile. A true, unfettered smile, as she pushes back the strands of hair clinging to my forehead. Her lips are red, redder than her blush, redder than her hair. Painted in her own blood. She’s so fucking pretty. A ruby in a sea of flat gray.

“I know you’re hungry, my firebird. Don’t worry, I’ll give you as much of me as you can take and more.” Not just once, but as many times as she can stand. Probably even more than she can stand. As thunder rolls overhead outside of the Mausoleum, however, I realize we need to move locations before we go any further.

I remove her legs from my shoulders and stand up, gripping her hand as her shirt falls back down. Bending quickly, I grab her underwear and torn shorts and tuck them into my back pocket. I don’t say anything, but I don’t need to. When I hold out my hand, there’s no more hesitation from her. She grips my fingers and lets me drag her out of the mausoleum.

The second our feet touch the ground, the skies open up and rain pours down over us, soaking into our remaining clothes. We hurry through it all back towards the SUV. As soon as we get there, she doesn’t wait, she shoves me up against the driver’s side door and kisses me again.

Her blood in my mouth. Her taste on my tongue. It’s an aphrodisiac that kills me. I think I’ve been waiting for it all my life.

31

CLOVER

BRAXTON’S KISS is bloody and raw and real. It’s broken and beaten and everything our relationship always has been. In a word, it’s fucking terrifying. Why? Simple. Because even if it’ll be the death of me, I still crave it so damn bad. I’m finally admitting it, at least to myself, that I love it—his kiss. His body over mine. His everything.

I’m weak to him and I hate myself for it because I can’t figure out another reason to keep resisting this magnetic energy that keeps drawing the two of us back together. The only thing that makes it easier to swallow is that I think it’s the same for him too. I’m his weakness. And that’s a powerful feeling.

Braxton Smalls could truly destroy me, and the scariest thing of all—I just might let him. I think he’s the one thing in this world that’s ever been truly mine. No one else gets to see him like this. No one else is allowed to crawl all over him and put her hand on his throat and kiss him like she’s desperate for air. Just me.

Hands grip my body, sliding over my naked skin as I taste my own juices and blood on his tongue. Shivers dance up and down my spine. Rainwater slides through my hair, soaking into it and wetting it all over. I’m shivering and freezing and clinging to the massive figure that is Braxton. He’s the only source of heat and I want to crawl inside of him.

Instead, he forces me back, ripping his mouth from mine as he quickly opens the car door and yanks me inside. I climb over him, rocking my pussy against his jean covered cock as the door shuts behind us. Although rain no longer splatters against our faces as I dive back into his mouth, we’re both wet and the friction it causes is slowly starting to become too much.

He grips the bottom of my tank top and when it gets stuck against my skin as he tries to pull it up over my head, he growls and just takes it in both of his fists and rips it from the bottom all the way to the collar. Heat envelopes my nipple as he lowers his head and sucks it into his mouth. His teeth graze over the hardened tip and my pussy automatically tightens. I cry out, my fingers spearing into his hair, needing something to hold onto.

My thighs are sore and trembling. The fabric of his jeans chafes the sensitive and wounded flesh. I can feel exactly where he bit me. I don’t care. I can’t stop rocking against him, wanting him deeper.

The patter of rain against the rooftop of the car and the outside of the windows grows harder, louder. Until it sounds like we’re in the center of a hurricane. I pant, trying to catch my breath. Every time it seems I grab onto just enough oxygen to keep from passing out, his mouth slams back down on mine and steals it away once more.

I can’t tell if he’s trying to fuck me or kill me. Maybe it’s both.

“Brax … please,” I beg, reaching between us.

He groans at my plea. “God, I love it when you beg for me, firebird.”

I don’t have a smartass comment for that. All I have is this damnable untamed desire inside. I grip the button of his jeans and fumble with it with frustrated breaths until I finally get it open. He hits the lever and the steering wheel against my back eases up as the chair slides all the way back. I moan when he reaches beneath the waistband of his boxers and pulls his dick free.

“You want to ride me, Firebird?” he asks.

“Yes.” I lift up and take his cock in my hand, guiding it towards my dripping pussy. That kind of wetness has nothing to do with the rain. The second the head of his dick touches my entrance, he hisses out a breath and grips my hips. “Don’t stop me,” I beg. “I need it.”

“No,” he agrees. “No stopping. You can take my cock, Clover. Take it and find your pleasure, baby. I’m all yours. Use me.” He nudges in and as soon as the head is completely enveloped, he slams me down. I cry out, a scream ripping from my throat as he suddenly fills me. My inner muscles squeeze and tighten against the fast intrusion. Sweat beads pop up along my forehead and at the back of my neck.

All that talk of me using him disappears. I know the truth. I’m the one being forced on his dick, and I fucking love it.

I pant, wilting downward as I lean forward, clinging to his chest and shoulders as I try to get used to how hot and hard he is inside of me. A wide palm slides up my naked back and grips my hair in his fist. He slides it to the side and I tilt my head, allowing him room to roam as he kisses my throat and scrapes his teeth against my pulse.

“Who do you belong to, Firebird?” Braxton’s question is a harsh whisper in my ear.

I shiver as it causes goosebumps to rise up along the nape of my neck. I know what he wants from me. I bite down on my lower lip. Unsure. His cock withdraws and slams back inside and my head goes back.

“Who. Do. You. Belong. To?” he repeats. Lightning swirls beneath my flesh. Fireworks pop off behind my eyelids. I pant, my lips parted as I try to grab onto as much air as I can suck in. He nuzzles against my throat and when I open my eyes and look down, meeting his gaze once more, I’m struck by how fucking dark his eyes are in a face that looks pure and innocent. It’s a startling contrast. “Don’t make me ask again, Firebird,” he urges.

I shake my head. “Me,” I say, knowing that’s not the answer he’s looking for, knowing he’ll punish me for it. “I belong to myself.”

He bares his teeth at me and fucks into my cunt like a madman, pounding against me, gripping my hips with bruising strength—angry at my denial. This doesn’t feel like a punishment, though. It feels like a fucking wet dream, too good to be real. My body seizes and I scream as my orgasm slams into me without warning. White light clouds my vision and when my back bows, my head snaps back. Braxton wraps a palm around my skull almost protectively, as if he’s trying to keep me from hitting my head. I wonder if he even realizes what he’s doing or if it’s automatic, instinctive.

My breasts bob up and down, right in front of his face as I try to catch my breath. Inside of me, I can still feel how hard he is. I’m stretched around him so tightly, it’s like an iron bar has invaded my pussy. That hand at the back of my head clenches and the sting of my hair being pulled yanks me back to reality faster than I would’ve naturally come down from the high of my orgasm.

“You know what I want, Clover,” he says. “I want to hear you say it.”

I meet his gaze and smile. “I know.”

“Then why won’t you?”

His cock throbs inside of me and I tighten up instinctively. My fingers drift up from his shoulders. I touch his jaw, skim them down over his throat, and then back up. My thumb brushes his full bottom lip and without a second thought, he parts his lips and lets me sink it into his mouth. He licks against the digit, sucks on it like he sucked on my clit. And all the while, his eyes never leave mine.

“Tell me, Clover,” he says, releasing my thumb. “And I’ll give you what you want.”

I grin. “You already have,” I remind him. “I came. You didn’t.”

He returns my smile with an evil one of his own. His hands pull me against his chest and then one curves around my back, dipping down between my asscheeks. I blink when he presses a finger right over my asshole. “You came once, Clover,” he replies. “You know damn well it won’t be the last time tonight. You can choose if you’ll come from pleasure or pain next.”

Anticipation sings in my blood. I can’t help but tease him. “Who says I won’t enjoy either?” I ask.

“You’re fucking driving me crazy,” he replies. “You damn brat.”

I grin. “And you fucking love it,” I taunt.

“Yeah,” he agrees surprisingly easily. “I do.”

His hand retracts from my ass and the other eases from my hair. I frown. “What are you doing?” I demand as they go to my hips and lift me up, effectively removing me from his dick. It bobs against his stomach as he reaches back and peels his wet, black shirt over his head. He tosses it into the back seat and then nudges me. “Get into the passenger seat, I don’t want my ass against the steering wheel.”

“What?” Confusion makes my movements slow, but eventually, I do as he urges. I clamber into the passenger seat and he turns me so that I’m facing away from him, pushing the chair back, he cups his hand under my stomach and forces me to lean into the back of the seat. My arms wrap around the head as my ass juts out and before I realize his intentions, his hand whistles through the air.

The flat of his palm slaps my asscheek. The slight dampness of my skin combined with the harsh strength of his swing makes me cry out. It burns. “Fuck!” He hits me again on the other side and then repeats the action until I feel like my ass is flaming and on fire.

“Hmmmm.” He hums in the back of his throat, the sound vibrating along my spine as he slips his fingers between my thighs and over my pussy. Even if it hurts, there’s no denying the kind of fucked up pleasure I got from it. I’m still soaked. “You’re right,” he concludes. “It wouldn’t help if I were to punish you, would it? You like whatever I do to you.”

I have no response. So, instead, I just lay there, shaking as he fucks into my cunt with two fingers, scissoring them apart until the stretch of my inner muscles makes me whine and bow upward, seeking more. He pulls out and then pushes in three, cupping his hand as my juices run down his fingers, creating a puddle of my own wetness in his palm. I know what he’s doing and I practically salivate at the thought of it.

It was fucking pure hell the first time, but it had turned into a heaven-like pleasure that I can’t deny that I want what he’s planning. When Brax pulls his fingers free, he skims them up to my asshole and he lets my pussy juice soften the tight little hole. He grips my asscheeks and pulls them apart, rubbing the wetness over my back entrance before I feel him move back. How hard must it be for him to move in such a small space? I wonder. The SUV is big and wide, but he’s not an average-sized man.

I can’t see how he does it, all I can do is feel the results. When his tongue touches my asshole, I arch up, shocked. “Wait!” He doesn’t wait, though. He doesn’t even pause. He grips the back of my hips and uses his hold to yank me back onto his tongue, sliding it into that dark and depraved place.

He eats my ass like a man on a mission, swirling his tongue, diving deep. He prods me open and he could be deaf for all my moans seem to affect him. My squirming is relegated to small, jerking movements. My skin sizzles like hot brands are being pressed against every inch of me. It’s too much. The feel of him is everywhere, but the sole of my focus is where his tongue dives into my ass with purpose. His strength is not to be messed with. He releases me only when he wants to, and when he finally does pull back, I drop onto the seat like I just ran a marathon.

“We’re not done yet, Firebird,” he tells me. As if I couldn’t have guessed. His dick slides up between my cheeks. He thrusts the shaft of his cock against me, rubbing against my hole and I moan again. I’m so fucking ready that I’m dripping onto the seat. I should be horrified. I should be embarrassed. I can’t find enough emotion leftover to give a shit, though. All I want is him inside of me, in any way I can get him, even if it hurts.

Tears touch my lashes, sliding down my face as he eases the head into my darkest hole. The burn is just as painful as it was the first time—or perhaps slightly alleviated since he definitely spent more time stretching and loosening me than he had before. Either way, when his head is finally inside, I have to grit my teeth to keep from biting my tongue. It’s tight and hard. That iron bar I pictured his cock as earlier has become unrelenting and harrowing.

“Find a way to breathe, Clover,” Brax whispers. “Because I’m not stopping—not even if you pass out.”

“Motherfucker,” I mutter in response. His hands grip my hips, sliding up my ribs and around until his fingers touch my breasts. He takes my nipples and rubs them between each thumb and forefinger.

“You like the pain,” he tells me as he pinches down and pulls until my nipples are stretched out away from my chest. I don’t know which way to go. Forward to alleviate the pain in my breasts or back to keep his dick from sliding out of my asshole. He chuckles in my ear.

“You like it too,” I shoot back.

In response, he thrusts into my ass, making me cry out even as he tightens his hold on my nipples, pinching down sharply and making the pain spread. It’s too much, the stimulation. I grip the back of the seat, nails scratching against the leather. Finally, he releases my poor, abused nipples in favor of gripping my hips. My chest aches with the soreness of his attention, but I don’t have any more time to worry about it because it’s clear he’s ready for round two.

Braxton fucks into me, pushing until I can feel him in my fucking guts. “You’re going to rip me apart,” I whine. I grunt as he shoves me forward into the seat. I turn my cheek as my face smashes into it.

“Yes, baby,” he replies. “I’m going to rip you apart and fill you with everything you need. I’m going to fill you with me.” He doesn’t stop and instead, pulls almost all the way back out—the burn of his cock leaving me making me whine a little more in the back of my throat—before he thrusts back inside to the hilt.

I’m fuller than I’ve ever been, pinned by his cock. I close my eyes and just let it happen, relishing in his punishing grasp as he fucks me harder. For a man who claims to care for me so much, he certainly fucks me like he hates me.

Braxton ravages my ass, his skin sliding against my sore asscheeks as he drives himself into me over and over again. “Mine.” I hear the word escape his lips, but I’m so focused on the combined mixture of pain and pleasure sliding through me, stealing all rational thought, that it doesn’t fully hit until I hear it several more times. “Mine. Mine. Mine.”

He picks up the pace, reaching beneath me until he finds my clit with his fingers. “You’re fucking mine,” he tells me. “All mine. No matter what you say, Clover. You belong to me.”

A whimper leaves my lips as he slams into my ass and holds still just as he pinches down on my clit and sends me reeling. Sparks explode in my mind. Tears run down my face. I sob as the orgasm carries me away, barely feeling the jerking movements of his cock as he comes in my ass.

Darkness slides into my mind, right on the tail end of the sparkling lights of my orgasm. I sag into the leather passenger seat as I dimly feel Braxton pull his cock free of my asshole. Wetness oozes down the back of my legs, between my thighs, and almost as if he can’t help himself—and the wicked desires inside of him—Brax reaches down and gathers up as much of it as he can with his fingers, sliding it back up and into my hole.

I should be exhausted to the point of passing out, but instead, I feel hyper aware. I feel like someone just shot me full of caffeine or meth, whichever would make me feel more wired. I want more. My back arches up at the slight burn of his fingers as they ease their way back into my sore ass.

One thing I know, though, is that this is far from over.

32

BRAXTON

WITH ONE HAND wrapped around the steering wheel and one locked firmly on my girl’s thigh, I speed down the winding road back to the Carter estate. Next to me, Clover has one hand locked on the ‘oh shit’ handle and the other around the edge of the seat. Her clothes are a ripped, shredded mess, tossed somewhere in the back of the car so the only real choice of covering she has is my shirt, and as much as I love seeing her in my shit, right now I’d love nothing more than to shred it right back off of her. With my fingers on her thighs, gripping the skin tightly, I can feel the heat of her so near it's driving me half mad with lust. Once hadn’t been enough.

Rain pelts the windshield, streaking the glass faster than the wipers can swipe them away. She’s still wet and soaked down below, her juices just in touching distance. It takes all of my self-control not to reach up and shove my fingers into her hot pussy and feel her gripping around me. I can’t drive as fast as I want to at the risk of flipping the damn SUV, so when I finally pull into the Carter Estate’s driveway, I feel something in me finally ease. There are a few lights still on in the house, but for the most part, it’s just as dark as we left it hours ago. The clock on the dash reads nearly four a.m. I’ll be shocked if either of us gets any sleep tonight.

I pull up to the front and don’t bother to head for the garage. Instead, I slam the vehicle to a stop, rip up the parking brake, and shut off the engine. In the next second, I’m out of the car and yanking open Clover’s door, pulling her from the interior and back out into the wind and rain.

She doesn’t complain, but instead takes my hand and runs with me towards the front door. We slam inside and I don’t bother pulling her up the stairs. I lift her back into my arms, and she takes initiative. Clover wraps her legs around me as I grip her ass in both hands and take the stairs two at a time, my booted feet squeaking against the wood, the sound echoing around the house. No one comes out of their rooms—thank fuck because I can feel my cum oozing out of Clover’s ass all over my fingers as I grip her cheeks and heft her higher against me.

Her lips suck on my throat, teeth scraping down the column of my neck, making my dick pound. Her nipples poke through the wet fabric of my shirt, scraping against my muscles, driving me to the brink of insanity. Red fills my vision and I damn near stumble into a wall as she bites down on the sensitive place between my shoulder and throat, sinking her sharp teeth deep. I’m not sure if she’s returning the favor from earlier, but it damn near makes me cum on the spot.

The door to our room comes into sight and we slam inside. I whirl around, pushing it shut and shoving her back against the wood as I rip myself free from her greedy little mouth. My fingers release her ass long enough to grip the shirt and pull it up and off of her. Hard tipped little nipples draw my attention and I dip my head as I let the fabric drop with a wet squelch to the floor.

Fingers spear back into my hair as I lavish one nipple with attention, tonguing it and sucking hard to the point that she whimpers. It’s not enough. Naked. Cold. Wet. Clover smells like nature and something more enticing. Her long, slender limbs wrap themselves around me, holding on tight as I switch gears and move my mouth across her chest to her other nipple.

I take it into my teeth and look up between my lashes, catching her gaze as I bite down. Her thighs tremble around my hips and she shudders.

Pain and pleasure. That’s what we are. That’s what we give each other. Every bite. Every scratch. Every wound we bestow is another way of showing how fucking much we need each other.

Whirling her away from the door, I let her nipple slip free and move to the bed. Clover drops her legs from around my waist and I push her back, thrusting her onto the bed. She turns and begins to crawl away, but not fast enough. I grip her hips and yank her back, my chest to her spine. I kiss her shoulder and then reach down, realizing I pulled my jeans and underwear back up for the drive.

Fuck. I slide from the bed, watching her with an intent gaze as I step back and shove my pants down with my boxers. They drop to the floor and I step out. I round the bed and pop open the top drawer, reaching inside for lube and wipes. I clean myself before tossing the lube onto the mattress. I’m not sure if we’ll even get to use it—I like the feeling of her dry and hot, clinging to me and making every thrust a battle, but it’s there and that’s all that matters. I want to break her, but I also want her to last long enough for me to get through the night. I crawl onto the bed behind her retaking my rightful place. I fit my cock to her entrance and slide home, grunting when she stiffens all over and her insides clamp onto me like a firmly fitted glove.

With one hand wrapped around her throat, I tighten my hold. She reaches back and grasps at my thighs. I lift both of us up until we’re perched on our knees, my cock in her pussy, and my fingers gripping her pulse. She presses back insistently as her whole body bows upward, away from my thrusts and away from my grip. I grin as I clamp the whole of my palm even harder around her neck and squeeze.

Her insides spasm, damn near sending me into the stratospheric euphoria of a climax. Only by the skin of my teeth do I manage to hold myself back. She gasps for breath as her body tightens and releases in rhythmic motions. I can’t be sure if it’s pleasure, pain, or lack of oxygen that make her so receptive and her body grasping around my cock. Whatever it is, though, I deny her unspoken request for freedom.

There will be no reprieve from me.

Instead, I shove myself even more forcefully right into the confines of her pussy. With every thrust, I compress my fingers against the sides of her throat, holding and then releasing. Her gasps are like music to my ears. Each one more desperate than the last. Her nails sink into the hard flesh of my thighs and I can practically feel her vibrating with renewed anger.

A cornered hellcat. That’s what Clover is. And still, there’s no denying how wet she is as she enjoys my embrace. If I were to let her go now, and let her speak, I’d hear no end of curses and insults. I don’t want to listen to it. All I want is the soft sounds of her cut off moans and irritated huffs. I want to know that I give her as much pleasure as she gives me, even if she hates it.

I close my own eyes as a groan rumbles up from my chest. On my next upward thrust, I stop and tighten all over as her insides clamp around my dick and pulse, stroking along my shaft with a harsh pressure that threatens to pull the cum right from my balls.

I want to dump all that I have to give inside of her, fill her to the brim, and watch it drip from her well used pussy. In fact, I have half a mind to shove her face down into the pillow and suffocate her until she passes out. Only then will I be able to release her throat and take what I truly want without resistance. Only then will I feel calm enough to fuck her like I want to.

The idea, however, of her being unconscious … holds no appeal. Even if there’s a part of me that wants to use her like a sweet little fuck doll, there’s another much larger part that wants the fight in her. I want her claws. I want to know that when I take her—against her will or not—it will be because I won her. By brawn. By brains. By whatever method at my disposal. Clover is a prize to be conquered and I don’t want to make it easy. Not on either of us.

In the wandering of my mind, I forget just how sharp Clover’s fangs and claws actually are because just as I’m coming to grips—arguing over whether or not to suffocate her into unconsciousness to fuck her delicious little pussy raw while she slumbers on, unaware—I feel the hard pinpricks of her nails digging into the flesh of my thighs, breaking skin as blood drips down between us.

“Fuck!” My hips stutter against her ass and I rip myself free, releasing her briefly. As soon as my hands draw away, she bursts into action, diving forward, but she doesn’t get far. My fingers clamp around one pale ankle and I yank her back with force, flipping her until her back hits the bed. A fist comes swinging at my face, and it damn near grazes my jaw, just barely missing me.

Clover fights like a wildcat, violent and full of basic survival instinct. “You fucking—” she cuts herself off as my hand finds her throat once more and I spread her legs and shove my cock right back where it belongs. Her lips part on a cry as I slide through the soft, molten heat of her. Despite her fight, she wants this. She’s leaking like a fucking tap, so wet and ready for me that it’s like I’m sinking my dick into a perfect haven.

Her breaths shudder inside her chest, making her small, high breasts shiver with the movement. There are bruises everywhere. All over her pale skin, marring the freckled flesh. I hate them, but I bend my head, nonetheless and lick over the red, yellow, and purple skin. I nuzzle towards a perfectly pink crested breast and take a nipple into my mouth.

The pussy surrounding my cock spasms again, tightening over me and making me groan against her. This girl will be the fucking death of me, I swear it.

“Clover … Firebird … fuck…”

Her eyes are glazed over when I stare down at her face. I’m not sure if she even truly sees me, but I know one thing for sure. She fucking feels me. All over her, inside of her. As deep as I can dig. I want to crawl inside of her and leave every broken piece of my soul in her care.

Her hands wrap around my wrist, as I squeeze the sides of her throat. Nails sink into my forearm as I thrust into her pussy, over and over again as the fire of release rushes up my spine. Almost … almost.

I release her, and she gasps for breath. The little puffs of air on her lips draw me in. I lean over and kiss her, pressing my tongue past her lips and into the cavern of her mouth. When Clover finally realizes what’s happening, that there’s no denying me entry, she bites back with fierceness. She takes my tongue into her mouth and sucks on it. Heat steals across my shoulder blades and down over my chest straight into the cold, black thing I call a heart.

More. I want more of her. I want all of her. I want to mark her like a primal animal marks its mate.

I pull my lips from hers, sucking in oxygen as my hips thrust forward, pounding against her as my cock slides in and out of the wet place between her thighs. My hand remains behind, right next to her head and I close my eyes, relishing in the liquid fire of her. A sting of pain reaches me in the furthest recesses of my mind and I open my eyes again to see Clover turned half on her side, her teeth sunk deep into my forearm like a caged wild animal.

Her eyes are open and sparking with anger and lust. I reach up and clamp my free palm on her waist, using the hold to yank her more firmly into my lap as I fuck her pussy into oblivion. Her teeth don’t release me, not even when I begin to thrust with more stuttered, sharp movements. They drag along my flesh, marking me with a red trail of her fury.

With striking speed, I yank my forearm back and sink my hand back into the red strands of her hair and pull her head back until our eyes are locked together.

“Mine,” I tell her. “Say it.”

She shakes her head, denying me once again. I let go of her waist and reach up, pinching a pink nipple to the point of pain. Tears flutter along her lashes, so goddamn beautiful. “Tell me who you fucking belong to, Clover,” I demand.

“Myself,” she snaps back. The same answer she gave me in the car.

I twist her nipple and she opens her mouth on a cry. “Mine,” I repeat the word as I fuck her harder. She doesn’t give in. She takes the pain and lets her tears flow down her cheeks. She never gives in, and I think I finally realize she never will. That’s why I fucking love her. Because I can push her to the point of death and she’ll still resist. She’ll rebel against me forever and that is such a fucking turn on. She can’t be broken.

My hand leaves her breast, soothing over her skin as I pull my cock free and flip her on her stomach. Her hands grasp at the sheets and pillows, but I shove them all away. She doesn’t get anything to hold onto. All she gets is me. I’m all she has. All she will ever have for the rest of her fucking life.

My hands lock around her hips and I drag her up and back until she’s propped on her knees. “Do you want me, Clover?” I lean down and run my lips down her spine as the question slips out, the barest of whispers.

She shudders. I can tell she wants to say yes. That’s the truth. We both know it, but she’s always the tease. Always the bitch that has to fight me. Her lips twitch. “No,” she says around a smile.

What a sweet little liar.

“Tell me the truth,” I say … beg.

“You first,” she replies.

Fine. If that’s what it’ll take. “I want you,” I admit. “I … need you.” Like I’ve never needed anyone in my fucking life. I need her comfort. I need her love. I need her sanctuary. I need her to take all that I can give and I need her to love me anyway. I need her to prove that even if I like killing, I can still have what everyone else gets.

“I won’t … kill you,” I swear to her. “Never. I’ll give you everything. Just be mine, Clover. Be … mine.”

“You swear Ace will be okay?” she asks, her breath catching as I open my mouth and scrape my teeth over her sensitized flesh.

A low growl rises up from within my chest. I don’t make concessions. At least, I never have before, but for her, I’ve already given so much. “Yes,” I hiss out the word. There are worse things than death, but she doesn’t need to know that. I can keep the fucker alive if it’ll please her, if it’ll keep her next to me. Dean and Avalon have already given their consent. Ace will live as Eastpoint’s dog for the rest of his life, but he’ll be alive and that’ll be enough to keep her happy. It has to be.

“What about my freedom?”

“No.” I bite the upper curve of her ass, digging my teeth into her skin as she arches up and moans, low and deep, in the back of her throat. “You’re mine. You get no more freedom. I need you. I can’t let you go.”

“You have to,” her voice is surprisingly steady. “If you want to keep me.” Reaching beneath her, I double check and make sure. Yes, she’s still turned on. She still wants me. “I can’t be a prisoner anymore, Brax. I can’t be your captive.”

A groan rumbles up my chest as my fingers spread into the soft wetness of her juices and I slide two right back into the place I just left. I curl them, scooping the cream she’s releasing onto the digits, letting it slide into my hand before retreating.

Slowly, I drift up to the dark hole between her ass cheeks. The same one I fucked in the car. It still has a little bit of me left inside. I slide her juices into the hole and scissor my fingers apart. To Clover’s credit, she doesn’t even flinch when I press them deeper into her asshole. All she does is turn her face to the side, watching me out of the corner of her eye as I fuck her backside with my hand, in and out until her wetness has been all stolen and then I go back for more. Again and again, I fill her ass with her own juices, easing the way for my cock in a manner she should soon grow accustomed to. Because there’s no doubt in my mind that I’ll be doing this again in the future. Her ass is something I can’t get enough of. The tightness and the way it grips onto me is enough to have me panting for more.

I add another finger and then another, until she’s tight around four digits and straining against my hold. “Brax…” The breathiness in her voice makes my cock pulse with desire.

“Whatever it takes, Clover,” I tell her as I pull my hand free and line up the head of my dick with her little hole. “To ensure you’re mine. I’ll do it. It’s already a fact—you belong to me, whether you admit it or not.”

“I still need my freedom.” Her words come out on a moan as I push against her. Her body flinches as I ease my way inside the tight ring of muscles, going slower than I ever have with anyone. This is gentle for me and it’s a fucking bitch. I want to shove into her, I want to give her pain. I want to hurt her. I want to make her cry and lick the tears from her flesh.

“What is freedom?” I ask her through gritted teeth. “An excuse to leave me?”

“No.” She shakes her head. “It means you trust me. Do you trust me, Brax?”

Do I? I don’t know. I’ve only ever trusted my boys before. Avalon. Even Rylie is a new addition. I don’t trust easily, and Clover is too important for me to risk. I squeeze my eyes shut as her insides tighten around my dick, threatening to break it. I grip onto her skin, and I know I’m bruising her, but I don’t care.

“Braxton.” I shake my head. My teeth tingle. I want to bite her and fuck her and make her forget her question, but I know it’s useless. She won’t forget. She’ll keep fucking asking until she gets her answer. “Tell me.”

“Fuck!” The word is ripped from my throat. “Fine. Fucking fine. Yes, you’ll have your goddamn freedom. You’ll have my trust. It’s yours.” My muscles tremble with the effort it takes not to take out my anger on her. I’ve never worked this damn hard to keep from ripping someone to shreds. “But I swear if you betray me, Clover. If you leave me … I’ll track you to the ends of the Earth. I will find you and I will drag you back, kicking and screaming. I’ll break your fucking legs so you can’t leave again. I’ll lock you up. I’ll chain your ankles.” I spit out the threats, one after the other, meaning each and every one of them. It’ll break something inside of me to hurt her that way, but the thought of losing her is worse.

I don’t care if it makes me a monster. If I’ll lose all sense of humanity left inside of me, it will be worth it so long as she’s with me.

Clover doesn’t shy away from my words, though. And as if she senses my internal turmoil, she arches up on her hands and glances back at me. She stares right at me and as her lips part, the most beautiful words escape from her lips.

“Then I’m yours, Brax,” she says. “If I have my freedom, then I choose you.”

I choose you. My head reels at that. No sweeter words have ever been spoken, and I damn near pass out from the shock of it. With careful movements, I pull my cock free of her ass and slide, slowly, back inside. Her response deserves care. It deserves gentleness. She chose me. I still can’t fucking believe it.

She groans. “Braxton.” Her voice is harsh, my name spoken through gritted teeth. Her head turns and her gaze meets mine. “Harder,” she demands. “Don’t fuck me like I’m glass, Brax. If you’re going to do this—if you’re going to steal everything from me and make me yours—then at least fuck me like you hate it. Fuck me like you hate me.”

I don’t. Maybe I did before, but I don’t now. I wrap my arms around her middle and groan. “No,” I tell her. “If you want harder, I can give you harder, but I’m not fucking you like I hate you. I’ll fuck you like I fucking love you … because I do, Firebird. I love you.”

And unfortunately for her, I want to scar the woman I love.

My fingers dig into the skin of her stomach and I use my hold to thrust the rest of the way into her ass in one single movement. She cries out, screams as my cock burrows deep past her muscles with little to no lube. Her little hole tightens around the base of my cock, squeezing me so tight, she’s not the only one in pain.

We fuck like animals with me in her ass and her body meeting me thrust for thrust. I push her down and she turns, biting into my forearm as I slice into her. “Harder,” I practically beg, wanting the same thing she asked me for. She answers my plea with more pressure and it isn’t until I feel the wet leaking of blood running down my skin that I realize she’s torn through my flesh.

When the pain hits, my cock can’t stand it anymore. I come into her, fumbling as I reach under her stomach with my free arm, letting her keep my other between her teeth. I find her clit and slide my fingers into her cunt. My thumb rubs over the little sensitive bundle of nerves between her legs and she finally releases me from her jaw, crying out as her inner muscles spasm around my cock, driving me higher than I ever thought possible, until we’re both sated.

It can’t be more than a few minutes of euphoric orgasm before I’m collapsing on top of her, but it feels like an eternity. My chest against her back, both of our flesh covered in blood, cum, and sweat is the sweetest feeling in the world. She grumbles in irritation and only then do I find the strength to lift myself away from her.

My arms curl around her body, tugging her against my chest as we pant and try to catch our breath. This was our breaking point, and I can’t feel sorry for it. As confused as it makes me, I’ve found it. The very thing that Abel and Dean have. The one thing I can’t live without.

I want to carve her into my heart, into my very soul, so even if she disappears, I’ll always have her memory on me. The last thing on my mind as I drift into the oblivion of sleep is her and I have a feeling it’ll be like this for the rest of my life. I was hunting the world for a reason to be human, and now I found it.

Who knew being human would be its own type of monster, too?

33

CLOVER

MOVEMENT WAKES ME, the bed dips, and warm lips touch my forehead. A familiar smell invades my nostrils. I inhale deeply. “Braxton…” I murmur sleepily.

“Get some more sleep, Firebird,” I hear him reply. “I’ll come wake you soon.”

I don’t want him to go, but I’m too tired to force him to stay. Oblivion calls me back and before I know it, I’m drifting back into a simple and perfect dream. One where everything is okay again. Where Mama Luda lives and Ivan lives and Braxton is at my side. It’s such a sweet dream that it brings tears to my eyes. She would have loved him—every broken piece of him—the same way I do. She would have been what he lost. If only she could have been.

It takes far longer to finally rise from the dream and by the time I do, I know hours have passed.

My hands slide across cooled sheets and when they come up empty, my eyes open to find that I’m alone. My chest tightens in both fear and irritation. Braxton’s indention in the mattress is still there which means that what happened last night wasn’t a figment of my imagination. And if that wasn’t enough to convince me that it was real, the aches in my body certainly remind me.

My ass is sore—as is the rest of my body. I feel like I went a couple of rounds in a ring with someone who knew how to beat my ass, but at the same time, my muscles are so lax that it doesn’t matter how sore I am or how many bruises I see along my arms and legs as I slide out from beneath the sheets and head for the attached bathroom. I’d do it all over again if it meant that I’d wake up on the other side with one single knowing—Braxton Smalls is mine and no one else’s.

I crank the hot water until steam starts to fill the room and turn to face the mirror. “Fuck…” I mutter under my breath as the full breadth of Braxton’s actions last night are revealed. There are bruises on my inner thighs and bite marks damn near everywhere. They litter my body—from my thighs to my breasts to my throat. Hickeys litter my flesh, purple and red on my throat and around my nipples. I reach up and cup myself, wincing. Shit, they’re still sore.

Turning, I grab a handful of my still slightly damp hair and pull it over my shoulder and away from my spine so I can look back and take in the rest of me. My ass is just as bruised as my throat and thighs. There’s even still a handprint on one side from Braxton’s spanking. My head spins with the meaning of what all went down.

It’s over, I realize. The hating. The resistance. The battles with Braxton. He’s given me what I’ve been asking for all along. Ace’s life and my freedom. It’s still hard to believe.

There are no clothes to remove so as soon as the mirror is fogged up, I step under the spray and groan as it slides down my spine and washes into my hair. The fresh water strips away the scent of mud and rain as I reach for the shampoo and start to lather myself up. Wincing as I wash between my legs and over my asshole, I clean myself up and then hurry to get out and find a towel.

Half an hour later, I’m freshly dried and redressed. I throw my hair up into a bun and head out, intent on searching for the man who left me so fucking bruised and finding out exactly what our next step is.

As I hit the stairs, the sound of voices drift up to me and I follow them down into the living room and kitchen area. It appears everyone has gathered around as Dean stands at the stove, dishing up platefuls of food. I’m shocked they don’t have a chef or something to do that for them, but on the other hand—not having someone working for them right now might be the best course of action. Less prying eyes means less chance of secrets being leaked.

As if he senses me, Braxton’s head pops up from where he sits at the island counter and finds me across the room. “Clover.” I should feel nervous. Hell, I should feel a little unsettled by the amount of desire in my body. How the hell had I repressed it for so long? I wonder absently. Now that I’ve given myself over to it, it feels more powerful than ever.

My name on his lips is a call that I follow as I stride across the room and head for his side. Several eyes follow my movements—including Marcus and Abel—but I ignore them. If they have a problem, they can take it up with me later. I’m too tired to pretend like I’m shy anymore.

I’m a little more shocked that my hands don’t shake, that I don’t outwardly show any sign of discomfort as I reach him and let Braxton pull me against him. I slide up against his side and sigh as his arm drops around me, pulling me against his warmth. It feels normal. It feels natural.

“Why didn’t you wake me up?” I ask. “Are we having a meeting?”

He shakes his head and pushes a plate full of bacon and what looks like buttered biscuits towards me. I pick up a strip of bacon and inhale it. “Not yet,” he replies. “I would’ve woken you up later, but we didn’t go to bed until late so I figured you could use the sleep. You’re still healing.”

“From more than torture, it seems,” Avalon comments, eyeing my throat.

I arch a brow her way and lift one hand, curling down each of my fingers save the middle one. I’m not ashamed. She merely laughs. At the edge of the Island, Ace leans against the wall, his arms crossed. He doesn’t say anything and when I look his way; he somehow finds something else to be absorbed in. The muscles around my lips tighten. Coward.

“I wanted to ask about Dom,” I say, switching subjects. “The kid that came with me. I know you said a friend took him away. What happened to him? Are you still holding onto him? Did you question him about the Undead?”

“The kid’s fine,” Braxton answers, nudging the plate once more when I haven’t picked up anything else. I roll my eyes and lift a biscuit to my lips as he continues. “Yes, we’re still holding onto him. Viks is keeping him under wraps and yes, we questioned him about the Undead.”

“He wouldn’t know much,” Ace finally says, “he wasn’t initiated.”

I swallow the mouthful of biscuit and glance at him. “Did you know him before?” I ask.

Ace shakes his head. “No.” That’s it. Just no. No follow up, no explanation for what the Undead could have possibly needed from a teenage kid who was half starved and clearly abused and traumatized.

I scowl and drop the half uneaten biscuit back onto the plate in front of me. “Is there a problem, Ace?” I demand.

Braxton’s hand clenches at my side, almost like a reflexive movement, but he doesn’t stop me. Oh, sweet progress. Even that isn’t enough to dampen my irritation, though. My focus returns to my brother and I narrow my gaze as he finally looks at me.

“No problem at all,” he replies coolly, his face as impassive as it is when he doesn’t want someone to know what he’s thinking. That only serves to incite me further.

I open my mouth to say something scathing, but before anything can come out, Dean turns back to the group and drops a plate of steaming hot eggs and more bacon onto the counter before leaning forward.

“Enough, children,” he snaps. “We’ve got more than enough issues to handle without pettiness.” I scowl, but he turns to me and if I’m not mistaken, I swear to God his expression softens. “The kid is in good hands, Clover,” he assures me. “And Braxton, himself, talked to him.”

“What’s going to happen to him?” I ask, curious. I can’t imagine that he’d be that easy to just let go. It’d be one thing if he were a kid from off the streets, but I have absolutely no clue how long he was involved with the Undead or if he’s even able to be put into the system.

“Viks is a therapist,” Dean says. “He’ll keep him for now and work on some of his issues. We’ll figure out the rest later.”

“After the meeting next week?” I clarify.

Braxton stiffens at my side, but Dean responds before I can look at him. “Yeah,” he agrees with a nod. “Next Friday.”

Lie. I don’t know why I think that, but the second the words come out of Dean’s mouth, I know what they are.

I frown. “Brax?” He doesn’t look at me and instead, picks up a piece of bacon for himself, shoving it into his mouth.

Avalon is quick on the uptake and suddenly her entire focus is on Dean. “Luc said the meeting was next Friday,” she repeats.

“Yeah, he did,” Dean replies. “And that’s when it is.”

She narrows her gaze. “Is it?”

Silence stretches through the room and the discomfort is practically palpable. Rylie is surprisingly the one to break the awkwardness. “Why do I feel like I’m missing something important?” she asks.

“Shhh, quiet, riot girl,” Abel urges her, “let the alpha dogs and bitches go at it. If you get too close, you could get bit.”

His words—though intentionally light and joking—tell me only one thing, that there’s a reason to fight. I turn to Brax and stare at him. He’s never avoided my gaze before like he is now. “You wouldn’t move the meeting time to keep me from going, would you?” I prompt, waiting.

Dean curses under his breath, but I don’t look at him. The sole of my focus is on the man who keeps a hand around my waist. I reach down and grasp his finger, twisting it back until I can move out of his grasp. Only then does he look at me, and there’s no remorse in his expression. That’s all the answer I need.

“When?” I demand.

He shakes his head. “It’s better if you stay behind,” he says.

“No,” I snap. “Now, tell me when it is. Or has the place also changed?”

“Firebird—”

I hold up a hand. “Don’t fucking Firebird me right now,” I growl. “I thought we came to an understanding.”

“We did,” he says. “But you still can’t go. They won’t recognize our faces”—he gestures to Dean—“but they know exactly who you are.”

“I want Hades dead,” I remind him.

“I know,” he agrees. “And he will be.”

“I want to be the one to kill him,” I snap. “That’s my fucking right.”

“I’m not going to take it from you,” Brax argues.

“That’s not what you’re doing right now?” I demand. “Because I’ll fucking say lying to me and acting like all is well when you have absolutely no intention of bringing me along to meet the man who murdered half of my family is as much of a betrayal as I’ve ever seen, Brax.”

“Damn it, just listen to me,” he snaps.

“Why?” I reply. “So you can just lie again? Go ahead, you’re so fucking good at it. Just don’t expect me to believe you.”

“Clover!” I turn and ignore his angry growl as I storm out of the room. “Fucking damn it!”

I fucking trusted him, and just like that—not even twenty-four hours after he earned my fucking trust back—another betrayal. Why should I even be shocked at this point?

Braxton’s resounding footsteps follow me out of the kitchen and into the hallway. Before I can make it halfway back to the stairs, hands lock onto my upper arms, grabbing me and bodily lifting me as I’m spun and slammed against the wall. Braxton’s figure comes down hard over me as he punches the wall next to my head.

“I’m trying to fucking protect you,” he grits out.

“By not trusting me!” I scream, shoving against him. I push a finger into his chest, right between his pecs as I curse at him. “You fucking promised. You said I’d get my freedom. This isn’t fucking freedom! This is manipulation.”

“Clover, please,” he dips his head and it takes everything in me not to soften at his expression. “They took you once, I can’t … I can’t chance that again. I need you to stay behind. For my fucking sanity, I need you to be safe.”

I groan. “Keeping me locked up and stupid won’t keep me safe,” I argue. “And trying to deceive me won’t do anything but make me stop trusting you. I just gave you that back, do you really want to risk me taking it away again.”

He grits his teeth. “Now who’s manipulating who?” he replies.

I grimace. “I’m not trying to,” I say. “That’s the difference. How am I supposed to trust you if you don’t trust me?”

“I do trust you,” he says. “It’s everyone else that’s the problem.”

I groan and scrub both of my hands down my face. It’s never easy with him and I have a sneaking suspicion that now that I’m locked in with him, it never will be. There will be fights for the rest of my life—just like this, me pushing him and him pushing right the fuck back.

“If I wanted to be controlled, I would have agreed to Hades’ deal,” I say.

Braxton frowns. “What fucking deal?”

My eyes widen and confusion flows through me. What … had I never mentioned it? Had I never told him?

“He…” I shake my head. “He offered to accept me into the Undead,” I tell him. “In exchange for my life.”

“No.” Braxton moves closer, his body pinning me in place. I look up at him, but the shadows falling over his face make it impossible to see the color of his eyes. All I can do is feel the intensity of their focus. “Not a chance in fucking hell.”

“Brax—”

“You’re not joining the Undead,” he repeats.

“I know, I said the same,” I assure him. “I said no.”

“You can’t.” It’s like he doesn’t hear me. “You can’t leave.”

I don’t even realize I’m touching him until my fingers are on his jawline, moving down to his throat, skimming across the pounding of his pulse. “Braxton.” I lean into him, pushing my body into his—willing it to ground him to the present. “I’m not leaving. I’m not joining the Undead. I’m not going anywhere.”

His body pushes against mine and fine little trembles shake him down to his core. I feel the vulnerability in him—something I’m sure he’s so rarely ever showed anyone else. Despite my anger, I can’t push him away. Not knowing that he’s only terrified of losing me again. I cup the back of his head, letting my nails scrape against his scalp. He shudders against me, burrowing his head against my throat.

“I need you, Clover,” he whispers hotly against my neck.

“And I need to be free,” I tell him. “Please, Brax. I’ll do whatever it takes to get you to trust me enough to let me go. I have to go. I can’t just hang back. You can’t ask that of me.”

He blows out a deep breath. “You’ll do everything I say?” he finally asks.

“Within reason.”

“You’re not going to the meeting,” he repeats. “But … I’ll bring him to you.”

“I still want to be there,” I insist.

Brax shakes his head. “Not in the building. Shit, I can’t risk you, Firebird.”

“What if I’m there, but not in the building?” It’s an offer of compromise. An olive branch. Fucking take it, Brax, I practically beg silently. Please don’t make me do something we’ll both regret.

Before he can respond, however, another voice pipes up from the end of the hall. “I’d agree if I were you, Brax.” Both of our heads lift and turn towards the distinctly feminine voice.

Avalon stands at the end of the hall, both arms crossed as she glares at him. “She’s nice enough to make the offer, but I’m not,” she states. “And Clover isn’t the only one pissed off about being left out.”

“Baby—” Dean’s voice comes from somewhere behind her, but she doesn’t look back. Instead, her eyes narrow on Brax even more.

“Don’t fucking ‘Baby’ me, Dean,” she snaps. “And I know this was your idea, Braxton. Don’t fuck with me. You think I’ll let you take Dean into danger again, without me? Did she somehow knock your damn brains out of your skull when she fucked you or were you this stupid beforehand?”

Braxton places both of his hands against the wall above my shoulders and uses his hold to push back, hovering over me but not touching me. “You should understand wanting to protect what you love, Ava,” he replies, staring down at me even as he speaks to her.

“You’re damn right I do,” she agrees. My eyes are locked on Brax’s and I can’t pull them away. “Which is why your girl is right. We have every right to be there. If you want to keep us outside, I can agree to that, but we will be nearby. You try and keep us away and I’ll break her out of her restraints myself and drag her ass into the devil’s den.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” he growls, but from her words—I know she means it.

“Try me, Braxton Smalls,” Ava challenges him. “See what I do when you take my man into danger and leave me behind. Where he goes, I go.”

I swallow and reach up, touching the underside of Brax’s jaw. “And where you go, I go,” I whisper.

Lightning flashes in his hazel eyes. Volatile. Dangerous. Possessive. He lifts his head and turns his gaze to the end of the hall. I follow his gaze, watching as Dean steps into view behind Ava. His hands find her shoulders, but though she doesn’t shake him off, her anger remains palpable.

“Fine,” Braxton spits the word. “But I want insurance.”

“Insurance?” I frown. “What do you mean?”

Dean sighs.

“Now, that sounds like something I can do,” Rylie’s voice sounds a split second before she appears behind both Dean and Ava. They separate, looking back at her as she frowns and shakes her head at the group of us. “I’ve been working on some new tracking devices,” she continues. “Will that make you feel better?”

Braxton glances back at me and I nod. “I’ll agree to that,” I say.

His next breath is a relieved one. “Yeah,” he says. “That’ll work.”

“Don’t let this happen again, Brax,” Avalon warns as he moves back from me, reaching down and clasping my hand with his. Our fingers intertwine. “You may have Clover, there, dickmatized—but I’m not going to let it slide if you try to lock me out as well. You know better.”

“You can’t blame him for that, Baby,” Dean replies, sliding his hand around her waist and pulling her back against him. “I’m just as protective over you as he is of her.”

“If we’ve had enough of the lovers quarreling then,” Ace snaps, moving into view as Brax pulls me back down the hallway towards the group and open space. “Shall we move onto the planning stage of this meeting? What’s the new time and meeting place?”

“It’s this Friday,” Dean answers. “And we’re meeting in the warehouse district.”

Tense silence follows that statement and then, collectively—Ace and I utter the one single word that sums up this disastrous situation.

“Fuck.”

34

BRAXTON

SOMEWHERE ALONG THE WAY, I’d fucked up. I’d gotten too close and gotten too attached and now I can’t picture my life without her. The worst part of it all is … I don’t think I’d rather it end any other way.

I strap down the bulletproof vest against my skin, turning to glance behind me using the stand-up mirror in the corner of the bedroom. Behind me, Clover tugs up a pair of form fitting black jeans and buttons them at the top. Her skin is practically translucent. She’s too skinny. She needs to eat more. I haven’t been taking care of her well enough. There are still bruises on her flesh and even as she pulls down the black tank top, effectively covering the ones still on her ribcage, it doesn’t erase their presence from her skin or from my mind.

Her eyes cut towards me in the reflection and I turn, reaching for the black button-up laying across the back of a nearby chair. I slip it on and start doing up the front before tucking the hem into my slacks. The soft pad of her footsteps alerts me to her approach.

“You look like a mafia boss,” she comments. Her hand presses against my back, fingers moving down my spine beneath the fabric and Kevlar.

“In a way, I suppose you could say I am,” I reply.

She chuckles. “You’re a little corrupt,” she replies. “But from what I understand, your businesses are all legit. You don’t traffic people or guns.”

I hum in the back of my throat. “Is there a reason you’re talking about my businesses?” I ask, turning towards her. I curve one hand around her waist, yanking her closer. Her head tips up, chin in the air. Her freckles are dark against her skin. I want to trace each and every one of them with my tongue.

My head dips and I press my mouth to her lips. She opens for me, under me, letting me inside as her arms respond to my movements. She wraps them around me, going up on her tiptoes as I dig my fingers into her sides, right into the bruises I know are there. A moan filters into my mouth, over my tongue.

“You can’t distract me, Brax,” she mutters, pulling away after a moment. “We’ve got a job to do tonight and no matter how you try to put it off, there’s no going back.”

“I know.” God, how I know. “Avalon will be with you in the car. Don’t leave it for any reason.”

“I won’t.”

A knock sounds on the door and I lift my head as the door swings inward. “Speak of the devil,” I mutter as Avalon, herself, struts right into the room.

“You two ready to head out?”

“Yeah.” I sigh, releasing Clover from my hold as she drifts across the room, snatching up a leather jacket from the end of the bed and meeting Ava at the door.

“Are the tracking devices ready?” she asks.

Ava nods. “Rylie’s got ‘em downstairs, and bonus—they’re edible.”

“Edible?” Clover pauses with one arm halfway into the leather sleeve of her jacket. After a moment, she continues, finishing putting the clothing on before glancing over her shoulder as well. “Then, I guess we better get a move on.”

I don’t like this. I really don’t like this, but there’s a plethora of words—of advice running through my mind. Clover’s desire for freedom. Avalon’s love for Dean—the memory of how broken she’d been when she thought he’d died for her. Viks’ advice when it comes to getting what I want. It all spirals around and around in my head like a movie stuck on repeat.

I follow Avalon and Clover out into the hall and down the stairs. The second we step into the living room, Rylie’s there. She shoves something into my hand before doing the same to Ava and Clover.

I turn over the little plastic-y looking ball in my hand. “Okay, so this is how it works,” Rylie starts. “It’s a little experimental, but I’ve been trying to patent this type of tracking device for a while now. It’s temporary and will only remain in the body for up to forty-eight hours max. Its outer layers will be completely absorbed within the stomach and the small, technology part of it will be flushed from the system—”

I hold up my hand, staving off whatever explanation she’s got left and pop the damn thing in my mouth. With a grimace, I swallow the little pill. A layer of strawberry coated dust remains on my tongue after the face. “Ugh. It’s fine,” I say once it’s gone.

Rylie frowns. “You didn’t let me finish,” she says.

“It’s a tracking device,” I reply. “You’ll be able to locate it. That’s all that matters.”

Clover glances at my face and looks down at hers. She shoves it into her mouth and swallows. I watch as her face scrunches up and she sticks out her tongue afterwards. “Ew. You didn’t say it’d leave an aftertaste.” She coughs.

“It’s kinda cool, though,” Avalon says, turning hers over in her hand before popping it in her own mouth. “Strawberry-flavored.”

Rylie rolls her eyes. “Just remember that this is in an experimental phase,” she says. “It’s had no major side effects so far, and it won’t show up on x-rays or MRI scans. Forty-eight hours is the max that it’ll remain in the system, though. After that window, I might not be able to use it to find anyone.”

“I doubt we’ll actually need the full forty-eight hours,” Dean says as he steps into the room. Loaded down with his own Kevlar vest, he finishes buttoning up a shirt that matches my own. “This is a simple mission. Let’s not complicate matters. The tracking devices are just for backup.”

Rylie nods and then turns to Clover and Avalon. “The car you two are taking has been outfitted with a radio scanner,” she says. “You’ll be able to tune into the listening devices Brax, Dean, and Luc will have. Even if you’re not in the meeting, you’ll be able to hear everything that goes on.”

“And if anything goes wrong, we can step in,” Avalon replies.

“Nothing will go wrong,” I snap. “We’ll make sure of that.”

Dean nods his agreement. “We should head out,” he says. “Ace, Luc, and I have already taken our devices.”

“Ace is riding with us, right?” Avalon clarifies.

A dark look crosses Dean’s face. I can’t say I don’t understand it, especially not now with Clover. I glance in her direction, but her attention is solely focused on Dean and Rylie. Touching her shoulder, I redirect her gaze to me.

I don’t say anything but I reach down and grasp her arm, pulling her away from the group as Dean replies to Avalon. “I need you to be safe,” I warn her. “Don’t step out of the car. Don’t leave Avalon’s side.”

“Don’t worry,” she says. “I’ll be fine.”

“I know you will, but I can’t help but worry,” I remind her. “You’re the most important thing in this world to me, you know that, right?”

Her gaze softens and she presses herself forward. The scent of her—floral mixed with my shampoo and soap—makes my cock harden against my slacks. Fuck, this is really not the time.

“I’ll drag him before you,” I swear to her, gritting my teeth against my desire. “Hades will pay for everything.”

“Don’t kill him,” she says. “I want to do it.”

I nod. “I know, Firebird. He’s yours. I’ll make sure of it.” My hand skims the side of her face. “One more thing.” I release her and reach into my back pocket, pulling a small butterfly knife free. I press it into her grasp. “Avalon has a gun, but I wanted you to have something, too.”

“You didn’t want to give me a firearm?” she asks, but her fingers curl around the gift regardless.

I chuckle. “There will be backups in the car,” I assure her. “There always are. Take one if you want.”

Her brows shoot up. “You’d let me?”

“Everything I have is yours, Clover,” I remind her. “Guns. Businesses. Money. Houses. It’s yours. All I want in return is you safe.”

She’s quiet for a moment and then her gaze turns downward as she flicks the pocket knife open. The double handle latches into place and she holds it up. “Then what’s this?” she inquires. “A sign of my safety?”

“A reminder,” I reply. “That no matter where I am, no matter where you are, you’re not powerless.”

She leans up on her toes and kisses my cheek. “Maybe I’ll kill him with this,” she says. “I did it once before, you know. The first time I was kidnapped by the Undead. I killed a man with a knife like this one.”

My cock practically pounds against my zipper and she moves against me knowingly. The devious little tease. “I can’t wait to see you covered in blood again, Firebird,” I whisper against her.

“Maybe I’ll use this on you when I’m done,” she replies, her breath hot against my flesh. My fingers grip her sides, contracting hard. I feel more than see her grin. “You like that idea.”

I can’t deny it. The blade presses against my cheek as she pulls back. The sharp edge scrapes against the shadow of my beard and down to the point until the very tip is pressed to my jaw. Her mouth opens—takes mine. Fiery heat pulses into my veins.

When she pulls back, it takes all of the strength of self will inside of me not to yank her back and have her press that knife a little lower. What would it take to get her to hold it against my throat as she rode my dick into oblivion?

She smiles and the sight of it turns me on. “If you’re a good boy,” she replies.

I return her smile with one of my own, bowing my head to the only woman who will ever have my heart the way she does. “I’ll be so fucking good for you, Firebird,” I promise. “As good as you want me to be.”

“And in return, I’ll stay safe,” she replies, stepping back and closing the pocket knife. “It’s going to be okay, Brax.” She slips the knife into the cup of her bra, right against her heart, before she holds out her hand to me. “Trust me.”

A more dangerous request there never was.

35

CLOVER

“SO…”

“Don’t,” I say, but my warning goes unheeded. I should’ve known better.

Avalon chuckles as if my response is both expected and amusing—knowing what I do about her, it probably is. “Just curious,” she continues.

“I really wish you’d keep your curiosity to yourself,” I reply, leaning forward and fiddling with the radio. It’s a different system than anything I’ve ever seen. There’s a box that sits between us in the console and in the backseat, Ace sits bitch with a pair of headphones connected to the box on his ears.

“Yeah, but what would the fun in that be?” Avalon replies. It’s clear she doesn’t expect an answer except for the question she’s actually wanting to ask.

“Never said it’d be fun,” I reply. Just bearable.

“And that’s where you lose my interest,” Avalon replies. “Life should be fun—it’s too short not to be.”

I groan and lean back against the passenger side seat, turning my head and peaking over at her. “Fine,” I huff out. “Hit me with it.”

Avalon grins, and I can see why she captured Dean’s attention. She’s fucking beautiful. Dangerous. A hint of her own psycho. That right there is the reason I was so unsure as to whether or not she and Braxton had a thing going on. Now I know, though. What he feels for her can’t be anything like what he feels for me. There’s only room enough in Braxton’s soul for me.

“Do I hear wedding bells in the future?” she asks.

I grimace. “Please, ask a different question,” I reply.

“Why?” she presses. “Too real for you.”

Way too fucking real. And too far ahead in the future than what I can currently contemplate. I turn back to the radio and lift the second pair of headphones, placing one over my ear as I move the volume on the side of the box up. The crackling noise on the other end is only broken by the sound of Dean and Braxton speaking in low tones. Their voices are muffled, but when I glance over my shoulder, Ace doesn’t seem perturbed. Is it just my headset?

“It’s scary, isn’t it?” Avalon asks.

I blow out a breath. Fine. She wants to talk. We’ll talk. “Alright,” I say with a sigh, putting the headphones down. “What’s scary?”

“Being in love.”

I stare at her for a moment. “Are we really doing this?” I ask, gesturing around. “Now?”

“If not now, when?” she replies. “If not here, where?”

“I don’t fucking know, but not here.” I scrub a hand down my face. “Fuck, Avalon, I don’t know. Yeah, it’s fucking terrifying. It would be a lie to say I’m not still pissed about the fact that Braxton betrayed me—that he did all of this for you—”

“If it makes you feel better, I did tell him he was a fucking idiot,” she says, interrupting me.

If I’m honest with myself, yeah, that does kind of make me feel better. It makes me feel like maybe I’m not quite as crazy as I feel when something revolves around a deranged psychopath that was previously hell bent on murdering my brother.

“Thanks for that,” I say dryly. I pick the headphones back up, but before I can lift them to my ears, she puts a hand on mine and lowers them back down.

“Don’t do that,” she says.

I scowl. “Do what?” I ask. “I’m doing my job,” I remind her. “We’re here for a reason and it’s not to sit back in the car and look pretty.”

Avalon smiles at my face, but it’s not a nice smile. It’s a mean one—it’s the kind of smile that says ‘bitch, I see what you’re trying to hide and I see you. Don’t try to bullshit a bullshitter.’ Thank fuck Ace has the headphones on. For one, because at least someone is listening in on the guys, and for two, I’d really rather he not hear the conversation we’re having right now.

“I want you to be straight with me,” Avalon says.

I inhale and slowly release my next breath. “Fine,” I reply. “What do you want to know?”

“At the very least, have we worked shit out far enough that at the end of this—can I expect you to stick around?” Avalon presses on.

“I’m not planning on running after this is all over.” It’s the only answer I can offer her and if she’s not satisfied, well, then I don’t know what the fuck to say. “But honestly, I don’t think this is the time to talk about this.”

She shrugs, removing her hand from mine. It’s clear, however, that she expects me not to put the headphones on. “No time like the present and if we’re stuck out here, playing backup, then there’s little else to do.”

“Brax and I have a lot of shit to work out,” I say. “I don’t want to make any assumptions or promises this early in the game.”

“You don’t want to leave him,” she replies.

“What are you?” I snap. “A mind reader or a psychic? How the hell do you know what I want or don’t want?”

She shoots me a look before pulling a pack of cigarettes from her back jeans pocket. She slaps the new pack against her palm before ripping off the plastic and throwing it to the floorboards at my feet. “I used to be you, Clover,” she replies. “Shit, you’re a hell of a lot more like me than Rylie is. I recognize a lot of who you are because I look in the mirror and see that shit every day.”

“Am I supposed to be flattered by that?” I ask.

She shrugs. “Be whatever the fuck you want to be,” she replies. “Doesn’t make it any less true. All I’m saying is—that’s why I’m prompting you with these questions. It’s not like you and I really get a whole lot of time together to be alone. When else am I going to have the opportunity to make sure you’re not going to run ass off the second all your problems get resolved? How the hell am I supposed to know if you’re just going to use Brax and the rest of us to fix your little problem, save your brother’s life, and then disappear in the wind?”

She pulls a single cigarette free and puts it between her plush, pink lips and then retrieves a lighter from the console. A single flame sparks in front of her face, illuminating the lower half briefly as she puts it to the end and sucks in a lungful of nicotine. A craving starts up in my own lungs. I hold out my hand and with a raised brow, she passes me the cigarettes and lighter.

“I don’t know what the fuck is going to happen in the future,” I tell her, sliding a cig out of the pack and putting it in my mouth. It’s been a long time since I’ve actually had one. I was doing good—between Brax and the bullshit with the Undead, I haven’t had a cigarette since things blew the fuck up. I turn away from her as I light up and then pass her shit back. She takes it and tucks it all away before turning to me. I hit the button on my window and roll it down a single inch letting some of the smoke from both of our cigs drift out into the fresh air.

“Braxton’s already got shit set up for you to start taking classes with us if you want,” she tells me.

“Classes?” My hands drop away from the radio. “I didn’t…” It hadn’t even occurred to me that he might want me to join him at Eastpoint. College hadn’t even been on my radar. It never seemed like a reality that I might be able to touch. Not in the past and even in the midst of all the things I’m currently trying to work out, it just wasn’t on my mind.

Avalon shrugs. “Yeah, if you want of course,” she says.

“I don’t…” I shake my head. “I mean, I barely finished high school. I probably don’t qualify.”

Avalon laughs. “It’s not about whether you qualify,” she says. “It’s about what you want. If you want to go to Eastpoint. If you want a degree, you can get one.”

I sit back against the passenger seat and stare through the tinted windshield of the car and frown. What do I want? I ask myself. The answer doesn’t come as easy as the question, though.

“He didn’t tell me,” is all I can manage.

Avalon shrugs. “He probably will once this is all over,” she replies. “I have a feeling he doesn’t want to scare you off.”

Then he knows me better than I thought because yeah, I’m fucking scared. The idea that someone could care about me enough to even think of my future when I can’t is … well, suffice it to say, it’s not something I’m accustomed to. I glance back over my shoulder and Ace lifts his head, noting my attention. His fingers go to his earphones and he jerks them down.

“You good?”

I nod. “Yeah, fine,” I lie. “Just keep listening.”

His gaze moves from me to Avalon, but after a beat of silence, he slowly puts them back on and returns his attention to the box as if he can see through it and into the heads of Dean and Brax—as if staring at a little black box sitting in the console attached to the radio will allow him to see through their eyes.

“You know,” I begin. “I’ve been given the run around a lot of times since I came here.”

Avalon arches a brow as she blows a stream of smoke into the air. “Oh?” she replies.

“And I know—in theory—the shit that went down with you, but I’ve never actually heard it from you,” I continue. “What happened, I mean.”

A beat of silence passes between us and the corner of Avalon’s mouth tips up. “You got a question you want to ask, Red, or are you hoping I’ll divulge all if you hint around it?” she prompts me.

I scowl. Fine, if that’s what she wants—if she wants pure honesty, then I can give that to her. No qualms. “What happened to you?” I ask. “You were tortured—by my brother—why?”

Avalon slowly releases her next breath and relaxes into her seat. Her eyes close and her head tilts back. “It’s a long ass story,” she finally says. “Too long to talk about here. Maybe someday I’ll give you the full picture, but for now, all you need to know is that Brax and Abel’s dads were assholes. They did something to my father—something it took nearly twenty years for them to pay for.”

Her eyes open, but she doesn’t look at me. Instead, her gaze is trained outward—through the windshield—but I have the distinct feeling that she’s not seeing what’s in front of her.

“They weren’t the only bad guys,” she continues. “Brax did all of this because of his own guilt—guilt he doesn’t really have a right to have. If he’s guilty then so the fuck are the rest of us.” She waves her hand through the air as if she can physically push away all the baggage that last sentence carries. “Ace had his hand in my kidnapping and torture, but at the end of the day, he was a grunt for hire. He was following orders. He took payment and he planned on killing me because the people who should have protected me … didn’t. They didn’t want to and they never did.”

I don’t know why, but hearing her last words makes my chest ache in an unfamiliar way. She sounds more resigned than sad, but there’s still the hint of unfortunate sorrow in her tone.

Neither of us say anything for a long time. My fingers itch to reach for the headphones, to listen to the other end and distract myself, but something stops me. I don’t want to ignore Avalon’s pain, as silent as it is. Sometimes, silent pain is the worst kind and only a true inhumane monster would leave someone to wallow alone. I have a feeling Avalon’s been left with that kind of pain alone far too often for her short life and, if I look deep within myself, so have I.

So, I sit there. I smoke my cigarette and I let the feeling of the nicotine numb me from the inside out while the two of us remain quiet, just staring down the empty street in front of us with a single dimly lit lamp at the very end.

I haven’t felt the need to be anyone’s comfort since my mom died. And when she was alive, it felt more like an obligation than a true desire to be there for her. I felt more like a parent reluctantly watching after a child they didn’t want. I resented that about her—her weaponized incompetence and the fact that she kept me feeling trapped in her life. I don’t feel trapped now. What I do for Avalon—just sitting here with her—isn’t done out of obligation. It’s done out of true understanding.

We’re more alike than I expected. She’s got her damage and I’ve got mine. Sometimes, that damage just needs a partner to ease its suffering. What’s the old saying? Misery loves company? So many people get that shit wrong. It isn’t that misery loves company. It’s that misery is seeking someone to shine the light into its darkness; it’s seeking someone to sit with it in that darkness. No matter how uncomfortable it is. No one wants to be alone.

I finish my cigarette and pinch the dead end before tossing it out the window. I reach for Avalon’s and she does the same before handing it over. Both butts go out onto the concrete, but when I turn and lift the headphones, ready to finally get down to work, a distant sound stops me. My whole body freezes and my head turns slightly so that my ear is damn near pressed against the still cracked window.

Another sound—this one much closer. “Start the car,” I snap. Anxiety rolls through me and beads of sweat pop up along the back of my neck.

Avalon’s head jerks towards me. “Shit,” Ace curses and peels the headphones away from his ears as a sharp headache inducing shriek comes from the other line. “What the fuck!”

“Start the fucking car!” I snap. Something is wrong. We’re in danger here.

Avalon doesn’t wait anymore. I half expect her to argue—to insist we can’t leave without Brax and Dean. I’d be lying if a part of me wasn’t thinking it myself, but we won’t be of any use to them if we’re dead and something has gone very wrong.

Just as the key turns in the ignition, the back windshield shatters. Ace curses as his head slams forward, ducking at the sudden rain of glass. Avalon reaches for the gearshift, but it’s too late. A shadow moves along her window a split second before it, too, shatters and an arm snaps in, latching around her throat and dragging her from the car.

“Avalon!” I scream her name, reaching for her. I should’ve known better. The window at my back breaks and an arm much like the one that dragged Avalon out locks around my throat, doing the same.

I kick and scream as my whole body is yanked backwards, through the broken window. Glass cuts into my clothes and I can feel it dragging across my skin, but thankfully—nothing breaks the surface. My feet hit the ground, giving me more leverage. I risk no time in slamming my hips back against my attacker even as the arm jerks hard against my throat, cutting off my air supply. I turn my head to the side, gasping for breath amidst my fight.

“Fuck!” Ace’s shout tells me that he’s already out of the car and when my vision clears, I look over to see the back door of the car we’d been in hanging open.

It was a set up. It had to be. But how? How could they have known? We should’ve been safer. We should’ve taken our time, but I was too impatient to get this over with. Now, we’re all paying the price. Ace bellows and launches himself at another man, taking him to the ground. Their responding grunts filter up against the side of the building we’re parked behind. Of course, the warehouse district is a quiet place so every noise we make echoes. But no one is coming. It’s a deserted part of town, and though we’d been intending to use the lack of civilians in the area to our advantage, it seems that it’s turned against us now.

I throw an elbow back into the abdomen of the man holding me and his arm finally loosens. I spin away, ducking beneath it as I grip his wrist and bring it down against my knee as I kick up. A snapping sound reaches my ears and he grunts in response. Professionals, I realize. The Undead.

Maybe in the furthest recesses of my mind, I’d held onto some hope that this had nothing to do with why we were here, but that was a silly thought. My blood pumps faster as I release my attacker and flip towards Avalon, intending to help her, but the second my eyes land on hers, I freeze.

She’s on the ground, knees digging into the pavement and her hands placed carefully behind her head. Though her gaze is still defiant, there’s a slow trickle of blood leaking down the side of her forehead.

Fuck. Fuck. FUCK.

It’s over. The man standing behind her uses the gun he’s got trained on the back of her head to motion to me. “Get on the ground,” he growls.

“Ace,” I call. He doesn’t hear me as he puts a knee into his assailant’s face. “Ace! Stop!” No response.

"Clover—” Avalon tries.

“Shut the fuck up,” I mutter, cutting her off as I go down on my knees hard, wincing. So many times in the last few weeks, I feel like my knee caps are going to be either perpetually bruised before this all ends or broken. Fuck me sideways. How the hell did we mess this up so bad? It was just supposed to be a meeting. Reconnaissance. Now, it’s up in flames.

The man behind her lifts his gun and fires it into the air. Finally, Ace stops and turns back to us. When he sees both Avalon and me on our knees and the man with the gun, he curses lowly. “I would follow your sister’s example, Ace,” the man says. Before he can, though, the third man and the one who attacked me both grab him by his arms and drag him to the ground, locking his arms behind his back and sliding a pair of handcuffs into place. One of them comes back to me and grips each of my wrists, dragging them back before the same is applied to me.

Avalon looks ready to spit bullets. I can understand the feelings. It’s not fun finding out how fucking powerless you actually are. Sweat drips down my spine. I can only hope—pray—that they leave her be. She’s too important, right? She belongs to the Sick Boys, the Eastpoint Heirs.

“You’ve got us,” I say through a dry throat. “Let her go.”

The man behind her arches a brow and sighs. He shakes his head and pulls the gun back. For a split second, I think he’s going to do it—he’s going to pull the trigger—but he just turns it to the side and pistol whips the back of her head. Avalon collapses against the ground. Breathing heavily, I stare at her hard, looking for a sign of life. There has to be a gnarly gash on the back of her head now, though I can’t see it through her hair. Thankfully, her chest rises and falls in slow movements. She’s alive. She’s still breathing. A gush of relief hits me.

“Bag her and let's go,” the man says, lowering his weapon. “Grab Ace too.”

Before I can utter another word, a bag is slapped over my face and pulled tight into my throat, cutting into my neck until I wince. A croak escapes a split second before something hard cracks against the back of my skull. Pain bursts as my body sags forward and finally … darkness takes over.

36

BRAXTON

I STARE DOWN at my phone, watching the numbers change as another minute ticks past. “The time has already passed,” I say.

Dean doesn’t look my way, but I can practically feel his worry. The small room above the empty warehouse where we’re supposed to meet the Undead remains unchanged. Just the three of us.

Luc. Me. Dean. There are no footsteps signaling the arrival of our guests. “We should’ve called Viks,” Dean says. “I’d feel better if he were here.”

So the fuck would I, I think silently, but it’s too little too late now. Another minute passes. “Something’s wrong,” I say. “This doesn’t feel right.”

“We should give it some more time,” Luc argues. “We did change things and move them up last minute.”

I stand up from my seat and glare at him. Dean might be over his rivalry with him, but I still don’t like the fucker. More importantly, I don’t like his old man. Thomas Kincaid is a smarmy bastard if there ever was one. I can’t imagine his son is much different. Even the gun sitting inside my suit jacket against my ribcage doesn’t feel like enough insurance.

“Should we call it off?” Dean asks, looking in my direction.

“They’re over ten minutes late,” I say. “I don’t think they’re coming.”

“Do you think they figured it out?” he asks.

That’s just the thing. I don’t know. I can’t see the future or predict this group. Even knowing their motivations doesn’t help, and what Clover had confessed to me—the fact that this Hades man wants her to join them doesn’t make me feel like she’s any safer. He might not kill her right away, but men who think they can control the world from the shadows rarely appreciate being rejected. I should fucking know. I’m the same way.

“Let me call my contact,” Luc says, retrieving his cell from his back pocket.

“Fine,” I say. “Call him, but if he doesn’t answer, we’re pulling out. It’s too risky.” I can’t place the reason for my feeling, but in the center of my gut, there’s cold dread. Like we’ve missed something. Overlooked some piece of the puzzle. And in our line of work—in dealing with organizations that thrive in corruption and murder—having all of the details is important. One little misstep can mean the end.

Fuck, I’m tired of this shit. I didn’t realize how much until this moment. I just want to go home with Clover, crawl into bed, and hold her before I pass the fuck out. I want to wake up in the morning, go to classes I couldn’t give a shit about, and have her watch me at practice. I want to sweat and show her just how fucking good I can be with a ball and then maybe … I wanna eat her out beneath the bleachers. All that shit people our age should be doing.

I close my eyes as all those desires spiral through my head. Instead, I’m here, in an old warehouse that smells like dust and mold, waiting for a contact that’s connected to one of the most dangerous organizations I didn’t even know about until weeks ago.

Across the room, Luc curses. I pull my shit together and release a breath. “What’s the issue?” I demand, turning towards him and refocusing my attention.

Luc doesn’t even glance my way as he hits the speaker on his phone. It’s not his contact, speaking though. It’s none other than Thomas Kincaid.

“—your place, son,” he says. “The Undead belongs to me, and I can assure you that they won’t be of any assistance to whatever you’re planning. Perhaps if you’d come to me, we could have worked something out. I don’t appreciate the sneaking around. If you want something, son, you come to me. Whatever you’re playing at with the Eastpoint Heirs, I can assure you it’s something you should keep your own fucking nose out of. We’re Kincaids. We’re better and we always will be.”

The line cuts off and it’s clear that it was a recording. Dean curses. “I’m sorry,” Luc says, and despite my feelings about him, I think he actually means it. “He must have contacted the Undead and revealed that it wasn’t him asking for this meeting.”

Something niggles at the back of my mind. “What the hell did he mean by The Undead belongs to him?” I demand.

Luc shakes his head. “I don’t know. The Undead doesn’t have a singular owner. It’s a detached organization, but he’s always been possessive over shit. He probably just meant I can’t use his connections how I want.”

Dean scowls. “Let’s go,” he snaps, turning towards the door. He grips the handle and yanks it open, storming onto the platform as he takes the stairs down into the main part of the warehouse two at a time. I follow close behind. I’m only halfway down the stairs when I hear it. A gunshot.

I freeze for a split second, and in front of me, so does Dean—as if neither of us are quite sure what we heard. In the next moment, however, it doesn’t fucking matter. It could have been a car backfiring, but we’re not taking the chance. We burst into action. I leap down the last remaining stairs, my feet slamming into the concrete below and I take off running.

The exit is at the furthest end of the warehouse. The massive metal doors closed. I veer to the right as Dean does and we hit the side doors that we came in from. His body slams into the bar across the center of the door, pushing against it hard enough that I can hear the damn thing creak.

I’m not quite sure what we expected to find as we race into the side street where we left them parked, but it’s not what we find.

An SUV peels down the street, red tail lights fading into the distance and on the ground, Avalon lays prone. Dean dives for her, lifting her into his arms as his shaking fingers touch her throat—searching for a pulse.

She coughs, a relieving sound, but my eyes scan the area—finding nothing but broken glass. There are no other bodies. Not Ace’s, but more importantly, not Clover’s. I move for the car, yanking the driver’s side door open and peering inside despite knowing what I’m going to find … or rather what I won’t find.

My fingers clench against the frame as broken shards of glass dig into my flesh. No. My head tips back and I turn towards the end of the street and take off running.

“Brax!” I ignore Dean’s yell as my feet pound the pavement. My legs strain and ache. Sweat slices down my back. No. No. No. I can’t. I can’t accept it. She can’t be gone. Not again.

“Braxton!”

The SUV disappears into the darkness and I fall. I land hard, my knees collapsing as my chest seizes. I slam a fist into the ground and my knuckles come away bloody. A goddamn trap is what it was. They knew—they knew all along. We thought there was no fucking way they’d connect us to the Kincaids, but Thomas had known. He’d said as much on the phone.

He turned us over. The Undead knew. They used us. They took her. I failed.

A roar erupts from my throat, louder and rawer than any I’ve ever felt before. It cuts into my vocal cords, screaming into the midnight air. It’s pure violence and defeat.

No—not defeat. I can’t let it be.

As the last vestiges of my sanity snap away, loosening the reins on my barely restrained control, I get to my feet. I turn back and make my way towards where Dean stands with a bleary-eyed Avalon who wavers on her feet. Blood drips down the side of her face as she presses a hand to the back of her head.

She’s a strong one, but at the end of the day, she’s still only one person. “I’m sorry,” she mutters, eyes lowered. “I’m so fucking sorry, Brax.”

I shake my head. In the distance, the sound of the warehouse door opening and closing reaches my ears.

“What the hell happened?” Luc demands as he rushes into the mix.

I stalk towards him and before Dean can stop me, I grip him by the front of his shirt and slam my already bloodied knuckles into his cheek. I follow it up with another and another—until blood spurts from his mouth and Luc finally gathers himself enough to fight back.

He slams into me and the two of us go down in a tangle of limbs on the ground. Luc’s fist sails towards my face and I close my eyes as I let it happen. The pain bursts through me and I relish in it, sucking it all in like a sadistic vampire.

“Fucking god damn it!” Dean’s curse sounds close by and my eyes open just in time for Luc to be yanked back. I’m not done, though. I grip him and rip him out of Dean’s grasp, flipping him over and climbing on top. I lock my hands around his throat and squeeze.

“Your fucking father did this,” I grit out. “He fucking set us up—you set us up. If she fucking dies—”

A forearm binds around my throat, stopping my tirade and Dean’s body locks down as he drops to his ass, dragging me off of a coughing and wheezing Luc. I’m not done. I struggle against my oldest friend, feeling actual tears welling in my eyes. No. Goddamnit. No!

“Brax, calm down,” Dean urges.

“No!” I scream, thrashing against him. I’m distantly aware that I’m not fighting as hard as I could. I don’t actually want to hurt Dean.

“We’ll get her back,” Dean swears. “I promise you, Brax. I will help you. We will find her. We found her once, we will do it again.”

What if it’s too late, though? What if…

A broken sound escapes my throat and my body sags to the ground. Dean holds onto me for a moment more, but when I stop fighting, he gently loosens his hold and lifts me up. I shut my eyes against the burning pain in them.

“I’ll fucking kill them,” I mutter. “Kill them … save her…”

“We will, man.” Dean closes his arms around me again. Only this time, they’re softer, comforting. Fuck it. I don’t resist it anymore. I bow my head and scream again.

“I can’t lose her,” I hear myself say. A world without Clover is … a world I don’t want to live in.

I’ll take it all again. The beating. The whippings. The deviant desires that my father fostered inside of me. I’ll take the fucked-up childhood and the even worse adolescence. I’ll do it all over again. I’ll give up everything that grounds me to this plain of existence, just please…

I don’t know who the fuck I’m begging. Maybe the universe. Maybe God. All I know is that there has to be a higher power out there. One that has some small piece of sympathy. If not for me, then for her.

“I’ll help you,” I hear Luc say, his voice hoarse. “I won’t let this go. If it’s my fault, I’ll let you do whatever the fuck you want. Dean, you have to understand, I didn’t—”

“I know,” Dean says, cutting him off. “But not now, Luc. Not fucking now.”

I struggle up and turn towards him. When my eyes open, it feels like they’re on fire. I glare across the darkened space at him and lift a single finger. “If she dies, Luc,” I say. “So do you.”

He nods his head. There’s no argument. Just simple understanding. We’ve come too fucking far for this. I won’t lose Clover like we lost Troy. No one else dies. It’s over.

Dean stands and reaches down, hauling me up with him. Avalon sits nearby, watching silently. “Go,” I mutter when Dean remains at my side. I wave to her. “Take care of her.”

“Are you going to be okay?” he asks.

I don’t answer. There’s no answer he’d like to hear because the truth is dark.

I won’t be okay. Not until she’s returned to me. Not until I see her alive again with my own fucking eyes. And if I don’t … then only a higher power will be able to stop me from burning this whole world down.

37

CLOVER

ICE COLD WATER splashes into my face and down the rest of my body, yanking me into the waking world, and my mouth opens automatically as I gasp for air. It washes into my mouth and down my front, soaking into my clothes. My teeth chatter as the bag on my head is ripped off and light pierces right through my fucking skull. I wince and flinch back against the brightness, but I’m not given a second to acclimate to my new surroundings. My head pounds in agony.

The second I’m deemed awake enough to stand, someone grabs me and pulls me up. Spots dance in front of my vision, but I’m dimly aware that hands are gripping me. My pants are stripped around my ankles along with my underwear. Surprisingly, my hands have been uncuffed and re-bound in front of me, but instead of unlocking the cuffs pinning my wrists together to finish stripping me, my shirt is torn from my body and my bra cut away.

I’m shoved face-first into a tile wall and more water comes barreling down on top of me. The strands of my hair slap against my cheeks as I turn, gulping down breath after breath. They’re doing it on purpose, I realize. Keeping me disoriented so I don’t know where I am or why they’re doing this. It’s smart—I have to hand it to them. It keeps me from automatically fighting back.

A hose is removed from the wall, metal scraping against marble and more icy water hits my side, right over my bruised and aching ribs.

“Fuck!” I scream as it slides down over my legs and then back up onto my chest. I shake my head, using my bound hands to shove my hair out of my face as I turn and face my assailant. I don’t recognize the woman—and dimly I’m aware that the very fact a woman is the one doing this to me is a kindness—but she doesn’t even bother flinching when I glare at her.

She merely continues to spray me down like I’m some sort of muddy dog. The water never gets warmer and I don’t grow accustomed to the cold temperature. My body trembles as the spray moves down and all over me before the strange woman seems to think it’s enough. I don’t know what timeline she’s going off of, but it feels like she’s standing there, just outside of the small shower stall, spraying me with her hose for fucking forever before she finally drops the hose and tosses a washrag coated in liquid soap at me.

“Wash,” she commands and before I can respond, she slaps the shower door shut and steps away.

The hose down was purely unnecessary. I think she knows that. She just doesn’t care. With a grunt I bend down and pick up the dropped washrag. There’s little else to do but follow her order, so I do exactly as she suggested and I start to scrub my skin. It’s awkward being unable to unlock your hands from each other and still trying to wash. There are thin red lines along my sides from where I assume I was dragged from the broken window of the car. I prod them gently, but they don’t hurt nearly as much as the back of my head. A direct result of the ice-cold water? Maybe. Still, note to self: avoid pistol whipping in the future if at all possible. When I’m done, I reach for the still leaking hose at the bottom of the shower and lift it back up, rinsing the suds away.

Scanning along the wall, I find the levers that I assume stop the water and shut them off, but when I go to open the shower door, I find it locked.

“Hey!” I yell, banging against the frosted glass. My head screams in protest, but I ignore it. “I’m fucking done. Let me out!”

The sound of sneakers squeaking across tile floors sounds and a figure appears behind the glass. A snick sounds and the shower door swings open. A towel is thrown at my face and I let loose a growl as I catch it before it slams into my head.

“What the fuck is your damn problem,” I snap.

The woman’s bland face doesn’t shift a singular centimeter. She merely stands just outside of the shower stall with a stack of clothes in her hand and her only response is, “Dry yourself and then get dressed. The Master is waiting.”

My upper lip pulls back. The woman doesn’t even blink. I quickly scrub down my front, moving across my skin with the sandpapery towel. Where the fuck did they even pick up this thing? I wonder absently. It’s like drying myself with packing paper.

Once I’m done and I’ve gotten the worst off, leaving my hair to drip down my back, I hold up my still bound hands and look at her expectantly. “How exactly am I going to change when I’m still locked up?” I ask testily.

The woman turns and drops the clothes in her hand onto the bathroom counter before retrieving a key from her pocket. I roll my eyes and drop the towel on the wet ground as I hold my hands out. This would’ve been far more convenient before I’d been tossed into the shower, but I doubt she gives a fuck. Once my hands are unlocked, the clothes are shoved into my arms and the woman turns and leaves the room.

Hesitantly, I step out of the shower stall and take a look around. It’s small—little more than the size of a walk-in closet, but it’s clean and well kept. There’s no mold or cracked tiles. A long chain dangles from the ceiling right next to the odd-looking toilet. When I try the handle to the door, I find it locked. Of course it is.

I drop open the clothes and hold them up. A scowl overtakes my face. This is a sick joke. It has to be. I’ve been dropped into some terrible rendition of an old black and white villain movie—complete with the stereotypical mustache twirling bad guy. It’s the only excuse for the sorry excuse for clothing I’ve been handed. A thin, black cocktail dress with cut outs along the throat and a slit up the side.

I glance around, wondering if my pants are at least in here, but one quick look at the floor tells me that my clothes have been swept away. There’s not even a cabinet beneath the sink. Only an open shelving unit with nothing in it. With gritted teeth, I slip the dress on over my head and adjust the holes so that my nipples remain covered. There’s no bra, but it’s a blessing that there’s at least a sensible pair of black bikini underwear. I put those on underneath and jerk the hem down as far as I’m able before I turn and look at myself in the mirror.

My cheeks are pale—more so than usual—and my hair looks more brown than red in this light. I take large chunks of it and twist it and ring out the excess water over the sink multiple times as I finger comb it back. My fingers touch a small wound at the back of my head. Probably from being knocked out, I assume. I gently prod it and bring my fingers back around to my face. It’s not bleeding, at least that’s something. Hopefully, the headache I’ve got is the worst of the damage.

Staring back at my reflection, I look nothing like how I’m used to. The dress screams party-girl, but the face is tired. Dark circles line under my eyes and my veins stand out in blue lines up and down my inner forearms. I look strung out and exhausted and probably very, very vulnerable.

Good, I think. I have no doubt that I’m about to meet the man who I’ve been dying to see ever since I escaped the Undead’s hands the first time around. The more he underestimates me, the better.

There’s little more I can do in this windowless bathroom, so I turn and try the handle again and suck in an irritated breath when I find it still locked. Curling my fingers into my palm, I turn my fist and start banging against the side of the wood door. “I’m done!” I snap through the solid door.

A moment later, the door unlocks and swings outward. My eyes take in the surroundings. Dark green carpet—old, but clean—bronze and wood throughout the dark room. Sconces of light on the wall and a chandelier. It’s a bedroom, a small one with a four-poster bed taking up the majority of the space.

The same woman as before stands there with the same damn expression. “This way,” she says, turning and moving towards the door.

I contemplate following her for a moment, but there’s not much by way of options. The hallway is similar to the bedroom. Narrow and dark. With hardwood floors interrupted by green carpet that lines the very middle. The walls are covered in some sort of layer of gold and matching green wallpaper with the same sconces lighting the way every few feet.

“Mr. Hades would like you to have a seat and he will be with you soon,” the woman says as she stops in front of a room with double doors, but instead of swinging inward, the two doors slide to either side—disappearing into the walls and revealing a room twice the size as the last one. I’m starting to get the idea that we’re somewhere a little more personal to Hades than last time.

I’m not sure what it means, but it has to mean something, doesn’t it?

“Where—” I begin when I scan the room and come up empty, but the woman interrupts before I can get the question out.

“Mr. Hades expects you to join him for dinner,” she states. “It will consist of three courses. You may enjoy a glass of port while you wait.” She gestures across the room to the golden drink cart stationed next to a large floor to ceiling bookcase and fireplace.

“I—” I’m unceremoniously shoved into the room, my bare feet slipping over the strip of wood that separates the green carpet in the hallway to that in the room, and the doors slide shut behind me. A lock clicks and I find myself rolling my eyes to the ceiling. Another locked door. Fucking great.

Anxiety thrums in my veins as I scan the room once more. There are two long, skinny windows on the opposite side of the room and those are the first things I check out. I pull the curtains away and look up and down the sides of the window panes, scowling when I realize the damn thing is sealed shut. Even trying to pick at the bottom sealant and wedge my fingers beneath the bottom part doesn’t work and I don’t know how long they’re going to leave me in here alone, so I give up and just resolve to break the damn thing if worst comes to worst.

Voices sound outside the double doors—low, masculine voices. I don’t recognize them, but then again, I wasn’t around long enough to get to know anyone well, and I likely won’t stick around this time either.

I move over to the drink cart and arch a brow at the crystal bottles of various port and brandy sitting on the top shelf. Behind me, the doors unlock and slide open. I look back and turn to face the man that steps inside. This one I do recognize.

Leo. Hades’ right hand bitch. He frowns at me but doesn’t say anything as he steps to the side and allows another man dressed in much the same way—black slacks, white button-up shirt, black tie, black jacket and the hint of a gun holster—to move into the room as well. Finally, the man of the hour appears in the doorway.

My chest swells with breath and hatred. I curl my hands into fists at my side to keep from trembling. Fury heats my blood until I feel like I’m burning from the inside out.

“So lovely to see you again, Ms. Volkov,” Hades says with a smile.

“I wish I could say the same, old man.” It takes effort to ignore the throbbing in my head in favor of putting on a brave mask in front of this man, but I somehow manage it.

Despite being put off by the insult, however, his smile widens. “I trust you enjoyed your vacation,” he replies.

I cross my arms over my chest. “Is that what we’re calling it?” I snort, shaking my head.

Hades steps further into the room and moves to a tall wing-backed chair. He takes a seat and waves his hand towards the drink cart. “Why don’t you pour me a drink and we can chat before we have dinner,” he suggests.

If I pour him a drink, it’ll be all over his face and only if I’ve got a match on hand to set him on fire with it. Unfortunately, I’m matchless. So, instead of doing as he says, I walk across the room and take a seat on the couch across from him.

A small tick above his right brow pulses and he turns his cheek, nodding to the man whose name I don’t know. It’s a small movement, but obviously one the man knows well because he hurries across the room to the drink cart I just abandoned. The clinking of glasses is the only sound in the room for several minutes.

“Don’t forget to get our guest a glass as well,” Hades says.

I turn my cheek, returning my attention to the detail of the room. “It’s a little late for dinner, don’t you think?” I ask. “You’re not planning on poisoning me, are you?”

Hades laughs. It’s a low sound that makes me want to punch him in his fugly ass face. He shouldn’t get to laugh. He shouldn’t even get to breathe—yet here he is. Undead walking son of a bitch. I hope he chokes on his drink.

His henchman returns to his side and sets down two glasses with an equal amount of amber liquid. Hades smiles and lifts his to his lips, sucking back a mouthful with a groan of delight. My anger sticks in my chest, a violent beast. My lips twitch and pin up at the sides.

“In my line of work, I have to take my pleasures and meals when I can, Ms. Volkov. If I say dinner is at two a.m., then that’s when it is,” he says. “And I wouldn’t insult my chef’s cooking with poison. If I wanted you dead, you would be.”

“Is that so?” I tilt my head to the side. “Then that means you don’t want me dead.”

“You’re correct,” Hades says with a nod. “I want what I’ve wanted since the beginning. I thought giving you some time to think it over would show you my sincerity. My offer of employment remains valid.”

The unknown man takes a place behind the couch. The feeling of him hovering just at my back makes me grit my teeth. “Let’s not prevaricate, Hades,” I reply. “You don’t want me to work for you.”

“Oh, but I do, Ms. Volkov,” Hades disagrees. “More so now than ever before.”

“And why is that?” I ask. “I burned down your headquarters. I killed some of your men. I escaped you.”

Hades lowers his glass to his lap and the skin of his cheeks tightens as his smile ticks up another millimeter. I’ve never disliked anything so much as that smile of his. “That’s so very much why I want you, Ms. Volkov,” he replies. “You’re headstrong. Far smarter than anyone gives you credit for, I would guess. You handled punishment quite well which leads me to believe you would do more than succeed in my industry. You would thrive.”

“As your minion,” I clarify.

“As a partner,” he says, shaking his head. “There are few women in this industry. Fewer still with your skills. I do assume that your brother and father taught you how to handle yourself in a fight—the very evidence of it was your miraculous escape. Though, I do have to wonder … if you timed it specifically.”

I stiffen at his last comment and my anxiety comes barreling back. “I’m not sure what you mean,” I hedge, reaching for the remaining glass sitting between us.

Hades arches one dark brow. “Come now, Ms. Volkov, you can tell me,” he says. “Before our feed was cut off, I saw the masked intruders. I didn’t expect you to have such well-connected friends. Imagine my surprise when Mr. Thomas Kincaid sets up a meeting with me only for me to find out that his son is the one looking for us. I have an understanding with Mr. Kincaid—you see. Under our contract, his son isn’t allowed to have contact with our organization.”

I frown. “Why is that?” I ask. “I would think you’d want to get in good with the next generation sooner rather than later.”

Hades shrugs and sips from his glass once more. “I don’t ask my clients more questions than I need to,” he replies casually. “Truly, it’s none of my business.” He smirks and leans closer. “But between you and I, it’s likely because of Thomas Kincaid’s old dealings. There are just some things a father doesn’t want his son finding out.”

Like that’s not entirely vague on its own. I shake my head. Whatever Luc’s got going on has nothing to do with me. Obviously, due to current circumstances, the meeting he set up fell through and it was all a careful ruse.

“So, the meeting was a trap.”

Hades nods. “Well, not at first, of course,” he says despite himself. “It took a little work on our part to realize that it wasn’t Thomas asking for a meeting after all. We were attempting to track your movements as well as Ace’s—but once you were out of our hands, poof,” he chuckles as he waves a hand through the air. “It’s like you disappeared into thin air. A beautiful magic trick, truly.”

“You’re going an awfully long way to recruit me,” I point out, straightening in my seat. The shadow at my back moves slightly closer. Through the open sliding doors, I spot two armed bodyguards. They never step inside, but I know they’re there. Even if the doors are open, with so many men between me and the exit, I’m not even contemplating an escape attempt. Another man joins the second behind me. “If you really wanted me, then you should think about trying to lure me with honey more than vinegar. You should stop hunting my brother.”

Hades throws his head back and lets out a bark of laughter—louder than before. My fingers clench against the glass in my fist and dimly, I’m aware of the men in the room edging closer. They—unlike Hades—can likely see the volatile desire to maim and murder in my gaze. Or maybe Hades does understand it. Maybe he just doesn’t give a fuck.

When the old man has calmed himself, he rights himself in his seat and reaches up, swiping a single finger beneath one dry eye as if he’s beside himself with amusement still. I put the glass to my lips and suck down a mouthful of burning liquid. It’s probably a bad idea, but I need something to keep me from launching myself across the table and onto the monster sitting across from me.

“You are something, Ms. Volkov,” Hades professes, chuckling. “I expect you’ll understand, in time, that all of those ideas of catching more prey with something sweet as averse to something sour is all bullshit.” I blink at the words, and I try to remember a time I’ve ever actually heard the man curse.

“You’re unaware because you’re not yet one of our elite members,” he continues, “but the Undead have a set of rules we live by. Those rules, once broken, cannot be reversed. We deal in darkness, in corruption, in governments, and business. There are consequences to people’s actions. Your brother knew that when he signed up. One exception was made for Ivan and look where that has led.” He shakes his head. “No. Ace must pay for his betrayal, but you, Ms. Volkov, you understand that I’m offering you a chance to save your own skin, here, don’t you?”

“I understand that you’re threatening the only family I have left, Hades,” I say, unable to staunch the flow of venom in my tone. “You murdered my grandmother. Tortured my father. And you plan to kill Ace. Why in the world do you think I would join you?” I shake my head. “You must be a fucking idiot.”

Hades’ smile drops away and he sits back against his chair. The pressure in the room suddenly shifts and the air, itself, feels electrified—like all it would take is one strike of the match and the whole place would erupt in flames. Each man in the room is tense. I’ve pissed him off, and from what I understand, Hades isn’t a man who shows his real emotions often.

That, more than anything, brings a true smile to my face. I glance down at the glass in my hand and lift it up.

I twist the crystal one way and then the other before putting it to my lips and draining it. “Nice glasses, by the way,” I comment lightly. “Heavy.”

I wait a beat and then burst into movement, turning and slamming the weight of the object into the face of the man standing behind me. He doesn’t react fast enough as the pressure I exert shatters the glass in my palm. I crush the shards into his cheeks, eyes, and nose, relishing in the shocked scream that leaves his lips as he stumbles backwards, blood dripping from his face and eyes.

Slowly, I face my opponent once more and take my seat. “I suggest you stop trying to pacify me, Hades. Or you’re next.”

“I don’t believe you understand what kind of situation you’re in, sweetheart.” Hades doesn’t even bat an eyelash. A moment later, when the guard’s screams still haven’t silenced, he scowls and flicks his finger at someone behind me. I don’t have to be a part of the Undead to know what it means. Seconds pass and a loud pop sounds; despite the silencer, the gunshot is still jarring. It’s not as quiet as the movies would make you think. The man’s screams cease.

“I am not your fucking sweetheart, old man,” I say. “I’m your worst nightmare, and you fucked with the wrong family.”

The man tilts his head to the side. “Ivan is dead,” he states. “And Ace will be soon. You’ll be the only one left of your family—that is, if I decide you’re worth it, which, I’m not sure if you’ve noticed … but I’m sorely starting to think I made a wrong decision in letting you live.”

I smile, and for the first time in a long time, I send thanks to Mama Luda’s God. My smile slowly turns into a chuckle as he continues to stare at me, uncomprehending. I shake my head. “I’m well aware that my father is dead,” I tell him. “I wasn’t talking about Ivan or Ace. I was talking about someone much worse.”

“Who could be worse than the Undead?” he muses, seeming entertained by my apparent confidence.

My smile widens. “My own brand of Heaven and Hell,” I tell him honestly. “The Undead aren’t nearly as cruel as the living, and he’ll be coming soon.” I know my man. He’ll always come.

38

BRAXTON

FEAR HOLDS A MAN STEADY. It freezes him to the very moment, the very second where his world came crashing down. I am not a man used to fear, but right now, it’s all I feel. It slides through my veins like a slow acting poison, atrophying my limbs until I realize that if I let it take over. If I give it power then nothing will be done. If fear wins, then I’ve already lost, and I refuse that.

In the event that my fear solidifies in my body, I turn to the only other thing that can keep me moving. Adrenaline. It pours through me, vibrating my arteries, making my very flesh come alive. Until movement—until action—becomes all that I’m capable of.

Fear is the death of success, and I am no dead man.

I barrel through the front doors of the Carter Estate, chest pumping up and down rapidly. I part my lips and I yell. “Abel!”

Something in the distance shatters and Abel comes around the corner at a dead run, his eyes wild. His gaze goes over me before shooting over my shoulder.

“What is it?” he demands. “What’s happened?”

Behind me, Dean carries in a complaining Avalon. “Dean, I’m fine,” she argues. “It’s just a bump on the head. Put me down.”

He slides past me and into the living room. Abel glances her way, looking over her once as if to double check she’s fine. He locks in on the blood trailing down her cheek and forehead. “Call Dr. Riviera,” Dean snaps.

Abel nods and he’s off once again, yanking his cell out of his pocket even as he heads for the garage. “I’ll get him myself,” he says. “Watch Rylie.”

I nod and move further down the hallway to find Rylie in the kitchen sweeping up glass—the sound of the earlier shatter. She glances up as Marcus finishes helping her and takes the broken shards away. “What’s wrong?” she asks, brows drawn down in concern.

Luc appears at the mouth of the hallway and motions to Dean. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch the two of them move away from where Avalon now rests on the couch. “Go see to Avalon,” I tell her instead of answering.

Rylie nods and runs to grab an ice pack from the fridge—at least she’s not the arguing kind. Not like Clover, who’d be standing here demanding answers before doing anything. My chest tightens. Fuck.

“Marcus.” Marcus’ head pops up over the trash can and he sets the broom and dustpan to the side, coming around the island.

“What do you need?”

I inhale. I need a tank, an AK 47, and a hell of a lot of ammo. I need to go to war and burn down the entirety of the Undead until not even a single one of their corpses remain. Then I want to exercise their ghosts and send them straight to the pits of hell. But I can’t have that, not now, not yet. Right now, what I need is more important.

I need Clover back.

“I need you to go to Viks’,” I say. “Tell him there’s an emergency. Clover was taken. Bring the kid.”

Marcus is good. He doesn’t ask any more questions. He knows we’ll tell him what he needs to know when it comes down to it. He takes off down the hall, in the same direction as Abel.

“I don’t need that, Rylie,” Avalon snaps. “Get it away from me, I’m fine.” I turn just in time to see her struggle up from the couch. Dean says something quickly to Luc—something I dimly hear as “go” and then he’s back at her side and Luc disappears after Marcus and Abel.

“Sit your ass down, Ava,” Dean orders. Avalon scowls and shoves Rylie’s ice pack away. He doesn’t even hesitate, reaching out, snagging it from Rylie’s grasp before he slaps it against her head. “Don’t even fucking try it, right now,” he growls. “Either you can sit on your own or I’ll strap your ass to the bed upstairs.”

“And miss the revenge planning?” Avalon asks as she finally relents and takes the ice pack. “Not on your life.”

“Then sit,” he repeats. “And stay.”

She bares her teeth, but as Rylie takes a seat next to her, she doesn’t argue any further. “The tracking device,” I say, looking at her. “Can you pull it up?” My heart is pounding against my ribcage, hope a fleeting terrifying thing. But that’s why we did this right? The tracking device has more hours. There’s still time.

Rylie rushes to her laptop and pulls it open. Her fingers fly across the keyboard, but it’s far from fast enough for me. All I’m left to do is wait. “I got it!” she cries. I move behind her, staring down at the screen. “But it’s…” She frowns as she zeroes in on the device.

“There are two of them,” she continues. “One for her brother and for her, I guess? I won’t be able to tell which is which on here, but they’re together and on the move.”

“How long do we have?” I ask.

She frowns. “Hold on, something’s wrong with the system.”

“What?” I bend down. “What the fuck do you mean something’s wrong with the system?”

“Brax!” Avalon calls. “Let her work.”

I ignore her in favor of staring at the screen. Rylie’s eyes go wide as she stares at the screen. “Oh no, shit.” She hisses out a breath and, on the screen, the lights—what I assume is where Ace and Clover should be—start to blink rapidly.

“What’s wrong?” I demand.

“Brax…” She starts before cursing again and hitting a key on her board. The screen flips away from the trackers to a black and green screen of code. Rylie begins typing incredibly fast—a series of letters and numbers that appears on the black face of the monitor. None of it makes any sense to me, but her brow is creased in concentration.

“What’s happening?” I demand again. “Can you follow the tracking devices or not?”

“I told you it was experimental,” she says, sweat dripping down the side of her face. “Let me just…” She bites her lip.

“Brax come over here,” Avalon calls, but I can’t. I can’t peel my eyes away from the screen. The last bit of hope I have of finding Clover. I was an idiot. I should have never let her come. I shouldn’t have trusted Luc. I should have followed my instincts. So much I should have done and now it’s too late.

“I didn’t…” Rylie’s voice sounds tortured. “Shit. I’m sorry. Brax. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t say sorry,” I grit out. “Just tell me what’s happening!”

“The body has different chemicals it releases,” she replies. “These were experimental—I should’ve considered that it wouldn’t be compatible with everyone.”

“But you just saw them!” I point to the now black and green screen. “Those were their trackers!”

“Yes, but adrenaline and heart rate have an effect on the body too,” she says. “It makes things move faster. I thought it would be a minimum of forty-eight hours.”

“It hasn’t even been twelve,” I remind her.

She shakes her head. “They’re still working for now, but they’re not giving me exact locations.”

“But you can narrow it down?” I clarify.

Fucking please, I silently beg. Don’t do this to me.

“I’ll keep working on it,” she says. “Right now, it’s telling me that they’re still within a few hours of the area. I’ll try to narrow it down. As long as nothing else happens—or if they don’t go through any heavy metal detectors or—”

“What happens if they do?” I demand, cutting her off.

“We don’t know,” she says. “they’re small and delicate, but they’re new. All we know for sure is that they won’t hurt the human body, but they are still in the experimental phase.”

“Don’t you think you should have told us this in the beginning!” I scream.

“Brax!” Avalon yells. I hear her stand up, but I don’t care.

Rylie’s face goes red and her eyes widen, she moves back, jerking up from her seat.

“Stop it!” Avalon moves over to us, stopping at our sides. “She’s trying her best. Let her figure it out. She can’t work with you hovering.”

“Fuck!” I turn and storm away, ignoring the minor guilt at the sight of Rylie’s slight tremble as she stared at me and the way her hand crept over her abdomen. Shit. I’m not right in the head. I’m not … fuck…

The front door opens. Abel is back—dragging a familiar man in a white doctor’s coat. “Are we really doing this again?” The man complains. "Don’t think I don’t know what you said to the Dean of Medicine at—” He pauses when he reaches the room and sees the four of us—Avalon, Dean, Rylie, and me waiting. “I thought this was about the girl?”

I grit my teeth and gesture to Avalon. “New patient,” I say sharply. “Make sure she’s okay.”

“Rylie?” Abel notices her pallor and moves closer. “What’s wrong?”

Rylie sniffs. “I-I…” I can’t listen. I move away from her as Avalon heads back to the couch.

The doctor scowls at me, and if I had any room left to give a fuck, I’d slam him into the nearest wall for the disrespect, but all of my attention goes to the new arrival as Marcus comes inside, followed closely by Viks and the kid—Dom.

As Dr. Riviera moves to Avalon and starts asking her questions, my feet eat up the distance as I barrel right at them.

Viks steps forward, blocking my path. “Whoa there, son,” he says. “Calm down. Tell me what’s happened?”

“Clover’s gone,” I say as I try to sidestep him. He moves right in front of me and I look up with a scowl. “I need to talk to the kid.” What if Rylie can’t figure out the trackers? What if something fucks it up? So many what ifs and no certainties are making me insane.

“Not looking like you’re ready to commit murder, you don’t,” he replies.

“I am ready to fucking commit murder, Viks!” I scream. “She’s gone!”

“And we’ll find her,” Viks says. “But you’re not hurting the kid.”

For the first time in my life, I actually contemplate laying out Mitchell Vikson. The man who was more of a father to me than my own. I respect this man. Fuck, I goddamn revere him on occasion, but no amount of admiration or reverence is enough to stop the blockage he’s put in my path.

“Step aside, V,” I say quietly. Dangerously.

Viks’ brows arch up and he crosses his arms over his massive chest, the dark fabric of his black t-shirt pulling tight over the muscles underneath. Muscles I know aren’t just for show. Viks’ doesn’t look like a ring fighter for shits and giggles—each and every muscle on his body is honed for a reason. He’s a killer, but so am I.

I step closer. “I need information, Viks,” I state. “And God help me, but I will go through you to get it.”

He stares down at me for a moment, his face unreadable. Then, with a careful look back, he moves back. “We don’t torture kids,” is all he says. “Don’t go too far or I will stop you.”

I ignore the comment in favor of motioning towards the kid cowering behind him. He’s changed a lot since I last saw him. It’s only been a few weeks, but his face has filled out a little. It appears that Viks has given him a haircut too and instead of greasy black hair hanging around his face, it’s cut back to his forehead, revealing young and sharp angles.

“What do you know, kid?” I demand.

“A-about what?”

“Clover—the girl you were with—she was taken by the Undead again,” I say quickly, reaching out and grabbing him by the shoulders. “Is there any place you know they might have taken her? What do they do with new recruits? Is there a training facility?”

Dom trembles in my grasp, looking back once at Viks. “Don’t look at him,” I growl. “He’s not going to save you. Look at me. Answer my questions.”

“I-I don’t know,” he says, his stutter making each first syllable double. “I w-wasn’t really a recruit. I just—I saw something a-and instead of killing me, Leo just—”

I latch that identifier. “Who’s Leo?” I ask, shaking him a little.

His trembling increases. “H-he works for them,” Dom replies. “He’s the one who convinced the others n-not to kill me. I w-was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I-I was living on the streets and I s-saw them k-kill someone. He brought me in and th-they fed me in return for doing some errands.”

“What kind of errands?” This question comes from Viks and I scowl, but the kid answers readily enough.

“My job was to test some of the prisoners,” he admits. “I also cleaned the headquarters I lived in. I cleaned their weapons and clothes—did laundry—and fetched stuff. Nothing major. Leo said that when I was older, they’d teach me about shooting and I might be recruited.”

“Where else have you been with them?” I press. “There had to have been other places—an organization like the Undead doesn’t just have one headquarters.”

Dom shakes his head. “I really don’t know,” he insists. “I was only ever brought there. I’m sorry.”

Viks puts a restraining hand on my shoulder. “I believe the kid,” he says.

“No,” I snap, shaking the kid again. “There has to be more.”

“I-I’m sorry,” the kid repeats.

“Stop saying that!” I snap.

He whimpers and Viks’ hand tightens on my shoulder. “That’s enough, Brax.”

“Fuck!” I release the kid and whirl away. I rip myself out of Viks’ grasp and slam my fist—knuckles first—into the wall. The damn thing caves under the force of my punch and a hole forms. “There has to be more.”

“They n-never told me any sensitive information,” Dom says quickly, the words shooting out of his mouth like bullets. Each one slams into me. Less information. Less of a lead. Nothing. I have fucking nothing.

“Rylie?” I turn back to her. She’s staring at her screen with a broken expression. She looks up as I call her name.

Abel touches her shoulder. “It’s okay, riot girl.”

She shakes her head. “The system isn’t working the way it should,” she says quietly. “I can reconfigure it and I know that’ll fix it.”

“How long?” I demand.

She hangs her head and bites her lips. “It’ll be a few hours.”

“Is there a guarantee?” I demand. Please, for fuck’s sake…

She shakes her head again. “It’s still experimental.” I’m starting to hate that word. Experimental.

I close my eyes. My breath saws in and out of my chest. Panic creeps up my throat and I punch at the wall again, feeling like my lungs are closing up. What is this? This feeling is far more intense than anything I’ve ever felt in my life. The world spins. I can’t breathe.

I close my eyes and all I can see is Clover covered in blood—she looks so fucking beautiful covered in blood—but not this time. In my mind’s eye, it’s her blood. Her eyes are open, but unseeing. She’s laying sprawled on some sort of concrete pavement, limbs awkwardly angled in unnatural ways. Her neck to the side.

She’s dead. She’s dead and I killed her. I killed her because I can’t figure my own shit out. I don’t have the connections. No amount of money can stop this. No amount of begging and pleading. So what will? What do I have to do?

“—ton. Braxton!” Viks’ voice intrudes on my thoughts, dragging me back ever so slightly and I turn to find that Dom’s been pushed back and Viks stands between me and the others with Dean and Abel on either side of him.

Behind them, Rylie is next to Ava, holding onto her hand for dear life—and Ava is standing despite Dean’s earlier words. Marcus has one hand on the kid, and I’m not sure why until I see the kid’s wide, fearful eyes. He looks like he’s on the verge of running.

I look at the wall in front of me and find more than a few holes. Hell, the whole thing has been ripped to shreds. Around my feet, sheetrock lies in pieces. Chairs have been tipped over. Pictures yanked down from the walls. My breathing increases.

Shit, I realize. I’m fucking losing it. I can’t lose it. Not now.

“Braxton, I need you to take a breath,” Viks says. “Slowly—inhale. There. That’s good.”

“He’s having a panic attack.” The doctor—Dr. Riviera. Fuck. I forgot he was here.

“I’m fucking aware of what’s happening,” Viks growls. “Now shut up.”

I do as he says, stepping away from the wall and letting my hands fall to my side. “I-I—” I look back and Dean shakes his head.

“Don’t say it,” he replies.

“You have no reason to be sorry,” Abel agrees, knowing. “If it were Rylie or Ava, we’d react the same.”

“We’re with you,” Dean says. “No matter what.”

My chest aches with a deep unstopping pulse. It throbs. I grit my teeth and take several more breaths. Finally, the tension in the room seems to ease—even if only marginally.

Viks turns to the others. He glances over the group and finally settles on Rylie. “Sweetheart,” he says, softening his voice, “will you take Dom upstairs?”

Rylie glances first to Abel and then to Avalon before she quietly nods and then releases Ava’s hand. “Take the doctor too,” Dean says.

“I think I should—”

“You’re not here to think,” Abel snaps, interrupting the man as Dr. Riviera attempts to argue. “Go upstairs, or you’ll regret it.”

That shuts him up and Rylie nods for him to follow her as she takes the kid’s hand in hers. Dom allows himself to be led out of the room by her and the doctor reluctantly follows. Finally, I turn, resting my back against the destroyed wall. I drag a hand down my face.

“Fuck,” I mutter.

Before anyone can say anything else, however, the front door slams inward and all of us turn towards the hallway as Luc strides back in with a new man in tow. With a cold expression, he shoves the unfamiliar man into the center of the room, causing him to fall to his knees, as Luc lifts his gaze to mine.

“I don’t know if he’ll be of any help,” he says. “But this is Ken Carpenter—he’s my father’s personal assistant. He knows everything about my father. Do with him what you will.”

A coldness settles over me. The earlier panic that I’d felt in my chest, consuming me, fades away as I stare down at the man.

“He attends every business meeting, every party, and has access to all of the Kincaid properties,” Luc continues. “If you can get anything about the connections my father might have to the Undead, then it’ll be from him.”

“No!” Ken Carpenter shakes his head emphatically. “You won’t get anything from me. I swear it! I’m just an assistant—calendars, schedules, appointments. That’s all I know.”

“Marcus.” That’s all I have to say. He knows what I want. He disappears and comes back a moment later, handing me a pair of black gloves. He sets a familiar black bag down on the coffee table and steps back. The second the gloves are in my grasp, a new sensation comes over me—like an old friend welcoming me home. I’m good at this part. This is what I was made for. I hope he doesn’t disappoint.

“W-what are you doing?” Ken says. “I just told you that I’m just Mr. Kincaid’s assistant. I don’t have any information you could possibly—”

“You do,” I say, cutting him off. “You run the man’s life. By your own admission, you know his schedules and appointments. You know exactly who he’s involved with, where and when he meets them. That’s exactly what I need to know.” The gloves are slick—the medical kind. I snap one on and his eyes go wide. “So, either you can go ahead and answer my questions—”

“I can’t!” he shouts. “I can’t answer anything I don’t know!”

I shrug. “We can either do it the boring way or the fun way,” I tell him, ignoring his cry. “It’s really up to you.”

Ken shakes his head, his arms yanking against the ties. “H-he’ll kill me,” he says. “Thomas Kincaid is not a forgiving man. He’ll fucking kill me!”

“The fun way then.” I finish putting on the gloves and turn, rolling open the bag on the table. I lift the first tool. It’s a slender tube with a needle attached. I slide it into the small vile that accompanies it.

“W-what’s that?” he sputters, jerking his gaze around the room as if he’s searching for someone to help him, but he’ll find no help here.

“Adrenaline,” I answer with a smile. “Can’t have you passing out before I get my answers, can we?” The smile tightens my skin, but I feel no amusement when usually I would. Inside, there’s the stirring of excitement. This is what I’m good at. This is what I can do. Even as I fill the syringe with lab-created adrenaline, all I feel is the need to rush. To hurry. I need answers and time is not on my side. So, this torture session won’t be my best. It won’t be as fun as I told him it would be. It’s a means to an end.

Perhaps if I had time—perhaps if Clover is feeling generous when I get to her—she’ll let me unleash some of my pent up anger on Hades. A good, long torture session is just what I need. This … this will only whet my appetite.

“No! Stop!” I don’t bother gently sliding the needle into the man’s vein in his forearm. Instead, I slam it into the side of his neck after pushing out the remaining air bubbles and press down on the trigger. His shaking intensifies and I pull the needle free, tossing it to the coffee table before I look at Luc.

“Be sure,” I say. “Because there’s no going back after this.”

39

CLOVER

I READ a quote once in high school that struck a nerve. It went something like “Hell is empty and all the devils are here.” I think it was Shakespeare or something—I can’t really recall. I didn’t pay that much attention in class anyway. In this moment, however, the quote comes back to me, and I think I finally get what the writer was trying to say.

We, as humans, want to believe that all of our fears come from something else. That they are separate from ourselves. That what we fear is something we can fight against. The truth stares back at me, dressed in a pristine expensive suit and wearing sharp Oxford loafers that any high-class businessman would admire.

The truth is this: Humans are the devils we fear.

And while that can mean that there’s no use in fighting against our fears, it also means that we have the tools we need to kill what we fear.

A bell rings somewhere in the house and Hades smiles. “Dinner’s ready,” he announces as he gets to his feet. He bows before me, holding out his arm despite the fact that I just shattered a glass into one of his guards’ faces. “Shall we?” he asks.

What do I say to that? I feel like I’ve been dropped in the center of some badly written play and I know none of my lines. Is my character even supposed to exist?

I stare down at his offered arm. I’d really rather not touch him, but with so many eyes on me and knowing that there are guns behind those eyes, I feel left with little choice. I reach up and take his arm and let him lift me from the couch and walk me towards the hallway.

“This is nice, isn’t it?” he comments lightly as we move down the already too narrow hallway towards the staircase. “Just imagine—if you give up this ridiculous farce of resistance, then you could be living far better than you ever were in that trailer in Port Charlotte.”

I stiffen but don’t respond. I’m not unused to people treating me like I’m from trash. It’s not uncommon for people to look at trailers and see poverty and willful ignorance. I know better than that. Considering this type of organization, it makes sense. Mama Luda’s trailer was safety. It was invisibility. It was home—not just to me—but to Ivan and Ace too.

“Where is my brother?” I ask.

Hades taps my arm and shakes his head. “You should really not concern yourself with men such as him,” he says. “He’s betrayed the Undead. He’ll betray you too.”

“He’s my brother,” I snap.

Hades shakes his head. “Family means nothing in the face of ultimate power. He’s useless, don’t worry about him.”

Before I can respond, we reach the bottom floor of the house and I walk into a formal dining room. A deer’s head juts out from the wall at the very end of the table, its dead black eyes staring back at me. I swallow as I sit at the side of the table and Hades takes the head. It’s a rather large table and when I half expect his guards to sit as well, they surprise me by taking up stances around the room at the doors and the second fireplace I spot along the side wall.

They’re all on edge—Hades’ guards. I can understand. They were just forced to kill one of their own, but they did it so naturally—as if they saw no other recourse than to follow Hades’ unspoken command. Still, they remain close, yet just out of reach. As if they’re frightened of me, treating me like something to be watched, but also not to be underestimated. I can’t help but feel a little proud of that.

The side door to the formal dining room opens and the woman from before appears with a tray in hand. She sets it at the end that Hades and I are sitting at and reveals a massive pig with an apple in its mouth. I’ve never shied away from meat and I’ve never considered myself a vegetarian, but staring back at an animal’s face—two if you count the deer—makes my stomach turn.

More sides come out and soon the table is full of various foods and luxurious smells waft up to me, making my mouth water. It’s been a hot minute since I actually had anything to eat. I’m famished, but at the same time, I hesitate to reach for anything.

Hades doesn’t have that issue. He digs into his food with fervor, letting me remain passive and quiet as I contemplate my options. I scan the room. After several minutes of this, he speaks up, tapping his mouth with his napkin lightly.

“I am curious about something,” he says, lifting a glass of wine to his lips. I glance at the water sitting in front of me. Surely nothing’s wrong with it. I reach out and lift it up in response. “Whatever happened to the boy that was with you? What was his name again? Darren? David?”

Leo is the one to answer. “Dominic,” he says quietly.

“Ah yes, that one,” Hades nods before looking back at me. “What happened to him?”

“What makes you think he was with me?” I respond with a question, curiosity making me focus on Leo rather than Hades. Leo doesn’t look back and in fact, keeps his gaze trained squarely ahead.

Hades chuckles. “The boy disappeared when your friends rescued you from my compound,” he says. “I have no doubt you didn’t leave him. He wouldn’t have gone on his own. Creatures like him never leave the safety of their nests if they can.”

“Creatures?” I frown at the strange comment.

Hades arches a brow. “Do you have something against the word?” he asks.

I shake my head. “No. I just don’t understand. Do you care about what happened to him?”

Hades laughs and shakes his head. “Goodness, no!” he chortles. “Of course not; the boy was nothing.” He cuts his hand through the air as he sets his glass back down and continues to chuckle as he reaches for his silverware. I contemplate the thought of picking up the butter knife in front of me and using it to stab out one of his eyes. I can’t say the idea doesn’t bring me some measure of joy.

I frown at his response, however. “Isn’t he one of yours, though?” I ask. “I thought you valued your recruits. Isn’t that what you’ve been trying to convince me?”

Hades leans back in his seat, shooting me an amused look, seeming all too happy to explain. “He was a homeless mutt,” he explains. “Not a recruit. Leo took a liking to the little puppy, but at the end of the day, he was an errand boy. Nothing more. If you did kill him, then all the better—you’ve proven my point to Leo.” He looks back at the man in question. “He was never fit to be a recruit.”

Leo doesn’t respond, and his face doesn’t change. Hades turns back to me, and that’s when I see it—the subtle shift of expression on Leo’s face. Pain. It’s enough to tell me that no matter what Hades believes about his men, they’re not all emotionless vessels as he seems to think they are.

“If that’s all it took to kill him, then he would’ve never lasted in our organization,” Hades continues off hand reaching for his wine once more. I set my water glass carefully on the table and stare down at the food, mouth watering.

I resist the urge to eat, though. I’d rather do some digging of my own. Hades lifts his fork once more, and I pause him with a question. “This is such a nice house,” I comment. “I’m sure your wife would appreciate being here with you far more than me.”

Hades arches a brow my way and carefully plucks a slender piece of vegetable from his fork and chews it. He examines me further, not responding for several long seconds—each one ticking past, growing more and more uncomfortable than the last.

“Why would you assume I’m married, my dear?” he asks finally. “I thought you were smarter than that.”

“Why wouldn’t you be married?” I reply. “You’re old enough to be. Obviously powerful enough.” I pause and cut a look back at him. “Oh, forgive me, there are other things to consider. Most women don’t want to saddle themselves with a batshit power-hungry maniac.”

If Hades finds insult at my words, he doesn’t show it. I’m getting brave, I know. No one moves a single muscle—save for Hades himself. He leans forward, dropping his elbows onto the edge of the table as he looks me over. I can feel his gaze slide over my face and down to my body. Unable to resist the urge, I reach beneath the table and grip my hem, holding it down hard—hating that I had no choice in my attire as Hades continues his perusal of my body.

Finally, he looks back to my face and tilts his head to the side. “Why would I buy a cow when milk is so freely available?” he replies.

I frown. “What?”

“The Undead don’t just traffic in kidnapping, information, and business corruption, dear,” he says. “Women are nothing more than disposable merchandise—and all of the women that the upper echelon keeps to themselves are available to men such as me.”

Disgust rolls through me and I can’t help showing it as I curl my upper lip back. “Bold words for a man wanting to turn me into one of his recruits,” I snap back.

He shrugs, unperturbed by my response. “Deny it all you like, but even in the modern world—women give themselves to the rich and powerful. They will do any number of things and the ones that won’t…” Hades smirks as if he’s keeping a secret to himself. “Well, let’s just say that there are ways to maintain even the most rebellious of cows.”

Sickness darkens my vision. Rage blurs the edges as it slips through me. My skin goes cold before a rush of pinpricks follow closely behind it. Hades continues.

“I would never shackle myself to something that depreciates in value so easily,” he says. “But you—” His tone changes, growing excited. “You will be different, I expect. For the most part, you think like a man. You escaped the compound you were held in—something, I would like to point out, that Ivan couldn’t accomplish.”

He escaped, I think as I close my eyes against the wave of sorrow and mourning that comes over me. Just not in the same way.

“You’re rebellious,” Hades says. My eyes reopen and refocus on him. “I like that about you. You have showcased your abilities to be above average, and I’m a businessman. I want to expand my business. I have no women agents at the moment—and I would like to start with you.”

“Because I come from a line of Undead agents?” I ask. First Ivan. Then Ace. Now me.

He nods. “In a way, you’re a legacy,” he replies. “So, I’ll ask you once more, Ms. Volkov. Won’t you consider working with me rather than against me?”

If an expression could cut through stone, I have a feeling that mine could in this moment. I can’t see myself, but I feel about as full of expression as the dead, mounted deer above our heads. I blink and turn a bland look on Hades.

“I want to make myself clear, Hades,” I say. “I would never, in my life, allow myself to work for the man who killed half of my family and plans on killing the rest.” I inhale and lean closer, fingers twitching towards the butter knife without thought, and a gun cocks behind me. I freeze, but lift my gaze regardless, staring into the snake like eyes of the Undead’s head. “I am not merchandise. I am not a gun for hire. And I am certainly not someone you can buy. What I am is a warning to you, Hades. Your time has come. I have a feeling that you’ve done a lot in your life to deserve a sentence in hell and I intend to make sure you make it there.”

Hades sighs and shakes his head. “A pity,” he responds. “We could’ve had so much more time together you and I. I could have taught you so much.”

I stand abruptly and just as I do, hands latch onto my arms, keeping me from launching myself across the table at him. It doesn’t stop me from talking, though. “You have taught me something, Hades,” I tell him. “You taught me that no matter how low I fall, I will always get back up again. You think you can kill me because I won’t do what you want? My death will only speed up your own.”

He frowns. “You truly think your friends are coming for you?” He shakes his head. “I think I’ve amused you for far too long. No one can find me. No one can touch me, little girl.”

I smile. It’s a true smile—one full of such amusement it bursts out of me unrestrained. “Even kings can fall, Hades,” I warn him. “And your reign is over.”

Hades considers me for a moment. “The more you speak, the more I want your loyalty,” he says. “I have the strangest sense that having you at my side will prove more useful than murdering you. There’s just something…”

His gaze unfocuses and though he’s staring at me, it’s no longer my body he’s looking at—but something else. Something far away. Something that likely isn’t even in the room, in this time. After a brief pause, he shakes his head and waves his hand.

“Take her away,” he says. “We’ll do another round of punishment.” He glances at Leo. “I want you to perform it this time.”

“Torturing me won’t change a damn thing,” I snap, struggling against the hands holding me.

Hades ignores my words and gestures for Leo to bend over. He does and they exchange a few whispered words. I slam an elbow back, jamming it into one man’s abdomen. A whoosh of breath rushes out of him and slides past my face. His hand drops away, but before I can free myself from the second, I’m slammed down onto the table face first. I gasp as my arms are drawn back and locked at my back.

“Not again,” someone mutters. The man leans over me where my cheek is smashed against the hardwood, my breasts digging into the edge of the table. “You might have gotten Jax killed, but not the rest of us.”

“Go,” Hades says, flicking his finger. “You know what to do.”

I should feel panicked about the idea of more torture, but all I feel is resigned. I lift my head and when Leo meets my gaze, I bare my teeth. He doesn’t say a thing, doesn’t even acknowledge my resistance. Instead, he merely steps past me and allows his associates to haul me after him. I throw a silent prayer up to Mama Luda and her god.

I will hold out until Braxton comes, I tell myself. I have to.

40

BRAXTON

“W-WHAT—WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?” The greasy-looking man that Luc brought in struggles in his position, his voice trembling. He looks around wildly. “Please—someone tell me what’s going on here?”

I look at him and all I see is an obstacle. He’s got slicked back hair. Sharp bones. Skinny arms and the air of someone attempting to exude money. His clothes—a loose suit—are expensive, but ill-fitting. They’re either hand me downs, cast offs, or off the rack. Whatever the case, I know that he would likely be easily swayed by money.

And maybe if I were kinder, I would offer it.

I’m not kind.

“Chair,” I snap. Marcus moves and before the man realizes what’s happening, he’s being sat in a solid chair and his hands zip-tied to the arms.

“Wait! Wait! Master Luc!” he starts to scream.

I look to Abel who nods and disappears down the hallway. I reach up and start to unbutton the front of my shirt. I won’t need it for this. I finish undoing it all and then pull off the Kevlar vest still underneath, tossing it onto the couch.

Avalon grimaces as she takes a seat. “I’m not cleaning up the mess,” she says.

Dean shakes his head but doesn’t say anything. Viks moves back, resting against the wall next to the drink cart with his arms crossed over his chest. Abel returns and hands me a satchel. My satchel—I haven’t used it in a long time. I lift it up and inhale the leather scent before slapping it onto the coffee table and untying the end, letting it roll open and reveal my favorite tools.

The man—what had Luc called him? Ken?—takes one look at them and starts thrashing against his bindings. “Y-you know this is illegal!” he screams. I hold back a snort, but just barely. If this man works for Thomas Kincaid, then he should know exactly who we are. He should know well enough that we don’t give a fuck about what’s considered illegal. His employer is the exact same way. “You can’t do this! I didn’t do anything! I don’t know anything! Please, just—” He turns to Luc again, but Luc merely crosses his arms and stands back.

“He knows everything about my father’s life,” Luc says. “More so than I could ever provide. He’s been with him for ten years and does everything for his schedule.”

“I d-don’t know e-everything,” the man responds quickly. “I’m just an employee. Master Luc, you know that!”

Luc offers me a searing look. The side of his face is already starting to darken from my earlier punches. Still, I feel no guilt. Even if he did bring me this lead. “It’s already too late,” he says. “Do whatever it is you need to do.”

I stare back at him for a moment before I pick up a pair of scissors. It doesn’t take long for Ken to start crying as I cut away his clothes. This is only the beginning, but he’s already a weakling of a man. I can always tell by the way a man responds at the start if he’ll make it through the rougher parts of torture. He won’t.

I don’t normally prefer to work in the house, but we have no time to set up a place for this man to go. After I strip him down to nothing more than his underwear, I drop the scissors and pick up a pair of needle nose pliers.

“I’ll start with a question,” I state, grabbing Ken’s head and gripping him tight, jerking him back so he has to look up into my eyes. “You answer—truthfully—I don’t hurt you. Understand.”

“I can’t,” he sobs. “Please—”

I release his hair in favor of gripping his jaw. His words become garbled sounds as I pinch my fingers into the sides of his face, forcing his mouth open. I insert the pliers—take hold of a tooth further back and yank. Hard.

The tooth gets stuck for a second and then bursts free as I rip it from his gums. He coughs and I release him long enough for him to bow his head and spit out a mouthful of blood onto his tighty whities.

The sounds of his sobs echo through the rest of the room. No one speaks a word. No one moves. No one even flinches. We were built for shit like this. He spits up more blood and saliva, the collection slipping down his dimpled chin and onto his bare chest straight to the crotch of his underwear, staining the white fabric pink.

“P-please…” He gasps, crying harder. “I-I don’t … Master Luc? I—” His words are awkward and he winces with each one, his inner mouth likely burning with pain. Having a tooth pulled without anesthesia? Not fun—at least not for him. I grin. It’s a little different on my side, though.

Luc sighs. “You better tell him what he wants to know if you want to avoid the pain, Ken,” he says. “I’m not your fucking savior.”

“But, I don’t—”

I hold up the pliers and wave them in front of his face, cutting him off. “I start off easy,” I warn him. “These have better uses, I assure you. More…” I drop them down to the man's stomach and lift them again, hovering them over his flaccid dick beneath the fabric of his underwear. “Painful uses,” I finish.

His breath catches and I can practically see the green behind his skin as he presses his bloodied lips together and gags. Silence stretches throughout the room as I give him time to contemplate a change in his answer. I stare at his wrecked face and try to find it in me to feel something—remorse, guilt, sympathy. I feel none of it.

Only irritation.

This man is little more than an insect sitting before me. Fighting against something far bigger than himself. Struggling in vain. For what? Fear of Thomas Kincaid? Money he can provide?

If I’ve learned anything from my father it’s that money can only do so much. Money is easy to get. Once you have money, everything else falls into place. There’s no such thing as bravery in a world filled with cash. He really should just give it up now.

At the end of the day, money means nothing when you’re dead.

“Thomas Kincaid will kill me,” he repeats. “If I say anything.”

“I will kill you if you don’t,” I reply. “And I can assure you, the death you’ll get from your boss won’t be anything compared to what I’ll do to you, Kenny boy.”

He simply shakes his head. The muscles in his back contract and release with twitching movements. I blow out a breath and reach for a scalpel. “Then we continue,” I say, and I get to work.

41

BRAXTON

VIKS ONCE TOLD me that no man is born a tormentor. No man is born with the innate ability to create and enjoy the pain of others. They either learn it or they don’t. Even psychopaths—true psychopaths—take no pleasure in torment the way I do.

Psychopaths are cold, manipulative, antisocial, and narcissistic.

I am not cold. I am the fire.

I am not manipulative. I am the manipulator.

I am not antisocial. I have seen the darkness in others, and I don’t wish to add it to my own.

I am not narcissistic. I am simply myself.

What am I then, if not a psychopath?

The answer is something I’ve known for a long time. It’s what I’ve called myself for years. It’s what she called me. I am a monster. I am her beast and everything I do is for her.

The cigarette in my hand isn’t doing shit for my patience. The nicotine isn’t hitting like it usually does. Nothing is. But then again, I’m not smoking right now to release the tension.

I press the end of the cig into the man’s arms and listen to him scream as it sears his flesh, creating a round gray burn mark on his arm. “Oh God! Please, stop!”

I snort. Why do people call out for God when they want help? Some invisible being that only ever seems to listen when He wants to.

I am not a religious man. Never have been and probably never will be. I don’t—can’t—believe that there would be a God in a world so dark. So full of hate and evil. A God in a world such as this doesn’t sound like any kind of God I’d want to worship. If anything, I’d want to kill him and take his place. I’d be the perfect candidate. Despite that, however, I’d been around my fair share of religious zealots as a child—even in the upper echelon, they exist. Chanting and ranting about how we’re all going to hell for our sins and the pain we’ll suffer.

I always used to chuckle at their ignorance. How little they understood. We are already in hell and the pain has been with us every day of our lives. Now, it just seems so fucking amusing that this man is screaming for something that might not even exist.

My hands are covered in blood and I can’t say how many hours have passed. I turn and stub out the cigarette, tired of its use. Avalon has long since left—exhaustion and a headache carrying her up the stairs while Dean remained behind. I know I am not alone with my victim. My brothers are here, including Marcus. And Viks—the surrogate father I never asked for and probably never deserved. They don’t try to stop me as I slide the sharp blade of my knife down the spine of the man trembling and shivering in the chair.

He’s wet—both from waterboarding and sweat. Bloodied teeth litter the floor around our feet as I move from side to side—humming a distant tune in my head as I work him over. There’s truly only so much creativity one can use when trying to torture information out of someone, but even when they keep their mouth shut—they reveal something.

For example, I’ve pulled Ken Carpenter’s nails from their beds. I’ve ripped his teeth from his mouth. I’ve sliced off pieces of his skin. I’ve drowned him in ice cold water. I’ve burned the cherry-red end of a cigarette into his arms, his chest—right over his nipple—and still he’s remained absolute that he knows nothing. If he even lives through this night, he’ll be scarred for life, but whatever fear Thomas Kincaid has instilled within him has remained.

“This isn’t working,” Marcus says absently, staring at my victim, who jerks at the sudden noise in the otherwise silent room. I usually prefer to work with beating, thumping music—but the girls are tired. They’re sleeping and their comfort comes first.

“You’re right,” I agree, dropping the knife against my open satchel. I stand back, hands on my hips as I stare at Ken. “Should I just kill him?” I ask. If we’re wasting too much time then Clover could already be too far away by now. She could be out of my reach … forever. I shudder at the thought.

My gaze turns to the fireplace and I note the hot poker there. “Hmmmm.” I hum as I consider it for a moment. “Light the fire,” I say. “I have an idea.”

Ken’s head jerks up and around missing teeth and swollen cheeks, he begins to blubber. “W-what are you doing?”

Abel moves towards the fireplace and bends down. “It’ll be a moment,” he says.

I nod. “Put the poker in when it’s hot enough. Since Kenny-boy wants to keep his mouth shut, then we’ve really got no other choice but to go extreme.”

“Ex-extreme?” he repeats, tears leaking down his cheeks.

“A real man doesn’t cower before another,” I say looking down at him. I walk over and pick up the poker, holding it out for him to see. Then I use it to nudge the place between his tied legs. “I’m just going to correct a certain piece of your anatomy.”

“B-but t-that’s a p-poker,” he stutters.

“I shrug. It won’t cut through, but it’ll fucking hurt if I shove it somewhere sensitive, won’t it? Ever heard of sounding?” I ask.

Dean coughs behind me. I ignore it. A poker is far too fucking big for such a thing, but the point isn’t to really sound him out. It’s torture. It’s painful, and it won’t kill him.

Ken starts shaking so uncontrollably that he dislodges the poker. I hold it back up and stare at him. “Unless, of course you want to start talking?” I offer.

Watching a man absolutely break down brings me a small measure of pleasure. It’s nothing compared to watching Clover cry as she takes my dick, but it’s something. A grin splits my lips. Almost. So fucking close. When he looks down into his lap, eyes so wide, it’s like his eyelids have completely disappeared, I turn back to the fireplace and see it lit and Abel standing at its side. I stick the poker inside.

“Now, we wait,” I say.

“No…” Ken sobs. “No. Nononononono. I can’t—oh please, I c-can’t.” He sobs hard enough to choke and turns his cheek as he starts to dry heave. I scowl. “No. No. No!” He thrashes against his bindings and the chair, and when he does so hard enough to tip it over, sending himself crashing to the floor on his side, no one steps forward to help him.

“Y-you will protect me?” He finally asks. “I’ll tell you—I’ll t-tell you and you won’t, you w-won’t let him kill me?”

I shrug. “Depends on how useful your information is,” I hedge. The real answer is no. I don’t care what happens to this man.

“T-Thomas sponsors the Undead,” he says. I step forward and bend over, lifting him bodily back so that the chair sits right side up. I grip his arms hard enough to bruise, leaning over him as I get into his bruised face. One side of his cheek is damn near the size of a golf ball from the teeth I pulled there.

“What else?” I snap.

“H-he’s a major sponsor,” Ken spits out quickly. “He’s not just an ordinary client. H-he’s one of their VIPs. Th-they keep certain people o-of interest under lock and k-key for him. Th-they run t-transactions.”

“I don’t care about their transactions,” I growl. “I want to know if there’s a place that Thomas and the head of the Undead could possibly share? Is there somewhere local? Where would the Undead take someone they wanted to recruit?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t—Thomas i-is close with them, but he—he…” He pauses, eyes growing wide.

“What?” I demand. “What is it? What do you know?” I shake him, the chair jerking up on its back legs before slamming back down.

“He g-gifted the head of the organization with a-a home,” Ken says.

I was right—that comment from before, what Thomas had said to Luc. Thomas Kincaid truly thinks he owns the Undead. Even if he doesn’t—he’s a major sponsor, a top client. He’s more connected to them than we thought. More so than my own father must have been.

“Where is it?” I glare down at the man. “Where is the home?”

He trembles under my grasp. “I-I want your w-word,” he says. “P-protection—if I tell you.”

I release him in disgust, taking a step back. He’ll tell me, I think. I turn towards the poker when a figure steps up, catching my attention. I look over as Luc stares down at Ken Carpenter. His face is impassive, unemotional.

“Can I borrow a knife?” he asks without looking at me.

I glance back at Dean who stares at the back of Luc’s head with an unreadable expression of his own before he looks at me. He shrugs—leaving the decision up to me. Curiosity has me turning back and crossing my arms over my chest.

“Be my guest,” I say with a raised brow.

Luc doesn’t immediately move. After a brief moment spent staring down at the drenched head of his father's personal assistant, he turns and looks down the line of my unrolled satchel. He picks up an unused blade, turning it over in his hand until it glints in the light.

He steps back against Ken and then cuts a path across the man’s upper thigh, straight up towards the juncture between his abdomen and leg. The man howls in pain as I watch the skin split open and blood slowly well up and drip down his leg onto the floor. Luc switches legs and draws a similar path up the man’s other leg, getting closer and closer to Ken’s groin until the man is hyperventilating.

Luc bends closer, his eyes steady as he grips Ken by his hair and jerks his head up. My eyes widen as Luc presses the pointed end of the blade directly above the man’s dick, digging it into his soiled underwear until blood wells up against the once white fabric. Luc presses his face against Ken’s and I hear him whisper something, but I don’t hear what exactly it is. I step closer to get a better idea, but before I can catch Luc’s words, the putrid smell of urine hits me and Ken starts openly sobbing once more—harder than he has all night.

I blink and Luc stands up. Holding the blade, he yanks Ken’s head back and holds the knife over one red rimmed eye. “It’s your choice, Ken,” he says, loud enough for the rest of us to hear. “Aren’t I nice? Giving you a choice?”

We share a look—Abel, Dean, Marcus, Viks, and me. The five of us are slightly surprised, but no one speaks a single word.

“M-my laptop,” he finally spits out. “Th-there’s an address on m-my personal laptop. I-it’s in my contacts for a man named H-Harold Holbert.”

Luc drops the knife back with the satchel and looks at me. “His stuff is in the car,” he says. “I’ll grab it.”

“I’ll wake Rylie,” Abel says, “she’ll be able to track it down and find it and if he’s got the laptop locked, she can get in.”

I watch Luc leave the room and Abel follows after him. Dean steps up next to me. “I’ve never seen him like that,” he says.

“He’s doing whatever it takes to survive,” Marcus replies. “Because he knows if anything happens to Brax’s girl, he’s just as dead as that fucker over there.” He gestures to Ken.

I shake my head. I’m not quite sure that’s true. In fact, I think Luc has always had the ability inside of him.

“There’s a darkness in that man that the three of you should recognize,” Viks says quietly from the back of the room. All three of our heads turn. “Even Abel should understand it.”

I agree. Luc participating in torture wasn’t him pretending. If anything, I think it was the most real thing he’s ever shown us. It was a message. He was revealing to us that he’s willing to go as far as it takes. For him, this was the same as Dean killing someone at sixteen. The same as Abel fucking for information. Me torturing for information.

Mutilation. Murder. Sex.

That was Luc’s way of offering his loyalty and even if the prick irritates me, I can’t help but find it admirable.

“Fuck,” I mutter, shaking my head as I scrub a bloodied hand down my face.

“What?” Dean’s eyes shoot to me expectantly.

I shake my head. “We really have to fucking accept that dick, don’t we?”

He stares at me for a moment and then laughs. It’s loud and almost shocked in its amusement. Finally, when Dean calms down, he wipes a finger under one eye and claps me on the shoulder. “Yeah,” he says. “I think we fucking do.”

Damn it.

42

CLOVER

“YOU KNOW HE WON’T STOP.” Leo’s tone is too casual for a man dragging a woman into a dark room and preparing to torture her. Again.

The cell he pulls me into is tiny. Maybe the same size as the bedroom I was previously in, if not smaller. It’s all stone and no windows. The only light is from a fluorescent bulb overhead. Chains hang down the wall at the furthest end next to a metal table. Obviously, this room has been used before if the stained drain in the center of the floor is anything to go by. There are smears of blood on the wall and a hose next to the door.

As Leo yanks me over to the wall and takes a wrist, I kick out at him, but he narrowly avoids me and finishes locking my hands into the chains against a solid brick wall.

“Funny,” I say through gritted teeth as he steps back and presses a button on the wall above the metal table. The chains retract into the ceiling, lifting me up. I hiss as my arms are jerked and it feels like they might pop right out of their sockets. “Neither will I.” Neither will Braxton.

“You will either die or become Undead,” he replies.

I breathe through my teeth as the chains jerk and tug and my legs leave the floor completely, my toes dangling down over the hard stone beneath. It’s kind of funny—though not completely unexpected to find that Hades has a complete torture room down beneath the lavish house he welcomed me into.

“That’s what you think,” I say as Leo lifts a pair of scissors and grimaces as he steps up towards me. He cuts down over the open holes of the dress and slices it away until it falls in tatters at my feet. There’s no light of attraction in his gaze when he looks down at me—mostly naked save for the tiny slip of fabric covering my pussy. Just resolve.

He reminds me of someone—but I’m not sure who.

Leo sets the scissors aside and puts his hands on his hips as he regards me. “We don’t have to do this,” he tells me. “You can change your mind at any time. I won’t bind your mouth. Any time you think you’ve had enough, I can go to Hades and tell him that you’ve relented.”

“I won’t relent.”

He shakes his head and reaches into his back pocket, pulling out a pair of dark gloves. Instead of putting them on immediately, however, and getting straight to work, he merely holds them and looks at me. “I learned a long time ago, Ms. Clover,” he says, “that this world is unfair. If there is someone stronger than you—you either bow or you die.”

“I bow to no one,” I reply testily.

“Then it’ll either be his death or yours,” he says quietly.

I laugh and shake my head, tossing the strands that hang into my face back as I rest my neck on my shoulders. “I’m already a dead woman, then,” I say. “Is that what you think?”

His response is a whisper and it holds no glee, only pity and maybe a hint of remorse. “We all are.”

Leo puts on the black gloves and moves to the metal table. There’s a thin bar of silver embedded into the wall—a magnet of some kind with all sorts of various tools attached. Hacksaws, knives, scalpels. He touches none of them and instead opens up a drawer beneath the table as he removes a small vial and a syringe.

“Why do you follow him?” I blurt out. “It’s obvious you don’t like Hades. You don’t trust him. Why follow someone you can’t trust?”

The needle penetrates the vial and he carefully extracts whatever liquid is inside. It’s hard for me to see from where I’m at, but I can tell he does it all with methodical precision.

“When you know something for so long,” he begins. “When you know no other way, sometimes, it’s just a simple matter of survival to keep doing what you have been.”

“That’s pathetic,” I spit back. “It doesn’t make it right.”

His head bows forward as he nods. “You’re right,” he says.

Still, he doesn’t stop what he’s doing. He finishes extracting the drug and turns toward me. A cold sweat breaks out over my spine. My nipples pebble, but it has nothing to do with arousal and all to do with the way the temperature in the room drops. He steps towards me and automatically, I jerk back against the wall.

“What is that?” I demand.

He blinks back at me. “Something that will help,” he replies without giving me a real answer.

My body trembles as he puts the needle against my arm and presses down. At first, the drugs burn when they enter my bloodstream and I can practically follow them as they spread down my arm and into the rest of my body. Within minutes, my body relaxes against the wall and I blink blearily.

Pain medication? Why … why would he do that?

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly just as the edges of my vision blur. “It’ll be easier this way.”

I shake my head—or I think I do—but really my head simply flops to one side and all of the tension in my frame dissolves. “Wha…” the word comes out garbled even to my own ears. My tongue feels swollen, like it’s filling up my whole mouth and incapable of movement.

Leo reaches up and holds onto two of my fingers. “It’ll hurt later,” I hear him say. “But this is the last kindness I can give you. You won’t feel it as it’s happening.”

Feel what? I think a split second before a sound penetrates my skull.

Crack!

Crack? What just… My head lolls back as I look up and see that two of my fingers are at an odd angle. I try to move them. Nothing happens. Did he just … break them? Oh, right … I’m being tortured. He has to.

I wait for the pain to come, but it doesn’t. My eyes slide shut and my exhaustion hits me and before I realize it, I can’t open them again for a long while.

I’m drifting, slipping, and sliding through my mind. Old memories and new ones. They blend together. I’m half aware of where I am. I know someone is near me. They’re moving. Hands touch me, but no matter how long they remain on my flesh—I feel them once before the sensation fades.

There’s no telling how much time has passed by the time the drugs Leo gave me finally start to fade. It wasn’t much, I know that. So maybe … a few hours? Longer? Why does it feel like longer? Is it the soreness in my limbs? It must be. It feels like I’ve been up here for more than simply a few hours. He couldn’t have been torturing me for that long, though, could he?

Water slaps my face and my eyes shoot open—faster than they had before. I blink and cough as the water drips down my front, sliding between my breasts and over my stomach into my underwear.

“Are you back?” Leo’s voice sounds close. I look up and see him standing there with the hose in hand. There’s sweat on his forehead and a grimace on his face.

“What did you…” I cough, choking on the dryness in my throat. I sound hoarse.

He arches a brow and sends a spray of water into my face again. Despite the icy feeling, I open my mouth and swallow back some of it before it drops away. I gasp for breath and glare up at him.

“What did you do?” I finish asking.

He drops the still leaking hose to the floor and nudges it away with his boot. “My job,” he says before moving over to the metal table and pressing the button on the wall.

The chains slowly lower me back to the ground and I groan as the feeling of grogginess recedes and pain comes back full throttle. My hand hurts. My ribs ache. My face feels numb. I lick my lips and find that there’s a cut on the lower one. Right in the middle. I wince.

“You beat me,” I surmise.

“It was better than it could have been,” Leo replies as he moves to unlock my wrists. The drug must still be in my system because though I’m now able to move my limbs, they’re slower than usual and he manages to evade an awkward punch as he hauls me up and over his shoulder. “You’re welcome.”

“Fucking asshole,” I mutter.

I tremble against his body, cold and squeezing closer to him, trying to steal his heat. “It was better than last time, wasn’t it?” he replies.

“D-doesn’t m-make it right,” I say through chattering teeth. I clench and unclench my good hand, feeling the spikes of sensation returning—slow but there.

“How long…” I try before my voice gives out on me.

Leo is quiet for a moment and I think he won’t answer, but he surprises me yet again. “It’s twilight now,” he says.

I lost a full day? Seriously? My mind reels with that information. Where the hell is Braxton? Why hasn’t he come yet? Does he not know where I am? “Where’s Ace?” I demand, putting more effort into my voice so that my words come out unshaky.

There seems to be no reason why Leo wouldn’t answer this question, but the man seems to do everything I don’t expect. He’s kind when I expect cruelty. He’s talkative when I expect silence. And now this is no different.

He grunts but doesn’t reply as he carries me out of the torture room and down a dark hallway. He stops in front of a metal barred door and presses a series of buttons on the side panel before it swings inward.

“Clover!”

I’m unceremoniously dropped onto a bed as Ace’s voice hits me. Alive. He’s alive. I turn my head and find him on the other side of the cell, chained to a similar bed. His face is black and blue, one eye damn near swollen shut and a series of cuts and bruises down the rest of his arms. Though I assume there are more beneath the plain white t-shirt he’s wearing.

“Hades has called me for something,” Leo says. “But don’t think this is over. He’ll want an answer sooner or later and he doesn’t like ‘no.’”

I cough as I struggle into a sitting position as I cover my breasts with one arm. “Too bad,” I say. “No is the only answer he’s getting from me. It’s either that or fuck off and die.”

Leo stares down at me for a moment but says nothing more. Then he turns and leaves the room. The metal door slams shut at his back and the locking mechanism on the other side beeps. I collapse onto the thin mattress under me and gasp for breath.

“What happened?” Ace demands. “Are you okay?”

I shake my head and lift my hand. “He broke two of my fingers,” I mutter. Among other things, but I’m sure Ace can guess that.

“I’ll fucking kill him,” Ace swears.

It’s funny, I think. Leo broke my fingers. He beat me. He ‘tortured’ me, but he numbed me too. He … was kind—at least as kind as he could be. I can’t help but feel bad for him.

“Clover?” I suck in a breath and sit up. Ignoring Ace’s call, I stretch out the fingers on the hand that isn’t deformed now. When I try it with my broken fingers, the pain hits and I wince, stopping.

Pushing my feet onto the floor, I force myself to stand and waver, reaching out and slapping my unwounded palm against the wall to keep myself upright when it feels like I might fall over.

“Stop, you’re going to hurt yourself,” Ace calls.

“Shut up,” I say and I start walking along the wall towards him. It’s hard and it’s longer than simply walking across the room, but if I release the wall, I know I might just stay wherever I land on the cold concrete. It takes far longer than I’d like to reach his bed, but once I do, I lock my fingers around the end and edge onto the mattress. He reaches for me.

“Let me see,” he says, taking my hand in his. He feels along my knuckles and I grit my teeth, yanking my hand back. “No, no, don’t,” he insists. “They’re not broken.”

“They’re not?” Hope sits in my chest.

He shakes his head. “They’re definitely dislocated,” he replies. “But I don’t think they’re broken. Maybe hairline fractures, but as long as the bone itself isn’t completely split through, it should be fine if I just…”

“Fuck!” I scream as he takes hold of my fingers and jerks them back into place. The second he releases me, I slam my other hand into his face. “You damn asshole! Why didn’t you warn me?” I cradle my hand against my chest, breathing through my teeth as he rubs his cheek.

“I didn’t want you tensing up, Solnyshka,” he replies as he strips away his shirt and hands it to me. “They feel better, don’t they?”

Actually, now that he mentions it... I stretch out my fingers and even though there’s some tension and aching, it’s not the same sharp splitting pain as before. I glare at him regardless. “You still should’ve warned me,” I tell him, taking the shirt, slipping it on, and tugging it down to my thighs.

But this is good. When Leo left, he didn’t chain me. I bend over Ace’s side, taking a look at the cuff on his leg. “Why haven’t you tried to pick this?” I ask.

Ace frowns. “I was drugged until not long ago,” he answers. “And then tortured. Plus, I had no clue where you were—I wasn’t going to get out of here and leave you on your own.”

I think about that as I feel along the edges of the cuff. “What I’m wondering,” I say absently, “is why they haven’t killed you yet. I’d think—as smart as Hades thinks he is—he’d rather just off you before you get another chance to escape.”

Silence meets that statement. No agreement. No disagreement either. I look up and catch the avoidant expression on his face as he turns his head to the side. “Ace?”

He presses his lips together. Irritation floods through my system and I sit up. “No,” I snap. “Not again—what the fuck is it this time?” I demand. “What are you hiding? I thought we promised to be open with each other.”

Ace releases a low curse. “Yeah, well, I also thought my sister wouldn’t fuck the enemy, but you’re all happy with that fucker now, aren’t you?”

It takes all of my self-control not to punch him again. “You don’t get to fucking judge me,” I say through gritted teeth. “You’re the one who got us—got me—into this mess. You are the reason he came looking for me in the first place. I’m not going to apologize because of how I feel.”

Ace looks at me, his crystal blue eyes so similar to our father’s. “Are you really going to stay with him if we get through this?”

My breath catches. “I thought you weren’t listening in the car.”

He frowns. “Just because I didn’t say anything doesn’t mean I wasn’t listening,” he replies.

“It was a private conversation.”

“If you wanted privacy, you wouldn’t have had it right in front of me,” he says. “Now are you going to answer the question or not.”

“Yes!” I snap even as my mind rolls, trying to come up with an answer.

His brows shoot up. “Yes? You’re staying? Or yes, you’re going to answer?”

“I don’t know.” I shake my head. “It’s complicated. I want—”

“He’s dangerous, Clover,” Ace snaps, reaching out and latching onto my arms. “You can’t be seriously considering it. I understand just saying that shit so they’ll trust you, but they aren’t your family. You can’t trust them.”

“He promised he wouldn’t kill you,” I say.

“Clover!” He shakes me. “He can’t be trusted. He’s a liar. You know he is. Isn’t that the reason you ran in the first place?”

He’s not wrong. I know he’s not, but things are different now. I’m different. I peel his hands off of me and scoot back, moving away from him.

“What about you?” I reply. “You still haven’t answered my question. Why hasn’t Hades killed you, Ace? What are you keeping from me?”

Ace grimaces and looks away. “I … before I left, I might have sort of … stolen some information,” he finally says. “For insurance.”

“You … fucking idiot.” That explains why Hades is so hell bent on getting him. It wasn’t just to kill him—though I’m sure that if things turn out the way Hades wants, Ace will be six feet under and pushing daisies shortly.

“If I hadn’t, they would’ve immediately killed me on sight, Clover,” Ace says. “If they torture me—it’s not fun, but fuck at least it gives me a chance.”

“What if they’d just let you go?” I demand. “If you just ran, they could’ve cut their losses and not gone after you.”

He shakes his head. “No, no, Clover, no. Look at me.” He reaches for me again and this time, he takes my hands in his. “They would’ve never stopped. It was the only way. The Undead doesn’t just let people go.”

I stare back at him and realize that he’s right. Taking insurance was smart on his part. "You still shouldn’t have hidden it from me,” I say as I gently tug my hands back and move towards his leg as I get on my knees before him. My body is growing more and more steady with each passing minute that the drugs Leo gave me flush out of my system. But there’s no telling how long they’ll leave us alone down here. We need to make a plan and we need to escape before it’s too late.

“Here,” Ace reaches down and hands me something small and slender—a metal clip of some kind.

“Where’d you get this?” I ask.

He looks away. “Don’t ask,” he mutters. “But I always have to keep shit like that on me at all times … hazard of the job.”

I stare at the clip and grimace. “Okay,” I say, holding the clip a little further away from my body. “That’s disgusting.”

“Just … pick the damn lock.”

“Yeah, yeah…” I unfold the metal clip and find the lock on the inside of the cuff next to his ankle. Thankfully, the metal is malleable and I bend and fold it so I can slip it between his skin and start to jiggle it into the tiny hole.

Minutes pass—long minutes. Sweat sticks to my upper back and spine, making Ace’s shirt stick to my skin. I glance up briefly, noting that he’s got burns on his upper chest. Whoever tortured him, they weren’t nearly as kind as Leo.

Something clicks in the cuff and it loosens. “I got it!” I say excitedly.

“Shhh.” Ace’s hand clamps over my lips and when I glance at him his eyes are trained on the door. The room goes dead silent and I hear it—voices. Loud, arguing voices sounding far away. “I think something’s happening,” Ace says.

“Braxton,” I reply, peeling his hand away from my mouth. “He’s here.”

Relief floods me, but more than—readiness. It’s time to bring an end to all of this.

43

BRAXTON

STREAKS of red and orange turn the blue sky into something straight out of a horror novel. I’ve seen other people describe sunset as something beautiful and wondrous. Right now, it kind of looks like a mixture of blood and bile staining the sky. I blow out a breath as I stare across the street at our target.

We’ve lost a whole day getting information, getting ready, but now it all seems to be coming together. We’ve got the doctor locked in a new bedroom upstairs of the house we’re currently borrowing, on site in case shit goes sideways. I’m hoping it won’t, but I’m preparing for the worst.

A fresh Kevlar vest hits me in the chest and I take it before looking up. Dean stands over me with a stoic look. “You ready to strap up?” he asks, stealing my attention from the surveillance I’ve been doing.

“I’m ready to get my girl back.” I deadpan.

His mouth twitches, but he just nods and walks away. I fix my gaze back across the street to the address Rylie had managed to unlock from Ken Carpenter’s laptop. It’s an expensive looking house. Old. Dignified some might say. I’d argue that it’s a little creepy.

The house that Thomas Kincaid had gifted the head of the Undead is an old Victorian thing. It’s got a large gated area around it. Security cameras set up at intervals. The outside is dark and dreary. The gardens are kept immaculate. The bushes cut back. The expansive lawn cleared of any debris or any place someone might hide. Smart.

It’s set in a community of other similarly older and structured houses. Wealthy people who come and go whenever they please. No one would even blink twice at an owner not appearing for several months out of the year. Or someone coming in with a whole team of ‘security’ and ‘bodyguards.’ These people are retirees from positions that likely required their own level of secrecy. They’ve learned to mind their business. It’s definitely the kind of community Thomas Kincaid would be a part of.

I scowl even as I think of the man. Maybe he wasn’t directly involved in all of this, but he’s just as guilty. He considers the Undead his own personal information guild. And this—this property—this relationship he has with the Undead; it’ll be the thing to end him.

I have to admit, though, Thomas Kincaid is certainly an intelligent man. He knows just what kind of person Hades is.

I may not have met the bastard face to face, myself, but I already know who he is. He’s the kind of man who has wanted what the upper class has his whole life. Hades—or rather, Harold Holbert, is a man raised in filth and disgrace. Killing a man on paper doesn’t necessarily kill all information on him. A house can belong to a dead man so long as Kincaid is the one selling it, but he was a fool to use his real name. It had simply opened up a multitude of doors of information on this man and his life before the Undead.

Powerless as a child—the product of an affair between a prostitute and a wealthy business conglomerate—Harold Holbert is nothing but a man masquerading as one of the people he always wanted to be. After pouring over the details for most of the day, I find myself on edge.

Why Clover? I have to wonder. Why is he so focused on her?

Is it because she reminds him of himself—fighting her way to the top from the gutter? I’m sure that she’s not the first one he’s run into. A street rat with claws meant to dig their way free.

He sees her wrong. She was never that. She was never like him. She was always a diamond hiding in rock. Now, she’s chiseled free and he’s fascinated. I dislike it. No, I more than dislike it—I detest it.

No one else should be as obsessed as I am.

I strip down and start the process of strapping weapons to my body. I slip on a long black t-shirt that molds to my body before I put on the bulletproof vest. Black cargo pants. Boots. Gun against the small of my back. Knives in either boot. Knives against my thighs. More knives into the pockets of the vest. I hold up one particularly vicious blade—sharp enough to cut through bone on one side and serrated on the other. Double-sided and mean looking. Maybe I’ll give it as a present to Clover when we’re done and she can use it to gut the bastard.

All around me in the adjacent building to the strapping two story mansion that looks over a hundred years old people are getting ready. Dean and Abel are going through their weapons, reloading their guns as Marcus and Viks do the same.

The most surprising presence, however, is Luc. He stands at the window opposite the one I’m next to, staring out with an unreadable expression. Something is going on in his head and a part of me doesn’t care to know. I turn to leave him to his thoughts when something stops me.

An invisible string. Call it curiosity. Call it a sick sense of brotherhood. Call it whatever the fuck you want, but damn it, it’s irresistible. With a silent curse, I flip back to him. I stare at him, scowling as I try to come up with something to say.

Finally, I settle on giving information. It’s something to start a conversation, after all. “The police have been paid off to avoid the area,” I say. “They’ll deal with any problems and the media if needed.”

Luc nods. “I know.”

I wait a beat. Well, shit. Fine. Guess, that was a dumbass idea. I turn to go, but he stops me.

“I’m moving out of my father’s home,” he says.

Keep walking, man, I tell myself. He’s not a real Eastpoint brother. He’s just a fucking leech. I try to do it. Fuck, do I. But my body refuses to listen to my brain, and instead, I find myself pivoting back to him.

“You realize that won’t erase any distrust we might have,” I tell him coldly.

He jerks his head down in a nod. “I know,” he replies. “I don’t care about gaining your trust.”

I arch a brow. I want to call bullshit, but from his most recent actions—I have to wonder if he’s being truthful for a change. I cross my arms. It’s not easy to trust someone I’ve seen as a danger to my best friend my whole life.

“Why do you want to come to Eastpoint so fucking bad?” I ask. No one has said it thus far, but it’s suspicious that he’s been pressing for a transfer for so long. He hasn’t relented. He hasn’t given up. There must be something more to his story—something none of us are privy to.

“For the very reason you’re so obsessed with the daughter of an ex-Russian mobster,” Luc replies, earning a deeper scowl from me. He turns and stares back at me, unflinching. “Escape.”

“I don’t want to escape from shit,” I say. “That’s not what she is to me.” He doesn’t respond, but I can feel the fucking bullshit call he’s making in his head. I curse and look away. “She does the opposite.” I don’t know why the fuck I’m telling him this. It’s none of his goddamn business. “She makes me want to be in the moment. She makes me want to fucking live.”

“Well, that’s why I want to go to Eastpoint,” Luc replies. “Because I want to live too.”

“You think your father wants to kill you?” I frown. Considering that there is no other heir to the Kincaid line, I’m stunned. Men like Thomas Kincaid are similar to my father—they’re obsessed with lineage, with that father to son crap. Like creating their own version of a mini me to go on in the world after they’re gone means they’ll live forever.

“I know he does,” Luc replies. “But more than that, I know he’s been doing something behind the scenes for a long time.” His gaze returns to the window, but he’s not looking at the house across the street. He’s looking somewhere further away, beyond the scope of the present. “He took someone from me a long time ago,” he admits quietly. “And he’s been holding his knowledge over my head for the longest time. He made promises—told me I’d understand when I had power of my own, but he won’t give it to me.”

“So, take it,” I say with a shrug. “Don’t wait around for someone to just hand you power and authority. If you want to belong—hell, if you want to survive in our world—you’ve got to fucking take it.”

The corner of his mouth quirks. He nods. “Yeah,” he agrees. “That’s what I’m doing. I’m doing exactly what he never expected and I’m holding my hand out to the enemy.”

Eastpoint. Dean. Us.

Reluctant admiration creeps up inside of me. I drop my hands to my sides and move up to the window next to his. I put my forearm against the frame and stare outside. “After this—after we get Clover back—you’ll transfer to Eastpoint,” I say. “Dean will make it official.”

A beat, then, “Thank you.”

I push away from the window frame. “Don’t thank me, yet,” I tell him. “Just fucking help me kill these fuckers.”

A low chuckle is his only response. I ignore it in favor of striding across the open and empty space of what should be the living room of this house towards Dean. It has since been turned into a congregating room of weapons and information since we knocked on the door in the early hours of the morning. The unsuspecting couple who usually live here were more than happy to vacate the premises with no questions asked for the next forty-eight hours in response to the massive amount of cash they were offered.

“—leaving me behind, you’re out of your goddamn mind, Dean.” I pause as Avalon’s angry words hit me. She stands in the doorway to the hall dressed in much the same manner as the rest of us with a scowl on her pretty face and her arms crossed.

“It’s going to be dangerous, Baby,” Dean replies.

“Exactly,” she snaps. “And if you’ll recall—I almost watched you die. If you think you’re doing this without me, I’ll kill you myself.”

I turn my head and glance across through the open archway that leads into the dining room where Rylie sits with her laptop open. Her brow scrunches up as her fingers fly across the keyboard. The whole gang is here. I release a breath and realize that I don’t feel as nervous as I did before. The panic has abated, at least for the moment, and it’s due in no small part to these people.

“Dean,” I call.

“Not now,” he says, waving a hand my way before he refocuses on Avalon. “You can stay here—right across the street with Rylie,” he says. “Someone has to make sure she’s protected too.”

I stride up to the two of them and put a hand on his shoulder. “You know she’s not going to be down for that,” I say.

“I’m not,” Avalon agrees.

Dean shoots me a murderous look. “Are you fucking serious right now?” he mutters.

“Let her come,” I say. “She won’t feel safe unless she’s next to you.”

“I don’t like it,” Dean says.

I understand. Fuck, I understand all too well now. I know exactly what it’s like to look at the person who is the reason your heart beats and imagine them in danger—mine is in danger right now. It’s because of that, though, that I know Ava should come.

“We’ll leave Marcus behind to watch Rylie,” I say. “He’s solid. You know he is.”

“I don’t want the Undead to see her,” Dean argues.

“She won’t be okay unless she has eyes on you,” I remind him. “You can’t ask her to let you go and not be willing to let her go herself.”

“Why don’t you stay behind and watch Rylie and I’ll go in your stead,” Avalon offers helpfully, earning herself a sharp look from him.

“Out of the fucking question, Baby,” he growls.

“Then both of you will come,” I say. “It’s decided.”

Dean’s growl deepens and grows louder, but he knows he’s lost when Avalon nods and moves off. The conversation is over. He turns to me. “You fucking asshole.”

I shrug. “She would’ve just snuck out and come after you anyway,” I reply. “At least, now you can keep her by your side to ensure nothing happens to her.”

“She wouldn’t have left Rylie alone here,” he snaps.

I arch a brow. “Then you don’t know her as well as you think you do,” I tell him. “She’s a strong woman, Dean, but she’s still recovering from what almost happened to the two of you.”

He scowls and rubs a hand through the top of his hair, grabbing a chunk and pulling it tight in frustration. “Fine,” Dean grits out. “But if anything happens to her, I’ll skin you.”

A smile lifts my lips. “What makes you think I wouldn’t be into that?” I ask.

Dean drops his arm and shoves me to the side as he reaches for a new gun and loads it before sliding it into the holster on his side. “Pervert,” he mutters.

Clover’s pervert, and her last chance, it feels like.

The last of the setting sun’s rays slip over the horizon and the room darkens. Viks walks over and flips on the lights. Luc draws the curtains closed.

“It’s time,” I say.

A subtle tension fills the room. Rylie looks up from her laptop and stands, moving from the table to the doorway. Abel goes to her side.

Dean nods. “Let’s load up and head out,” he says. “We want to take them off guard, so we move in fast and we do it bloody.”

“Kill everyone that isn’t our target,” I say. “If you can—leave Hades alive—” I gesture to Rylie. “We know what he looks like now.” Another oversight on his part. Old records of dead people still remained and that included pictures. He’ll be much older than he was twenty years ago when he first faked his death, but I have no doubt that he’ll be recognizable.

Abel looks back at me. “You’re gonna let her kill him?” he asks.

Of course I am. I smile, but it’s anything but amused. “He’s not going to leave this world without a little bit of pain,” I say.

“I’ll have the cameras disabled when you enter,” Rylie pipes up. “I think I’ve figured out a back way into their system, though, I’m not sure if I’ll be able to keep them down for long.”

“We only need the element of surprise,” I tell her.

She nods, wincing even as she looks at me. I don’t blame her. My harshness from the night before is probably still on her mind. “Brax…” she begins, “the trackers—they’re still on, but they’re still acting strange—it could be due to the hormones, adrenaline, or something else. If they were drugged. I’m not sure what’s exactly making them act up—they’re cutting in and out, but by accuracy standards—we’re in the right place. They do lead right here. The information you’ve gotten must be good. I don’t believe in coincidences.”

I close my eyes briefly. I hadn’t realized how much I needed the assurance until right then. I suck in a breath and reopen my eyes, fixating them on her with a forced gentle look. “Thank you, Rylie.”

She nods and steps back. Viks’ gaze bores into the side of my face and when I finally give him my attention, he speaks. “We’re doing this the old-fashioned way.” His words aren’t a question, but a statement.

I nod. “A fake out,” I agree. “Infiltrate. Lure and bait.”

He stares back at me. “And you’ll be able to handle that?” he asks.

“I’ll do what I have to,” I say. “This isn’t just about me. This is about Clover…” I pause and after a brief moment, I amend that. “And Troy.”

The room goes quiet. A rippling reminder steals throughout the room. Abel turns his gaze to the floor. Dean stiffens. Avalon bites her lower lip. “They took one of ours,” I say. “They pay.”

No one denies it. They don’t have to. In this, we’re all on the same page.

After a few more beats of silence, Dean clears his throat and turns to Marcus. “We’re going to have you stay here,” he says. “You’ll guard Rylie and make contact with us through our earbuds.” He reaches up and taps the small black dot tucked into his ear. I’ve already got mine in, though the radio signal hasn’t been turned on. “And make sure that the doctor doesn’t get out of the room upstairs. I want him on standby in case shit goes down.”

Marcus nods. “Understood.”

All eyes fall on me. I unsheathe one of my knives and turn towards the front door. “Let’s go.”

44

CLOVER

A SHOT GOES OFF SOMEWHERE in the house and above Ace and me, the fluorescent light snaps off. Without a window, we’re left in complete darkness, but not for long. Footsteps sound in the hallway, stopping right in front of the door.

“Get behind me,” Ace says even as he shoves me back and stands up.

My breath saws in and out of my chest, panic and anxiety closing into my throat. What if it’s not Brax? What if it’s someone else? What if we’re not being rescued? There are so many what ifs and all they do is make my heart beat faster. So I shut off that part of my brain and I reach for the only thing—for the only person—that I know can help me get through this.

Evgenia.

The bitch is back.

The door creeps open and despite the lights going off in the room, there are emergency bulbs in the hallway on the other side. I don’t hesitate. Neither does Ace.

He either doesn’t realize my intentions or he’s rethinking his earlier words because he doesn’t curse me when he goes one way and I go another. With nothing but the light outlining the man in the doorway, the two of us attack.

Ace takes him out at the knees and the man goes down hard with a grunt into the concrete. I circle him and bar him with a forearm over his throat, locking it against his head like Ivan and Ace once taught me long ago. The man struggles, but he doesn’t get a chance to speak—he likely hadn’t expected such a quick movement. If I were as tortured as I should be, I’d be passed out on the bed from pain, and Ace would still be locked to his.

Leo had done more than give us kindness—he’d given us an opportunity. I won’t forget that.

The man in my grasp struggles weakly as I cut off his airflow and Ace keeps him from battering me with his hands as he reaches up and tries to unlock my grip. “No, you fucking don’t,” Ace growls. Soon enough, he’s slumping down to the floor and Ace glances up from his prone body.

“I thought I told you to get behind me,” he mutters.

“Oh?” I say as I loosen my hold and step back. “Were you serious?”

Ace’s head lifts, but due to the lack of light, I can’t see the look he gives me before he starts rifling through the man’s clothes. He strips him free of his shirt and pulls it on over his own head before he takes a gun and a wicked looking knife.

“Come on,” Ace says. “We’re getting the hell out of here.”

I step out into the hallway, looking both ways. “Do you know how to get out of here?” I ask.

The gun clicks as he checks the chamber and reloads it. “Yeah,” he says enigmatically. I don’t ask if he’s been here before—I feel like I already know the answer.

“Then lead the way,” I gesture forward and Ace moves ahead, holding the gun up as he moves down the hallway. I follow behind, ignoring the feeling of air sliding between my thighs and up the thin shirt I’m wearing. I don’t know why I’m always the one who ends up mostly naked in these types of situations, but it’s got to be some sort of sick punishment—being forced to face all manner of evil men hell bent on killing, torturing, and imprisoning me and everyone I care about while practically nude.

“There should be a set of stairs leading up to the first floor somewhere around here,” Ace mutters as we inch along the dimly lit hallway of the basement.

“If we find another guard,” I say, “I want a gun.”

He glances back once and his response is a sharp nod. Then he reaches down and pulls out the knife, passing it to me. “Here,” he says, “keep this until we get one.”

I take it and hold it close to my side. “Why do you think that guy came down for us?” I ask absently, keeping my voice quiet.

“If you’re right and those guys have infiltrated the house, then they probably wanted to move us to keep us under their thumb,” he replies. “They didn’t expect resistance.”

Idiots, Evgenia mutters. She tightens my hand against the blade in my grasp and inhales the deep scent of wet soil, cold stone, and blood.

“How are you doing?” I ask. “You were tortured probably worse than me.”

Ace is silent for a moment before he replies. “I’ll be fine, Solnyshka,” he whispers back. “Don’t worry about me. Just focus on getting yourself out of here.”

I’d seen the markings on his body. The brand, burns, and bruises. I listen to the way he breathes—shallowly. Meaning his ribs are probably hurting, maybe broken. But his hands work. His legs aren’t twisted. There’s still a chance we can actually do this. All I have to do now is find Brax and make sure he sees me. If he sees me leaving, then he’ll pull back. We can get out of here. We can regroup and we can finally end Hades.

That, I know now, is the only way this can end.

We find the staircase with its narrow, darkened interior and move up the creaky wooden steps towards a closed door at the top. “I’m going first,” Ace says. “And I’ll signal for you to follow when it’s safe.”

I pass my knife over to my opposite hand before wiping the sweat on my palm down the shirt I’m wearing before passing it back and regripping it tight. “Alright,” I say with a nod. “Let’s go.”

Ace bursts through the door quickly, jerking the gun up and aiming it into position. I stay back within the stairwell as he turns one way and then another, pausing and squinting with suspicion. There are no responding yells or gunfire. I poke my head out.

“I said to wait,” Ace snaps.

“No one’s there,” I reply testily and come out anyways.

“That doesn’t mean it’s safe,” he growls. “Damn it, Clover, listen to me.”

I ignore him in favor of asking a question. “Where do you think Brax would come in?”

He presses his lips together and then starts moving. I fall into step behind him. “I don’t know,” he admits. “We can’t be too careful. If he’s even in the house, we need to focus on getting ourselves out.”

I stop moving. “No.” Perhaps it’s the coldness in my voice or perhaps he senses my sudden rage, but Ace pauses and looks back.

“What do you mean no?”

“I’m not leaving without Brax,” I tell him.

Ace curses and turns back fully, storming towards me as his gun lowers. “You will listen to me, Clover,” he demands. “I’m trying to save your life here. Hades won’t let you escape again. If he figures out he can’t control you, he’ll kill you.”

I jerk out of his hold. “I don’t give a fuck what he does,” I snap. “I’m not leaving without Brax.”

“That man doesn’t care about you!”

“Then he wouldn’t be here,” I shoot back.

“You don’t even know if it is him,” Ace says, his voice tightening with each word. He sounds panicked, like he doesn’t understand how I could be resisting him like this. “It could be any number of Undead enemies.”

I plant my hands on my hips and glare at him. “Are you serious right now?” I shake my head and drop my hands, turning away from him. “You want to get out of here? Fine. Go off on your own then. Braxton didn’t come for you anyway. He came for me.”

“You’re fucking dead if you think you can just walk through this house without me,” he replies.

“Without him, I’m dead anyway.” A hand grips my arms, stopping me in my tracks.

“We shouldn’t be out here arguing like this,” he says, lowering his voice. “Come with me and if we find out he’s in here, we’ll come back.”

Don’t trust him. I freeze. Evgenia’s never distrusted Ace before. So, when her words slam into my head, they do so with a shock of painful awareness. I twist myself out of Ace’s grasp and stare at him. I actually look at him. As beaten as he is. As broken as he is. I gave up so much for him.

Safety. Mama Luda’s home. My dignity. Maybe shit had worked out and Braxton became more than a monster hell bent on making me pay for Ace’s crimes, but what if they hadn’t? What if Braxton had been any darker? Any more beyond the monster he is? What if I’d been left more broken than I was?

Would Ace have made it in time to save me? Did he even want to? Or is it something else that pushes him to do this?

“Clover—” He shakes his head. “No, Evgenia.” He holds out his hand. “Come with me. Please.”

“If you want to leave me,” I say. “I suggest you do it because I am not leaving this house until I find out whether or not Brax is in it and if he is, I’m not leaving without him.”

Ace continues to hold his hand up for a moment more before it slowly falls back down. “Are you really choosing him?”

I shake my head. “There isn’t a choice to make.” There never was. I just didn’t realize it before. A choice means you have a chance. I never stood a chance against Braxton Smalls. I was his the second he stole me from my trailer. He was mine the second I gave up fighting. If that means I have to let go of my past … if that means I have to let go of Ace … then so be it.

“Solnyshka—” Ace cuts himself off, his eyes widening and his hand jerks up, gun aimed. He pulls the trigger and a bullet whizzes past my head. A grunt followed by a curse and Ace pulls the trigger once more before I finally manage to turn around.

A man lies on the ground—not Leo, but one of the guards from the dining room. He’s alive and struggling to get to his feet even with the two bullet holes in his stomach. Blood drops onto the hallway floor. I dive for him as he lifts his own gun. I kick his wrist and jerk my blade down, embedding it into the side of his vulnerable throat.

Blood squirts out in an arch, raining down over my shirt and staining the front. He gapes his mouth open like a fish for a few milliseconds before collapsing into the puddle and wheezing out a last breath. I wipe a few drops of blood from my face with the back of my hand before I search through the man’s pockets. I pull out another knife and slide it towards Ace before closing my own and after a brief moment of thought, I slip it between the string of my underwear and my skin and pick up the discarded gun.

I feel better with it in my hand.

“They won’t forgive me,” Ace says as if we had never stopped talking. “If you think they will, they’re lying to you.”

I exhale a slow breath before turning back to my brother. “I don’t care anymore, Ace,” I say. “I trust him. I don’t want to not trust him anymore. It hurts too much. If he betrays me again … I’ll slit my own throat. I’m done. I’m done fighting it and I’m done fighting him.”

He takes a step towards me, his brows lowering, his lips tightening. “Don’t say that,” he says through clenched teeth. “Don’t ever fucking say that. He’s not worth your blood, no matter what he does.”

“You don’t get to decide that,” I tell him. “I do.”

“You’ll suffer for it,” he tells me.

I shrug. “Maybe I will, but at the end of that day, it’s my decision to make, isn’t it? It’s my life to give up or live how I want. I’m not leaving him.” I gesture towards the opposite end of the hallway, well aware that this is where we reach the point of no return—my brother and I. “You can run, if you want to. I won’t stop you, but like I said … I have to make sure Brax is safe.”

Ace draws his gun up and points it. I know there’s no one behind me. Not this time. The gun is aimed at me. “You’re coming with me, Clover.” His voice trembles. It’s the first time I’ve ever heard him like this. “You’ll understand why I’m doing this later. You’ll be alive to understand. All he’ll do is get me killed.”

I don’t flinch. I don’t even blink at the sight of him turning the direction of his gun on me. It doesn’t surprise me anymore. I’m not angry. I hold my hands out and wait. “Shoot me,” I challenge him.

His eyes widen. I’m calling his bluff and now he’s got to prove that he’s willing to see his threat through. “You don’t mean it,” he grits out.

“I do,” I disagree with a laugh. “You want to stop me from going to him, then shoot me. Right here, Ace. Right now.”

“You think I won’t fucking shoot you?” he demands, taking a step forward.

I don’t know. Maybe he will. I’m betting he won’t, but Ace is and always has been a little hard for me to read. Right now, I just don’t give a damn. I wait a beat, and when he doesn’t pull the trigger, I turn to the side.

“Goodbye, Ace.”

“Clover!” He throws away all caution as he screams my name while I walk away. I move down the hallway and turn the corner. “Evgenia!” I nearly stop at the pain in his voice, the absolute hollowed sound cuts me to the core. I swallow hard and keep walking.

No threats will keep me from Braxton. Not anymore.

45

CLOVER

MY HEART IS NO LONGER POUNDING in my throat. I no longer feel the anxiety slithering beneath my skin like an unwanted snake coiling around my neck, getting ready to strangle the life out of me. Instead, I feel calm. Startlingly so—like all of the worries I’ve been feeling have leached away. I grip the gun in my hand and carefully scour the hallways of the house until I grow more familiar with my surroundings.

Ace and I hadn’t been quiet at the end of our fight, yet no one had come running. Plus the gunshot. Someone must have heard it. Which begs the question—why had no one come running?

I find the kitchen, and at first, I think it’s empty. When my foot nudges a body, I jump and look down, finding the woman from the night before sprawled out on the floor. Her eyes are open and unseeing as she stares lifelessly at the ceiling. Across her neck is a single line of red and surrounding her head on the black and white kitchen tile is a halo of her own blood. Fuck. I’d been wrong.

Well … I guess technically the kitchen is empty … of life—save for my own. So I hadn’t been completely wrong. Who would kill her though? Brax? Did he do it on his way in? Why? So many thoughts run through my head, but she’s only a small piece of the puzzle that’s making no sense to me at the moment.

I carefully step over her body and keep going, moving through the doorway and into the formal dining room. That’s when I finally hear them—angry masculine voices. They’re talking fast. Footsteps approaching.

The world slows down. One breath in. One exhale. The shadows of two men pass over the floor. I duck down as they pass by the dining room, hiding around the side of the wall. Evgenia craves violence, but I keep my cool—holding my breath as they pass by. Their stomping feet heading in the direction I came from. It’s better to save my energy. I want to fight—she wants to fight—but if Brax is here, then I need to be smarter than my instincts.

“Oh fuck!” one of them calls out. Their voices penetrate the side door. “That fucker killed Yvette.” That fucker? I think. Is it Brax? Why? Did she catch him? Is he caught now?

“Ugh.” An irritated groan sounds from who I assume is the man’s partner, distracting me from my questions and reminding me of where I’m at. I crouch down even further, damn nearly pressing my body into the floor and walls as if they can turn me invisible as I listen to their conversation. “Should we leave her here? Do you think?”

“Hades said to check out why the guys aren’t answering his summons. We’ll come back for her, just leave the body,” the other man responds.

I hold my breath, waiting until they’re gone before I finally breathe a sigh of relief. Apparently there’s no love lost for Yvette. Just another cog in the machine of the Undead it seems. Considering who she works for, though, I can’t find it in myself to feel any sympathy.

Once the men are gone, their voices and footsteps fading into the distance, I spin around the corner and run down the hallway to the end of the staircase. The voices are coming from upstairs. I grip the end of the banister and haul myself up, racing up the creaking staircase with speed I don’t necessarily feel. My bare feet hardly make a sound against the green carpet—but my weight on the old wood is a different story. I can only hope and pray that they don’t hear me over the sound of their talking.

The doors to the room that I’d been in the night before with Hades are open and just as I reach the top of the stairs, I hear it—exactly what I’ve been looking for this whole time. A familiar baritone that I am half relieved to recognize and half terrified because it means he’s really here.

Braxton.

My heart restarts and doubles its pace. I take a step towards the open doors when someone calls behind me. “Hey!”

Shit. Dumbass. I hadn’t checked my surroundings. Without hesitation, I flip around and lift my gun, pulling the trigger as a man on the opposite side of the staircase dives for me.

His eyes widen a split second before the bullet slams into his chest, taking him down. Shit!

I spin back to the open doorway, but it’s too late. Leo rounds the corner and barrels straight into me. My back crashes against the wall and I struggle against him, lifting the gun only to have it plucked straight out of my fingers and the barrel pushed under my chin. Cold metal grinds into my jawline. I freeze, staring straight ahead as his nostrils flare.

“I warned you,” he whispers darkly. “Fuck, I tried to warn you.”

“I—” I don’t get a chance to finish my response.

“Is that our darling?” Hades calls out. “Bring her in.”

Fuck. Fuck! FUCK!

I shake my head vehemently, but Leo starts pulling me towards the open doors. “Don’t do anything stupid, Clover,” he says lowly before shoving me inside. I turn and stop, faced with an image I hadn’t expected.

Braxton is on the floor, on his knees, blood slowly dripping from a cut on his forehead as a man stands behind him with a gun directed right at the back of his skull. There’s a red mark that’s blossoming into a bruise on one side of his face. His hands are placed on the back of his head. To the side, there’s a bulletproof vest tossed haphazardly against the floor—obviously ripped off.

“I assume this is a friend of yours, yes, Ms. Volkov.”

What do I do? I ask Evgenia. Do I pretend I don’t know him? Is it too late for that?

Silence greets me. My stomach sinks. She doesn’t know. Which can only mean one thing—we’re fucked.

I glance around, half expecting his friends—Dean, Avalon … someone. But there’s no one else. Just him. I frown. That doesn’t make any sense. He wouldn’t come here alone. Unless … did they abandon him? Did they refuse to help him? No. I shake my head. Of course not. I’d seen the way they were with each other. There’s no way he came here alone. I know that, deep down. And the knowledge is comforting enough that I feel strong enough to take a step further into the room.

“Why would I know him?” I ask. Not a lie.

Hades offers me a bland look. “Oh, you don’t?” He arches a brow. “Then you wouldn’t mind if we killed him.” He turns, hand raised. The man behind Brax cocks his gun.

Fuck! “No!” I scream and dive for Braxton before I even realize what I’m doing. Shit. Hades called my bluff and I caved. I can’t be angry, though, as my knees hit the ground in front of Brax. He’s here. He’s right in front of me. The gun doesn’t go off. I breathe a sigh of relief.

“Hi, Firebird.” I lift my gaze to Brax’s. His eyes glitter darkly as he looks me over. “Are you okay?”

There’s no use hiding it anymore. “I’m fine,” I say.

“You should be wearing more clothes,” he says on a growl, looking down over the red stains on the white t-shirt that barely covers me down to my thighs. There’s no doubt he can probably also see the outline of my nipples through the thin fabric. I’ve been trying not to think about it. I open my mouth, but Hades speaks before I get the opportunity to reply.

“That would be a yes, then,” Hades says behind me. “Then that makes this easier.”

I turn back. “This?” I repeat, narrowing my eyes even as my hands creep forward, fingers touching the black cargo pants Brax is wearing. I grip the loose fabric and tighten my hold as if I can keep him right there with nothing more than a few centimeters of cloth pinched between my fingers.

I know I can’t, but I need something to ground me and this is all I’ve got.

“I’m growing tired of your resistance, Ms. Volkov, so this is it,” Hades says.

My breath catches. Braxton’s knee nudges my side and I recall the knife I put in the band of my underwear. There’s no way I can get to it now, not without alerting them to its presence. I glance from Hades to Leo, who stands—stone faced—behind him. Hades holds his hand out and Leo steps forward, handing him a knife.

Without missing a beat, Hades steps forward and tosses the knife to the ground in front of me. I stare down at it like it’s a venomous snake ready to attack. I have an idea of what he expects, but I can’t … my head is too full of denial to even contemplate it.

“Pick it up,” Hades says.

“What?”

“Pick up the knife, Ms. Volkov,” Hades repeats.

“Why?” I know why, but I still ask. I need to hear him say it. I need to know if he’s asking me exactly what I think he is.

Hades lowers himself down and stares back at me. “You know why, Ms. Volkov,” Hades says. “Because I want you to stab him with it.”

My fingertips feel numb and I swear there’s water rushing through my ears, but that can’t be true. I’m sitting in the middle of a room and there’s no water around. It must be my imagination. Just like his words. His words must have been a figment of some demented part of my brain. That has to be it.

Because they’re the worst possible thing he could challenge me to do, and there’s no way he knows exactly what my deepest fear is. Those words are spoken as if they’re pulled from the deepest, furthest recesses of my mind—a fear I hadn’t even recognized as a possibility until this very moment.

I must be hallucinating. I have to be.

Not a hallucination. I close my eyes. Thank you so very fucking much, Evgenia.

“You’ve proven very difficult to break, Ms. Volkov,” Hades says, distracting me from my internal struggles and reminding me that my external ones are currently infinitely more pressing. “And though I believe, given time, you would come around, I find that my patience wanes the more I’m rejected.” His smile widens. “Besides, I have it on very good authority that if you were to kill Braxton Smalls with your hands, a close friend and sponsor of the Undead would be very pleased. It would make your transition all the easier.”

My gaze jerks to his face. Braxton Smalls. He said his name. Meaning he knows exactly who Braxton is. He knows his family name. He knows his identity. He knows all about his wealth and connections. He just doesn’t care.

Hades moves forward, his body weight shifting over the wood beneath the carpet. The creaking of the old house reaches my ears, but I’m not focused on it as he reaches down and picks the knife up. He carefully grabs my hand and presses the handle into my palm. My chest tightens up. My throat closes.

I unclench my fingers and attempt to drop it as I shake my head. Hades merely holds it against me and stares into my eyes. “This is your only choice, Evgenia,” he states. Evgenia. Not Ms. Volkov. Not sweetheart. Not Clover. He’s not speaking to me—he’s speaking to her.

He puts the knife in my hand once more and deliberately curls my fingers around the handle. It burns against my skin like a red-hot brand. The coldness of my numb flesh and the heat of the plastic finger grooves on the knife collide.

I want to vomit.

“Clover.” A pounding starts up in the back of my skull like Evgenia of all people is trying to escape—like she’s this tiny creature and she’s using some sort of sledgehammer to try and break her way out of my mind. As if it would be that easy. No. We’re in this together, she and I. She isn’t leaving. Certainly not now.

“Firebird.” I close my eyes against Braxton’s words.

“It’s up to you Ms. Volkov,” Hades says. “You can walk out of here, but only if you kill him.”

“How do you know he won’t kill me?” I hear my own words as if they’re spoken from someone else. It sounds like me. It’s my voice, but I don’t remember giving myself permission to respond to that bastard.

Hades laughs, and I hate the sound. How dare he? How fucking dare he? Why the fuck does he get to laugh? Why does he get to decide who lives and who dies? Who made him God?

I jerk my gaze back up and glare at him as he rises to his feet and takes a step back. He’s no fucking god. He’s all man and as I tighten my grip on the handle of the knife he handed me, I have every intention of showing him just how human he really is.

As if he senses my thoughts, though, Hades’ arches a brow. “Thinking about killing me?” he guesses.

I don’t answer. There would be no point. We both know I am.

“One of you will walk out of here,” he says when I still refuse to respond. “I’m placing my bets on you, Ms. Volkov. Call me a sponsor of the underdog, but I think you’ve got what it takes.”

A shiver races down my spine. What it takes to kill the man I love? The only man I’ve ever loved with my whole fucking soul. My eyes burn with unshed tears. It’s me and Brax against him and two guns.

My eyes scan behind Hades to his guard dogs. They keep their faces impassive as if they’ve been completely wiped clean. The perfect slates to fill with nothing but loyalty. I swallow hard. Leo doesn’t blink. He doesn’t move, doesn’t outwardly show any sign that he feels guilty or even sympathetic to my situation. Yet, somehow, I know he is.

He did warn me, but I didn’t listen. I couldn’t—not when it comes to Brax.

“Clover, it’s okay.”

“Fuck you!” The words burst out of my mouth and I turn as Brax reaches out and touches my arm. “Don’t fucking touch me.” How the fuck can he say this is okay? This is the furthest thing from okay. I stare at him. One tear slips free and slides down my cheek. I haven’t dropped the knife. I know I need to. I can’t possibly contemplate killing him, not even if it’ll save my own life. I can’t do that. Not to him.

“Baby…”

“Don’t,” I warn him. I shake my head, hard enough that I feel like something comes loose inside and starts rattling around. There’s a buzzing noise and it won’t go the fuck away. I scrub my free hand down my face. No, this isn’t okay.

“Shhhh.” Brax moves closer, gripping my arms as I start to tremble. I’m shaking so hard and it doesn’t even ease until he takes the blade from my hand. Hades doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t do anything. Doesn’t stop whatever is about to happen. Of course not. Why would he? He’s protected and safe with Leo and his other minions. The man behind Braxton moves around and lowers his gun as he returns to his Master’s side like the good little fucking psycho-puppy that he is.

Brax unfolds the blade and when he presses it back into my hand, I look up at him, wide eyed. “No.” I shake my head and try to drop it once more.

“Stop,” he orders, keeping my fingers locked on the weapon against my will. “Hold it.”

“No!” I scream and try and jerk away from him, but he holds me tight, bringing me closer. His head turns and he nuzzles against my side. It feels like a betrayal. Does he want me to kill him?

“It’s okay, Baby,” he whispers against my cheek. “I have a plan. Do you trust me?”

I pause. Do I trust him? I pull back. My eyes touch his as I seek out his expression, trying to read into the inner depths of his mind. Ha. What an impossible task. Even to me, Braxton is an enigma. Difficult to understand. Trying to comprehend him any deeper or further than I already do is an effort in futility, but that’s alright because I don’t have to. I already understand him enough to answer this question. “Yes,” I say quietly. “I trust you.”

He holds my wrist, the one attached to the hand holding the blade. He directs it against his abdomen. “Here,” he whispers. “Do it here.”

Something comes over me. I can’t say what it is—perhaps Evgenia or perhaps a part of me that I didn’t even realize existed beyond her—but my hand stops trembling. My body goes still. The adrenaline is still pounding through my system. I can hear my heartbeat in my ears. Pulsing and throbbing with life.

“I’m surprised you’re not going to fight, Mr. Smalls,” Hades says behind me.

“Don’t stiffen up,” Brax warns as my body grows tight once more. The blade is pressed against his stomach, but I don’t push forward. I can’t seem to make myself. He lifts his head and over my shoulder, he responds to Hades. “Whatever she wants to do to me, she can,” he says. Then he lowers his gaze back to me and smirks. “And I’m not afraid of a little blood play action.”

“Dick,” I mutter. And a liar—because I don’t want to do this. Not to him.

“It’s time, Firebird,” he replies.

“Wait, wait wait,” I snap. I grab his other hand and pull it up my hip. He pauses as I close it over my side—right where the other knife is. I look up at him hopefully, but he merely shakes his head even as his fingers close around it and he plucks it. I feel him moving against me, tucking it into the sleeve of his long shirt.

I bite my lip hard. “Brax—” I’m trying—one last time—to refuse, but he doesn’t give me a chance anymore.

“Trust me,” he whispers. His hand locks on my own and instead of forcing me to stab him.

Braxton. Walks. Right. Into. The. Fucking. Blade.

My heart stops. My breathing stops. I look down and pull my hands away, staring at the red that stains my fingers.

The room spins. Bile arches up my throat.

I can only think of one thing.

No.

A denial.

No!

46

BRAXTON

HER BODY TREMBLES AGAINST MINE, but I tuck my face to the side and inhale her special scent. She smells like rain. I don’t know how considering she’s covered in blood and wearing some other fucker’s clothes. I can practically see the dried sweat on her skin. Still, somehow, she smells so fucking good. It’s like that same scent she usually wears—of the ocean and salty breeze—seems to have seeped into her very pores. Kind of like my shampoo. It’s addictive. Clean. Fresh. Mine.

“It’s time, Firebird,” I tell her.

“Wait. Wait. Wait.”

I can’t wait. We’re running out of time. In my ear, Dean’s voice intrudes.

“Almost there,” he says.

For fear of risking the discovery of the little radio, I can’t ask if he and the others have taken out the rest. Just knowing that he’s there is a comfort though. Unfortunately, it’s a comfort that Clover doesn’t have. She grabs my hand and puts it on her hip. My cock hardens at the feel of her naked flesh even as my anger rises. She’s only wearing a tiny thong beneath this shirt? Fuck. Me.

Then I feel what her real intention is. There’s a second blade right there. My lips twitch. She has no clue that I’ve still got some of my weapons. They took most, but not all. I’ve got more. I’m not truly out of options, but this—this is an opportunity. I can take a quick little poke. Keep Hades distracted as my boys get closer.

I shake my head even as I take the knife from her and tuck it into my sleeve. “Brax—”

She tries to pull back. Her head turns away. I don’t let her go. I stop her. I pull her forward, even as I turn my head and whisper right against her ear. “Trust me.”

The knife stabs into my abdomen, right where I expected. I suck in a breath at the sharp pain, but it’s not bad. It burns, but not in a bad way—probably because she’s the one doing it. I hate that I’m causing her such mental anguish, but God it feels so fucking good with her blade in my flesh.

“Brax?” Her breath comes out wheezing. She’s panicking—hyperventilating. I cup her shoulder, wincing.

“It’s fine,” I tell her. “It’s fine.”

“Three minutes out,” Dean says in my ear.

“En route,” Viks replies.

“Exterior is clear,” I hear from Abel.

Time to milk it. I sink to my knees and she goes down with me. “No,” Clover sobs. “Nonononono.”

I grunt, leaning into her, even as I cut my gaze to Hades. He stands above us, several feet away, with a bored expression. “Ms. Volkov,” he says. “I expected a little better. One single little cut just won’t do it.”

“I did what you said!” she screams even as she grips my abdomen. I shake my head. Her breaths come faster and faster.

“Perhaps we really should just kill him,” Hades murmurs, sounding as if he’s talking more to himself than to anyone else in the room. Yet, still, someone replies—the silent one. The one who’d brought Clover into the room.

“Should I, sir?” he asks, stepping forward.

“Hmm,” Hades hums thoughtfully. “I really wanted Ms. Volkov to handle this.”

Clover doesn’t appear to hear any of it. Her entire focus is on the blood seeping from my wound. She’s staring down at the blood. “It’s okay,” I tell her. “It’s okay, Firebird.”

Her head jerks back. The longer she stares at the blood, the more her trembles seem to overtake her. Shit. I wish I could tell her the truth. I’m fine. I’m … I swallow as the knife in my stomach shifts slightly, tearing a little bit more of the flesh and widening the wound.

Clover’s eyes fill with tears. They streak down her face, sliding right through the trails of blood on her pale skin. Blood and tears make her freckles stand out even more. I lean forward, and kiss her cheek right before I open my mouth and lick a teardrop from her skin. It tastes so sweet.

“Almost there.” Dean’s voice enters my ear. “Everything has been taken care of. Hold on, brother.”

No need to hold on, I think. I’ve got everything I need right here.

Unfortunately, though, my everything isn’t exactly aware of my plans and I can’t tell her. Her eyes meet mine and my heart clenches when I see the absolute loss of control she’s experiencing. I reach for her as she starts to laugh. It’s slow but building—the sound of her breaking.

I touch her cheek. “That’s it, Baby,” I say.

Almost in response, she reaches forward, but I stop her. “No, don’t,” I warn her. “More … blood.” I try to explain without actually letting on. Where it’s placed right now is perfect. It’s avoiding all of the organs. It’s painful, but it’s not damaging. I should know—I’ve been trained to hurt without killing.

Where the fuck are Dean and Abel?

It’s time to get the fuck out of here.

47

CLOVER

BLOOD SLIPS OVER MY FINGERS, coating my palm and I stare down at his face—half horrified by what I’ve done, and half resolved. My breath shudders out of my chest as tears cloud my vision. I blink, hoping they’ll go away, but they don’t. They multiply—slipping out over my lashes and down my cheeks as I stare back into his gaze.

Little flecks of brown and gold swirl into the green and gray mixture. His mouth opens, tongue coming out to swipe against dry cracked lips. “It’s okay,” he whispers. “It’s okay, Firebird.”

It doesn’t feel okay. It feels damn right the exact fucking opposite of okay. I’ve never been this scared. Not when I saw my mother die. Not when I was tortured. Not when he fucked me for the first time on the balcony and I thought he was going to send me over the edge, spiraling into the darkness onto the concrete below. I wasn’t even this scared when I killed that man who murdered Mama Luda. But this … this is the most terrifying thing I’ve ever done and I’m afraid that if I fuck it up, it’ll all be over. Not just for me but for him.

He leans forward, trying to comfort me. His lips touch my cold cheek, he licks at my tears—when did I start crying?

The wound in Braxton’s stomach is bleeding profusely, staining his black t-shirt and spreading over my fingers more until it drips to the floor. My heart thuds faster and faster, pounding loudly in my ears until it ricochets through my head. I feel myself falling back, not physically, but mentally. I let loose the reins of control and she takes control. It’s my safety net, the crazy bitch comes out and suddenly, it’s all okay.

I start to laugh. At first, it’s a quiet chuckle and then it grows to an almost hysterical pitch. Brax cracks a smile too, as if he can sense the direction of my thoughts. “That’s it, baby,” he says even as he flinches when I take hold of the handle of the knife. I should pull it out of him, right? I’m the one who put it there, after all. I should take it back. “No, don’t,” he warns. “More … blood.”

Oh right. If I take it out now, he’ll just start bleeding out more. I better not then. I leave it, releasing the handle, and just let the blade remain embedded in his stomach muscles.

Hades sighs.

“She did as you commanded, sir.” Leo’s voice, and his words, don’t matter. I don’t give a fuck if he’s trying to help. He still let this happen. He’s stronger than Hades. I know he is. I can feel it in my bones. Why the fuck doesn’t he step up?

Because he’s waiting for you, Evgenia states.

Me? I shake my head. That doesn’t make any sense.

It doesn’t have to, she argues. Not everyone has the ability to lead. Not everyone has the power to take a step forward and do what needs to be done, but you know who does?

She doesn’t have to finish that thought because I get it—I get what she’s trying to say.

I do. I have the power she’s talking about. And I’m going to use it, I realize. Because I’m done playing Hades’ games. I don’t know what Braxton is planning. I don’t know what he’s waiting for, but we’re out of time.

“I suppose you’re right,” Hades says in response to Leo’s words. “Still … come now, Ms. Volkov. I think you can do better than that. You’re quite the woman, don’t you think? You’ve captured my attention after all.”

I hear the praise behind me and it makes me feel numb. He speaks as if it should be a miracle someone such as me has garnered his attention. As if I should be grateful that he’s showing me so much courtesy when he probably should have killed me at the beginning of all of this. I chuckle to myself. He should have. He really should have killed me.

Slowly, I gather myself, getting to my feet. A coldness washes over my senses. My shoulders ease down as I stare into Braxton’s eyes. His brows are drawn low. His mouth pinched tight against the pain. I press my lips together, though, because there’s movement in his jeans. His cock is straining against his zipper.

I shake my head. What a fucked-up duo we make.

“Firebird…” I’m going to hear that nickname in my dreams for the rest of my life—even in my nightmares.

“Now, finish the job,” Hades says.

A gun is pressed into my hand. Cold metal against warm flesh. I’m sure Hades thinks he’s figured everything out. I’m sure he thinks that he’s smarter than anyone else in the world. Narcissistic megalomaniacs always do. He wouldn’t have gotten as far as he did if he wasn’t at least somewhat intelligent, so I have to hand it to him—he has definitely made us jump through his hoops.

Unfortunately for him, though, this is where his luck ends. I close my eyes and laugh again. Why does he think he’s still in charge? Why does he think I’ll even consider killing Braxton? Because this is a man who’s never been fucking told no a day in his life and when he was, he just killed the person who stood in his way.

Finish the job? I think. “Oh, I will,” I say, lifting the gun. Except instead of pointing it down at Braxton, I turn and point it at Hades.

To the old man’s credit, he doesn’t blink. He doesn’t reveal surprise or fear. The barrel of the gun is aimed directly at him and from this range, there’s no fucking way I can miss even if I was a poor shot—which I’m not. The guards at his back, including the guy that moved away from Brax before, lift their own guns and aim at me.

“You’re not a stupid girl, Ms. Volkov,” Hades says. “Do as I command and you’ll be free. From him and from everything else. The Undead can offer you so much. You know what you have to do. It’s very simple.”

“I do know what I have to do,” I agree. “I know that you wanted me to prove myself, to prove that I can follow your orders and do what you say. I know that before Ace betrayed you—before you killed Ivan—they did the same. I also know that you have absolutely no intention of letting my brother live—even if I kill Braxton Smalls. You have no intention of freeing me from shit.”

Hades shakes his head and his face droops as if he’s truly disappointed. He takes a single step back as his men move forward. Over his shoulder, I meet Leo’s gaze. There’s true remorse in his eyes, but even if I couldn’t differentiate it from the rest of his carefully blank expression, I could probably tell from the way he’s the only one who hasn’t yet reached for his gun. Not this time.

“You could have made a great asset, Ms. Volkov,” Hades says.

“I will be,” I assure him. “Just not for you.”

Hades sighs and tilts his head to the side. “Look around you, Ms. Volkov. Do you really think there’s a way out of here? All you need to do is turn around and point that gun in the right direction and you’ll have proven yourself.”

“It is pointed in the right direction,” I reply coolly with no hint of fear. “And I don’t have to prove myself to anyone.” Not to Braxton, and certainly not to the man who killed Mama Luda and my father.

“You’ll be dead before you pull the trigger,” he warns me.

I smile. “Death will be a wild ride,” I assure him. “But I don’t think mine’s coming any time soon.” A shadow falls on the back wall just outside of the doors behind Leo and the others. There’s no sound from the hallway. I don’t know how they manage it considering Braxton’s boys are much larger than me and even I couldn’t hide the sound of the creaking wood with my weight.

“You will die here if you don’t kill him right now, Ms. Volkov,” Hades says coolly. “I’m giving you one last chance. Do it.”

“Will I?” I chuckle. “Are you willing to take that chance? Because I am. Maybe I’ll die, but so will you.” The shadows creep closer. Dean is the first head I see. Gun up and aimed, body moving in careful shifts. He’s not even lifting his feet but sliding them along the carpeted floor—edging along until he’s in sight and in shooting distance.

I cock the gun. “You’ve made a big mistake, little girl,” Hades growls.

Dean is followed by Abel and Luc and another man—the big, burly tattooed one. Viks, I think his name was. Oh shit, even Avalon is there. Moving further back than the rest, but her eyes lift and meet mine. I’ve never been more relieved to see them, but I can’t say I’m not at least a little shocked to see her with them. They have their own guns, but more than that—they have something at risk. Something they will risk their lives to protect. Braxton.

“Enough,” Hades growls. “This is over. I’ve wasted enough time, Ms. Volkov. I can’t say I’m not disappointed in you.”

I shrug. “Then you’ll die in disappointment,” I say.

He shakes his head and lifts a finger. “Shoot her.”

Three guns go off at the same time. I don’t flinch. For a split second, Hades smiles as if he’s won. A beat goes by and I lower my weapon. Another beat and he frowns, not realizing that the guns that went off weren’t from his men. The men on either side of him go down on the ground—the backs of their skulls caved in. Leo is the only one still standing, the only one still without a gun in his hand. Perhaps that’s why they didn’t shoot him. He’s not holding a weapon. The others were immediate threats, but Leo … Leo doesn’t fight them. Not even as Viks and Luc take him to the ground and jerk both of his arms behind his back as they push his face into the bloodied carpet.

Hades continues to stare at me and I relish in my power as his face goes from smug to confused. It takes him another beat to realize three things:

One—the man on the right is dead.

Two—the man on his left is the same.

And Three—the final gunshot that went off was for him.

He looks down, blinking in shock at the bright red stain covering his chest. It widens as he stumbles back and jerks his gaze back to mine. He doesn’t even seem to realize that no one is coming up the stairs. No one is rushing into the room. No one is coming to save him.

Hades' knees hit the floor. He fumbles and reaches for one of the radios on the dead man closest to him. He presses a button. A bright red one on the side and because he doesn’t put it to his mouth, I assume it’s supposed to be an emergency button of some kind.

I take a step toward him. “It’s over, Hades,” I say.

“No.” A scowl finally overtakes his mouth. “You little bitch!” He coughs and blood coats his lips. “No!”

Dean, Abel, and Avalon round me and go immediately to Braxton. I hear them behind me, but my entire focus is on Hades. I’m staring at him, watching him as he fights his death even knowing that it’s too late.

“Clover.” Avalon touches my shoulder.

“I’m fine,” I hear myself say. “Check on him.” I gesture backwards without looking. She doesn’t say anything more, but her hand falls away and I hear footsteps recede so I assume she does as I’ve asked.

“I won’t die like this,” Hades continues, coughing up more blood. I wanted this. I intentionally didn’t aim for his head or his heart so I could see this part. I’ve never really watched someone die, but I want to watch him die, I realize.

We want to watch him die—Evgenia and I. We want to watch him suffer. We want to watch the fight in his eyes drain and see the futile effort he puts in.

“Clover.” Braxton’s call has me turning back. I don’t want to pull my gaze away, and he’s truly the only thing that could at this moment.

It’s a mistake on my part. Hades’ hand latches onto my ankle and I’m shocked to find that he still has strength. All this time, I assumed he was weaker than others treated him. I never watched him lift a gun on his own. Throw a punch. Do anything more than command, but now I find out why he was the leader. My leg is yanked out from under me and I go down hard on the ground. The gun in my hand flies, skidding across the floor and even holding onto his bleeding chest and wheezing with dying breaths, Hades makes a grab for it.

It all happens so quickly. Blurs of movements. Shouts. Braxton’s voice. The barrel of the same gun I used to shoot Hades with is shoved in my face. Right at my eyes. I stare at it as everything around me fades.

48

CLOVER

I THOUGHT STARING death in the face would be scarier. Or at least … funnier.

Like those movies or television shows that reveal the dumbest ways to die. I can’t say why I’ve always thought that I would be one. Then again, maybe I won’t be because this isn’t exactly funny. Of course, it’s not exactly scary either.

Is it because of Braxton? Has he fucked me up so much that dying with a gun to my face isn’t even that disturbing?

I suppose that is kind of funny in its own way, but more in a—if I live through this, I’ll probably need therapy kind of way. Hell, if I live through this, I will need therapy. These last few months have been hell on my mind. Even if suddenly everything disappeared and I was dropped back where I was in Mama Luda’s trailer on the coast of Port Charlotte, it’d feel like I was in an episode of The Twilight Zone.

The truth of the matter is that none of this was supposed to happen to me.

A girl like me wasn’t supposed to meet a boy like Braxton Smalls. I wasn’t supposed to fall for a psycho like him. I wasn’t supposed to become one myself.

Right now, though, as the world slows down and narrows to the singular point of the gun aimed at my face—intent on blowing my brains out and splattering them all over the ugly green carpet of this room—all I can think of is one thing.

Maybe we are the monsters. Maybe we are the villains in others’ stories.

Sure, we never asked for bad things to happen to us, but how we reacted to them isn’t quite normal, is it? It never even occurred to me to ask for help. To seek out the police or go to someone bigger, more important, and ask them to save me.

No. Since day one—I’ve always had it in my head that if I didn’t save myself, no one else would. That was before Ace. Before Braxton. Back when I was a nobody with no past and no future. With nothing and no one on my side except for her—Evgenia.

I used to think that Evgenia and I were two separate beings. Each alike in that we were housed in the same body, but now … now I know the truth. We are the same—she and I. I know a lot of things now that I never had the chance to learn before. I know about her—about myself—as much as I know about him.

I thought Braxton would be the one to ruin me. He broke my heart. He broke my trust. I thought there was no coming back from that. Some people think that others can change, but I know that’s utter bullshit.

People don’t change. They might grow up. They might learn. They might look different on the outside, but at the end of the day, they’re still the same person. The same soul with the same mind and capabilities they always had.

Our darkest moments never come in the night. They don’t come in the midst of rainstorms and external hardship. Our darkest moments are our quietest moments. Where everything in the world can feel peaceful. The sun can be warm, the sky can be bright. It can seem like there’s nothing in the world but beauty and chances.

Our darkest moments rarely wait for us to be ready. They arrive whether we expect them or not, an unwelcome, often violent interloper that comes out of nowhere, kicking in the door and causing havoc as they go. Sometimes we fail their tests. Sometimes we survive, not because of our own strengths but because of the strengths of others.

Brax showed me that. He opened his soul up and let me see in the deepest most corroded parts of himself.

And I still love him, I realize.

What a time to figure it out. With my literal life on the line.

The fact is, we will always be other people’s villains and monsters—him and I—because those stories are not our own. Unlike other people, Brax and I have no problem owning up to our flaws. We don’t hesitate to shine the light on all of the bloody wounds we’ve given each other.

We’re no heroes. We know that. We accept it.

Our darkest moments never come in the night. They don’t come in the midst of rainstorms and external hardship. Our darkest moments are our quietest moments. Where everything in the world can feel peaceful. The sun can be warm, the sky can be bright. It can seem like there’s nothing in the world but beauty and chances.

Who cares if people died? Who cares if we've murdered and slaughtered? We did it all for selfish reasons. For each other. For our own survival.

No. Braxton Smalls didn’t ruin me. He didn’t break me. He set me free.

At the end of the day, we don’t need to be anyone’s fucking hero but our own.

Maybe that’s why, as Hades' face appears in front of me—blood dripping from his lips—I don’t feel scared. He’s clutching his chest, eyes wide like a frightened animal. So close that I can see the specks of his own coughed up blood on his once pristine white collar.

“Clover!” Braxton’s yell behind me is too late. It’s close, but not close enough.

“Fuck!” Avalon’s curse enters my brain, just another noise in an already overcrowded place.

For a second, I really think this is it. This is how I die. It’s not fair, but weirdly … I’m grateful. Is it dumb to be grateful? Grateful that I met Brax? Despite everything—all the pain, fear, and anguish he caused me. I love him too much to hate him now.

Mama Luda used to say that love and hate were two sides to the same coin. I guess when I see her, I can ask if this is what she meant.

I don’t close my eyes in the face of death. I stare back at Hades face, waiting for it.

I killed him. He’s killing me. Seems fair, but at the same time—I don’t care. He thinks he’s winning in the end if this happens, but it’s over regardless. He’ll never control anyone else ever again. And the man who hurt my family will finally cease to exist.

At least at the end, I know my brother is free. He might not have understood my choice, but he didn’t stop me from making it.

I stare back into Hades’ eyes, and I wait.

A gun goes off and this time, I do jump. It’s so loud—but it comes from the wrong place. Too far away to be the one right in front of me. And when the barrel drops into my lap and Hades slumps over, I’m still confused.

There’s a massive hole in the back of Hades' head. Blood and brain matter all over my thighs and white shirt. It’s on my face—wet and goopy as it slides down my cheek onto my chest.

“What the fuck?” seems to be my only reaction. I lift my gaze and find Ace standing there in the doorway. He lowers his arms and sags back, damn near tripping on the hallway carpet as he collapses—panting—into the wall.

“Ace?” I croak.

“Holy shit,” I hear Avalon breathe out.

“I couldn’t…” Ace starts, gasping for breath. He looks pale, shook up, and not like I’ve ever seen him before. “I’m sorry, Clover … I almost didn’t…” He doesn’t get to finish his sentence, but I know what he means. He almost didn’t come. He almost regretted his decision. But it’s okay. It’s fine now. He did it. It’s over, truly over. Braxton finally reaches me and Ace disappears from view as he fills up my entire field of vision. He snatches me up and rips me away from the remains of Hades' body, turning me as his fingers touch my face and chest. He moves down, moving all over me, searching.

“I’m fine,” I tell him. “Brax—stop—I’m fine.”

When he seems to realize it himself, he bows forward, his hands becoming impossibly hard as they grip me. My heart is pounding a mile a minute and yet everything seems so slow. A delayed reaction maybe? An out of body experience? It certainly seems hard to grip onto the physical world right now. The only thing I’m sure of is that Ace is here, Hades is dead, and Braxton is trembling against me.

Wait. Braxton is crying? I look down, but there’s thankfully no wet spot on my shirt. I don’t know how I’d handle him crying. It’s so unlike him. He is, however, trembling and shaking against me, gripping me too hard, too tightly. He won’t let go.

“Your stomach,” I try, pushing him back. “Let me look at your stomach.”

“You don’t ever do that to me,” he says hoarsely and when he lifts his face, I jump in shock. No tears streak his cheeks, not like they do mine when I cry. Maybe he hasn’t cried, but his eyes are watery. They’re angry.

His hands clamp on either side of my arms and he shakes me. “Do you fucking understand me?” he screams. I nod absently in response. It doesn’t seem to make him feel better. “You almost—fuck, Clover!”

I blink at the ferocity in his voice. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. His anger can’t be assuaged right now. He has every right to feel as furious as he is. Internally, I get that. Internally, I’m freaking the fuck out.

Holy shit. I almost just died. Like actual death—no heartbeat, brains splattered across the room dead. And now I’m just sitting here with Brax shaking me like I don’t understand what almost just occurred. I understand. I understand all too well, but it feels like my head is underwater and I can’t quite grasp onto the fleeting emotions that are shooting through my like fireworks.

“Call the doc,” Dean says. Abel races past me out of the room, phone in hand, already dialing. Avalon follows him. Luc passes Leo over to Viks and moves closer to Dean.

There’s so much I don’t know. I don’t know where anyone else is. How they managed to infiltrate and get this far. Why Braxton let himself be caught. Why he’s looking at me like that. My head turns to the side. Leo still being alive throws me off, but no one seems overly concerned with a man who isn’t fighting them. Why had he done it, though? I wonder. Why hadn’t he fought ‘til the end?

I sigh as Braxton’s hands start roving over my body once more, recapturing my attention. “Brax, I’m fine,” I say the words again and he dives forward, pulling me hard against him until I can feel how solid he is, until I can smell him. I close my eyes and inhale. My fingers sink into the black fabric of his t-shirt against his back. Under it, I can feel the raised scars of his past.

I grip him tight—the same way he’s holding me and nuzzle into his throat.

“It’s over,” I whisper. “It’s over, Brax.”

He cups the back of my head and nods against me. He’s still leaking blood from his abdomen, around where the knife from before juts out. Asshole. Idiot. Moving around with that damn thing in his gut. I want to call him all sorts of names, but I find I don’t really have the energy to. It’s all been sapped away and I’m left with no other recourse than to lean into him.

“You can’t die,” Braxton murmurs against me.

“I didn’t die,” I tell him. And though I honestly thought I would, I don’t say that.

Braxton lifts his head and looks back. “Thank you.” It takes me and Ace both a second to realize that he’s talking to him. Ace blows out a breath and just sinks to the floor. He drops the gun he’d still been holding to the side and covers his face with both hands.

“Don’t thank me,” he says through the opening he leaves between both palms. “There’s no reason to thank me for doing something I should have a long damn time ago, but was too scared to.”

Neither Brax nor I say anything else in response, and minutes later Abel and Avalon come back with the doctor from before. Avalon points to the room, her arms laden down with materials—what looks like gauze and a doctor’s bag. Dr. Riviera takes one look at the situation and despite his obviously frazzled and irritated look—crooked glasses, hair sticking up at odd angles, bruises on his jaw and arms—he starts barking orders. He deftly ignores the bodies in the room, though his eyes pass over them with a mixture of horror and disgust. He’s still a doctor, I suppose. So, he does what he can—he starts working.

Dean steps over and lowers himself next to Ace. Luc says something and Dean nods. They turn their attention on my brother and together, the three of them talk quietly, only pausing to gesture to Viks as he finishes cuffing Leo. My attention is diverted to the doc as he comes over and checks Brax’s abdomen. He carefully pulls the blade out and I help Brax lift his shirt.

Avalon tosses down the doctor’s bag at his side and asks if he needs anything else. Dr. Riviera starts rattling off supplies as he digs through his bag and Avalon nods before turning to Abel. He’s already got his phone out and pressed to his ear once more as he begins making orders and demands to whoever is on the other end of the line.

“You did a decent job of not hitting any of the vital organs,” Dr. Riviera says as he cleans up Brax’s wound. “You got lucky.”

“It wasn’t luck,” Brax replies, his eyes on me the whole time.

“You scared the shit out of me,” I tell him.

His eyes glitter dangerously. “The feeling is mutual, Firebird.”

“Maybe in the future, we should look at not getting kidnapped and tortured, eh?” Avalon says helpfully.

I shake my head even as she moves away from the three of us. I don’t look at where she goes, though. I’m too focused on the man in front of me. Dr. Riviera finishes applying a few sutures to his side and moves to me, checking my ribs and bruises and hand. He tapes my previously dislocated fingers together, telling me I can take the tape off in a few weeks after a checkup before he moves on to everyone else.

“Come here,” Brax says, pulling me against him. And I do. I don’t care about the blood-soaked carpets or the three bodies that lay scattered around the room. Without any reserve, I crawl right into Braxton’s lap and rest my head on his shoulder while the world around us goes into a flurry of movement. More people—people I’ve never seen before—are called in. The bodies are carried out. Viks, Dean, and Ace talk and Leo is situated nearby, listening in.

“What happens now?” I finally ask.

“There will be a void left where the Undead was,” he says.

“It can’t die out like this,” I tell him. “It will cause too much havoc.”

He nods in agreement. “You’re right.”

“So, what’s your plan?” I ask.

His gaze goes across the room to Ace. “You remember me telling you that I’d let your brother live?” he asks.

“Yeah?” I look up at him curiously.

“Well, he’ll have to prove himself,” Brax says. “We’re going to hand over the running of the Undead to Ace. He’ll work for us.”

I think about that. As endings go, this is the best option. Ace won’t be free of the organization like he wanted, but he’ll be alive and he won’t … well, being in charge will be a type of freedom he didn’t know before. So, at least it’s something.

“So, you’re taking over the Undead,” I muse aloud. Brax sighs, and I can hear it in his chest where my cheek is pressed. I glance up. “That’s what you’re doing, right?” I clarify.

His brows lower, but he nods. “Yeah, in essence,” he agrees. “Though fuck knows what we’re going to do with a clandestine operation like this bullshit.” He gestures around the room and then groans.

“You could do a lot,” I tell him. “It’s not like you’re not used to working in the background anyway. Think of this as another business. Another connection you have.”

His eyes go from me and then across the room. I follow the direction of his attention and realize that he’s looking at Dean and Luc and Ace. “The Undead is now under the Eastpoint’s list of businesses,” he says quietly. From his tone of voice, it sounds like he’s more amused by the situation than put off by it.

“Is that so bad?” I inquire.

Brax’s gaze returns to me. One corner of his mouth quirks up. “No,” he says. “But it does make being normal a little more difficult.”

“Normal?” I repeat. “Since when have you ever been normal?” He laughs and then groans as his hand clamps over the side of his stomach. “Are you okay?” I demand, reaching down, my hands hovering over him. “Should I get up?”

His fingers tighten on me and he shakes his head. “Never,” he utters. “Don’t you fucking dare move.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” I say.

He growls, and it’s wrong—it’s absolutely deplorable what the sound does to my body. Here we are, him recently patched up from a stab wound. Dead bodies being carried from the room, and so much chaos that it’s unbelievable and yet one small, deep sound from him and my pussy is soaking wet. My thighs squeeze together.

“Don’t do that,” I snap.

Braxton releases his stomach and reaches across me, a big hand clamping onto one thigh, fingers digging into my flesh. “Why?” he asks, leaning into me and letting me feel the evidence of his arousal. He’s not just hard—he’s still hard. From earlier. “Does it turn you on?”

“This isn’t the place,” I say, but my voice comes out breathy.

He rubs himself against me. “I’ll give you time, Firebird, but once we’re all healed up, I’m going to be on you twenty-four-seven. Be prepared.”

“Okay,” I say, snuggling closer to him. “You can do whatever you want to me, Brax. I’m not scared of you.”

He arches a brow. “Oh really?”

“Yes, really.” I smile up at him. “I think I’ve learned to like the evil things you do to me.”

“Even when I make you cry?” he asks.

I lift my face to his, offering my lips and he takes them without hesitation. His mouth opens and his teeth nip at my lower lip, sending a zing of electricity straight to my core. “Even when you make me cry,” I agree. “So long as you promise to do it for the rest of my life.”

Braxton pulls back from the kiss and stares down at me. “I want you with me,” he confesses. “At Eastpoint. I don’t want to be away from you. I want you to move in with me and live with me.”

I bite my lip and try not to show the way his words make my stomach jump around. Evgenia purrs in the back of my head. My crazy internal bitch loves this man. We’re so far gone for him it’s fucking insane. I’m insane. Somehow, though, I’ve never been happier.

“I’m not a college type of girl,” I tell him. “I’ve never been to football games or done the things other girls my age do. I’ve just survived. You’re not normal, but I know you try to put on the facade. I’m not sure if I can do that.”

He shakes his head. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” he replies. “All you have to do is say yes.”

“What if I don’t want to say yes?” I ask.

His fingers tighten. Anguish enters his eyes. “Firebird…”

“Chill, Brax,” I say with a laugh. “I’m just teasing you.” Another growl fills his chest. More wetness coats my thighs. I groan and lean into him. “Stop,” I practically beg.

“Never,” he promises. Braxton puts one arm under my legs and another around my back. Before I understand his intentions, he lifts me from the ground—easily standing with me in his arms despite the wound in his stomach.

“Brax!” I snap. “I’m sure those stitches aren’t secure!”

“The doc is good,” he replies. “And I’m fine.”

“We’re moving out.” My head turns at Dean’s statement. Automatically, my arms go around Braxton’s shoulders. Ace carefully gets up from the ground. Avalon and Abel begin moving around the room, directing the new people to clean up the mess left behind by this whole ordeal.

“What’s going to happen to this place?” Ace asks, stepping alongside us.

“We’ll burn it down,” Brax replies. He doesn’t seem put off by Ace’s nearness anymore. If anything, he looks at Ace with a stern expression. The same one might offer an employee. I guess … that’s because that’s what Ace is now. “Erase all of the evidence and move on. This building will suffer losses, but Kincaid likely won’t come after us. He’ll think he got away scot-free.”

“You won’t be able to pin shit on him,” Ace agrees. “It’ll just seem like a lost property.”

Brax nods.

“What about him?” Ace gestures down to Leo. My own attention turns to him.

And for the first time since Hades’ death, he speaks. “You’ll have to kill me,” he states.

Brax arches a brow. He looks from the man to me. “What do you think?” he asks me. “You want him dead?”

I shake my head. “He didn’t go against Hades,” I say, “but he could have also done a hell of a lot worse to me and he didn’t.”

Brax turns a dark glare on Leo, but after a beat he merely shakes his head and starts towards the hallway. “Ace, you’re in charge of the Undead now. How you deal with him is up to you.”

“Are you serious?” Ace calls after us.

Brax stops at the top of the staircase and turns back with me in his arms. He hefts me higher against his chest. “I’ve got more important things to fixate on than running an underworld of crime and corruption,” he replies. “Dean, Abel, and I are your new bosses, but unlike Hades—we don’t need to seek out power.”

Of course not, I think as I tighten my hold on him.

For men like Braxton, power isn’t something to be sought. It comes to them—to him—as naturally as breathing.

With that final statement, Braxton turns back to me and the two of us move down the stairs. He carries me to the bottom floor and right out the front door. The dark sky above my head and the slightly chilled air of a fall breeze hits me in the face. I tilt my head up, staring at the stars as my legs sway back and forth with Braxton’s soft and careful steps.

“You know…” I hear myself say. “I never expected you.”

Braxton’s steps slow as he reaches the end of the walk. His gaze turns down and his head blocks out the sky above. “I never expected you either,” he replies.

I smile as I remember something Mama Luda once told me. The greatest things in life are the things you don’t expect, she’d said. She’d been talking about me—about her love for me and how I was the daughter she’d always wanted and never got, but now I think I can apply those words to other things.

My fingers tighten around the back of Braxton’s neck and I arch up, pressing my mouth to his in a fast kiss. “Good,” I whisper against him. “Keep expecting the unexpected.”

I have a feeling that’s all we will ever get from one another—the unexpected.

49

CLOVER

3 weeks later…

A WARM BODY slides beneath the sheets, but I’m so lost in the blissful dream I’m having that I barely pay it any mind. It isn’t until my thighs are pried apart that I truly start to wake, but by the time I manage to fight my way to the surface of the real world it’s too late.

I cry out as Braxton’s tongue flicks against my clit and he burrows into the place between my thighs, wedging his shoulders under my knees so that I have no room to escape. A startled scream erupts from me and I reach up, slapping a palm against the headboard with a resounding thump as he slides his tongue into my pussy as far as he can reach. I wince as my recently healed broken fingers ache with the sharp movement, but the pleasure arching up through my body makes the minor pain fade away quickly.

My back bows. My body shudders. The edges of my vision turn gray and fade. I knew I should have put clothes on before we fell asleep last night, but then I never would have been woken up in this new and exciting way. I cross my ankles against his back as he dives deep yet again, sucking up as much of my wetness as he can possibly get.

Waking up never felt so fucking delicious or dirty. I never could have pictured myself like this a year ago—with a massive monster of a man burying himself between my thighs. His thumbs press against the outside of my pussy, spreading me open for his attention. My vision fades. It’s too much and not enough in the same breath. I’m being far too noisy—especially considering that we’re not at the Tower. We’re at the Carter estate and we’re not alone. There are people that live within these walls, but I can’t help myself. I can’t stop.

If they hear the way he makes me scream then they can mind their own damn business.

With one hand on the headboard, I smooth my free hand over his upper back, feeling the way his muscles contract and release at my touch before burying my fingers into the strong, dark locks of hair at the back of his head.

“Oh fuck…” I moan as he returns to my clit, sucking the little bundle of nerves between his lips and into his mouth until I swear to God lightning couldn’t make me focus on my surroundings. The room fades. Everything drifts away save for the feelings that the man between my legs is forcing out of me. “Brax!”

He hums in the back of his throat, an answer to me screaming his name, but all that does is serve to reverberate against my already over-sensitized clit. Water fills my eyes and leaks down the sides of my cheeks as I pant, gasping for breath that seems to have evaporated straight out of my lungs. I suck in breath after breath, but nothing seems to be enough. There is no oxygen. It’s all gone—stolen from the room just like my sanity.

I can’t breathe as Braxton eats me out. It’s almost as if an invisible, phantom hand is clamped over my throat, squeezing every last drop of air out of me. I pant, squirming beneath his ministrations and his grasp. His tongue licks up my center, swirling through my wetness. He’s playing with me, driving me to the edge only to pull back.

A groan leaves my throat. Asshole.

Almost as if he can hear my inner thoughts, I feel Brax’s lips twitch against my inner thigh right before his head moves forward as his teeth scrape right over my clit.

My inner muscles contract as my orgasm slams into me with all of the subtlety of a freight train. My lips part and a scream bubbles up. My fingers clench against the back of his scalp. I know I’m probably scratching the shit out of him, but I can’t stop—and when I feel him groan against my pussy, I know he likes it too.

Before I even get the chance to come down from the high of orgasmic relief, I’m flipping over onto my stomach. Braxton’s palms slip over my hips. I want to reach back—to stop him and make sure he’s okay. My hand grazes the raised angry line where he was stabbed. He bats my fingers away though and in the next breath, he enters me.

His dick slams right into my pussy and I cry out as I’m pushed, face first, into the headboard. “Grip it,” he growls against my spine, and left with little other choice, I do.

Once I’ve got my fingers locked on the head of the bed, he pulls out and slams back into me. With both of us on our knees, his cock driving in and out of my pussy, the wetness soaking down my inner thighs onto the sheets, and the absolutely deviant sounds that fill the room, I know we probably look like insane animals. My whole body responds to his thrusts with the anticipation of an addict.

More. More. More. I need more.

I groan as he fills me over and over again. His hand comes up and clamps around my mouth, stopping my cries as he grunts and slams into me, grinding his cock against the inside walls of my pussy. I try to gasp for breath, but he keeps me from it.

My vision blurs. His other hand comes around and tightens against my throat. Automatically, my hands release the headboard, moving up to his forearms as I hold on for dear life. Despite the lack of oxygen he’s allowing me, his thrusts never stop. They don’t gentle either. They remain hard and fast. He powers forth into me, fucking me like a man possessed.

I hope he is. I want him to be possessed by no one else but me.

“Do you like that, Firebird?” he asks me, panting. “You like having me inside of you.”

Unable to verbally reply, I nod with jerking movements. Tears leak down the sides of my face. I can feel another orgasm arching up inside of my belly, ready to explode. Ready to take over. It’s there, just out of reach.

“How about me holding you like this?” he asks, squeezing my throat harder even as his fingers dig into my face, right over my lips. “You like it so much that you want it like this? Without air? You like me more than your need to breathe?”

I do. Fuck, I do. I nod again.

He groans and stills as he pushes himself into me. Warmth floods my stomach. I can feel my insights contract and release as wetness enters me. Black spots start to dance in front of my vision. Oh, God. Oh, fuck. I’m going to come.

Just like this—no air. No sensation on my clit. Just from him unleashing himself inside of me as the world around me turns gray at the edges. I close my eyes and just let it happen. My body jerks against his. I know I should fight it. Logically, any sane person would.

But I can’t. I don’t want to. I let him steal the very breath from my lungs and I sink into the darkest place I’ve ever been.

Ironically, it’s also the safest.

It could be minutes later, it could be seconds—my ability to perceive time is definitely skewed; all I know is that when Brax finally slides out of my pussy, he gently releases my throat and I’m left gasping for air as it rushes back in. It burns in my throat, but that’s alright. He slowly lowers me back to the mattress and turns me back over until my spine hits the bed and leans over me, kissing my stomach. I’m so fucking relaxed that nothing short of an electric shock could make me tense up all over again.

“So,” I finally manage to croak, my voice sounding hoarser than before, “what’s with the wakeup call?” I smooth both of my hands into his hair, pushing it all back so I can see his face clearly as he props himself up on top of me, nudging the underside of my breast with his chin even as his lower body collapses on top of me.

“I was hungry,” he replies with a grin. “And nothing short of you could satisfy.”

I chuckle. “Breakfast of champions.”

Brax turns his head and presses another kiss to the side of my breast before he moves further up and I open myself up, letting his hips fall between mine. I cradle him against me, inhaling the sea-breeze scent of his soap and shampoo. A strange kind of warmth takes up residence in my chest. I’m still a little unnerved by it. The feeling that this is where I belong. With this man. With someone who sees me as their most important person—their priority.

“What are you thinking?”

Braxton’s question startles an honest answer out of me. “About how much I love you,” I say.

He blinks and rises up on his elbows, staring down at me with soul piercing eyes. “I love you too, Firebird,” he says.

A smile overtakes my face. “I know.”

Brax leans down, and my eyes slide shut as I tip my head back, waiting for his kiss. Unfortunately, just before I get it, the annoying and ear-splitting sound of a phone call blares through the room, interrupting the intimate moment.

“Ugh.” My head collapses back onto the pillow beneath it. Brax growls and then slams his lips down on mine. “Brax,” I try as he licks at the seam of my mouth, “the call.”

“Ignore it,” he says, his tongue sliding into my mouth.

I try. I really do, but as soon as the call stops another one comes right through. Whoever is calling is determined. By the third stop and start, Brax releases an irritated growl and yanks himself away from me.

I pause, my arms arched upward where he used to be and with a grunt, I let them flop back down to the mattress. So much for more morning nooky. Scrubbing a hand over my face and back through my hair, shoving the dark strands away from my face, I sit up and move to the side of the bed, bending over and reaching for one of his discarded t-shirts.

“Who is it?” I ask as Braxton storms across the room to where his phone sits on the dresser. He picks it up and without answering me, he answers.

“This better be good,” he mutters.

I stand up and stretch up onto my tip-toes, arching my back enough that my breasts push into the thin fabric of his shirt, but Braxton’s focus is completely on whoever is on the other end of the line. Curiosity has me dropping back down and making my way across the room. I frown as I spy the expression of confusion and anger on his face.

“Brax?” The closer I get, the more I recognize the voice—which is yelling and cursing up a storm on the other end.

Braxton glances at me and then pulls the phone from his ear, hitting the speaker on the phone, and letting Luc’s voice fill the room.

“—better hold up your end of the fucking deal, Smalls,” he says, “because I’m calling it all in. Everything. Every fucking thing I’ve ever done for you and your boys. Every favor.”

“What’s happened?” I ask. His voice is angrier than I’ve ever heard and even though I don’t know Luc as well as the others, the confused surprise on Braxton’s face tells me all that I need to know—this is far from normal behavior.

If Luc hears me, he ignores my question. “I want Rylie,” he snaps. “I want her ass on every CCTV from here to St. Augustine. I want records. I want the fucking Undead—every fucking man you’ve got on your shady ass payroll, Smalls. You. Owe. Me.”

“Kincaid,” Braxton barks, stopping him. “Stop fucking yelling and tell it to me straight. What the fuck happened?”

There’s a brief moment of silence where Brax and I exchange a look. The suspense isn’t helping. It can’t be the Undead—not if Luc is asking for them. What else could it be? What could cause him to act like this?

After another moment, Luc finally speaks. “Turn on your TV,” he says.

Brax frowns but gestures for me to move. I grab the remote from the end of the bed and turn, pointing it at the big flat screen mounted to the wall, and hit the power button. A news channel pops up immediately, revealing several fire trucks and what looks like the remains of a massive fire.

There’s very little of the actual building left. Only half burnt columns and the remnants of what once was a very large structure. Arcs of water are sprayed up onto the seared blackened wood as a woman stands in front of the screen, her brown hair fluttering in the invisible wind with a microphone in her grasp. I don’t understand. I turn back to Brax, but his eyes are locked on the screen an enigmatic mask of disturbance.

“Someone burned down the Kincaid mansion last night,” Luc says, and what we’re seeing finally clicks for me. “They marked us—and the world fucking knows.”

I turn back to the television and watch as firefighters and police pick their way across the debris and the woman relays the events.

“It’s arson,” I say.

Braxton looks at me and when his hand touches my side, I’m surprised to feel him pull me closer—almost protectively. “No,” he says. “It’s worse.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

His face darkens. “It’s war.”

EPILOGUE

MICKI

Gasoline has a sharp, acrid scent to it. It burns into my nostrils as I turn over the can in my grasp and let the shit pour out across the snow-white couch and over the mahogany coffee table. This is the third fucking can I’ve dragged through the Kincaid estate in the last thirty minutes. I would’ve used more, but the gas station I’d stopped by on my way here was sketchy as shit and the pimple-faced teenager at the counter was staring through the grimy windows far too long for my comfort. Besides, three will be more than enough to light this place up.

I lift the can and shake it, there’s still about a quarter of it left. Just enough to trail to the front door. I turn and start walking. The nasty smelling shit goes across the priceless marble tiles, soaking into the rugs and the expensive designer furniture of the home I once knew so fucking well.

Ten years ago, I’d first walked through those front doors as nothing more than the daughter of the woman Thomas Kincaid was fucking. His mistress. His whore. Though, at the time, she didn’t know it. She’d imagined herself his lover, his girlfriend. Ha. Men like that don’t have girlfriends. They have possessions, and she was too naive to realize she’d become one.

My heels click across the hard flooring as I make my way down the front hallway, pausing as I pass a small table just inside the front door. My lips curl back in disgust at the man depicted across most of them.

Thomas Kincaid stands in front of crowds, shaking hands, kissing the heads of babies, and accepting awards. He looks the perfect, wealthy benefactor. There’s only one picture that isn’t like the rest and as I lean over the table, dropping the now empty canister of gasoline, I reach back and pluck it from the furthest part.

The face in this picture is similar to that of Kincaid Senior, but it’s softer, gentler, and far more appealing. I could carefully extract the photograph, but after the last few weeks—hell, after the last few years—careful is as far from what I feel as it ever will be. So, instead, I slam the flat of the front glass against the corner of the table until it shatters completely. Then, I shake out the little bits and broken pieces before I reach inside and peel the image away. The edges are faded and I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Thomas is not the one who placed this picture here.

Maybe it was his housekeeper or even the woman he once married—long gone, I know she is. Smart woman. I can’t fault her for that. She should’ve taken this one with her though. She might have spared him from the monster that lives here—or rather, I should say, lived here. Because after tonight, no one will ever be able to reside in this house. And even if no one will ever know the horrors that took place here, they’ll know that Thomas Kincaid has an enemy. They’ll know that he is not safe, and so will he.

I drop the frame amongst the glass and turn towards the front door. I fold the picture in half once and then once more before tucking it into the front cup of my bra. The clicking of my heels resounds throughout the house—as hollow as the fucker who owns it.

Thomas Kincaid thought he could use me and fuck me over? He thought I was too weak to come for him? He was fucking wrong. And I don’t care if I once loved his son. I don’t care that we’d been best friends. All of that was a lifetime ago. When I was young and impressionable and naive to the ways of the rich and powerful.

I’m not here to reignite his love, I’m here to destroy the man who ruined my life.

I stop just outside the front doors and turn back. Withdrawing a pack of dollar store matches from the other cup of my bra, I withdraw one single stick, strike it against the side of the box, and stare at the flame that erupts. It’s dangerous being this close to so much gas—knowing it’s on the bottom of my heels and one wrong move could set me aflame.

A part of me wants that—wants to just burn. They say fire cleanses the soul, but I’m so fucking dark, so fucking dirty, I doubt even that would save me now. I know the truth—Thomas Kincaid has soiled me down to my very core and nothing short of a goddamn miracle could ever make me feel clean again.

Despite the thoughts of suicide that circle my mind, revenge takes precedence. I move down the stairs onto the pavement of the driveway. With a single inhale, I toss the lit match onto the front porch. It rolls towards the front door and a whoosh of fire comes to life. It’s a small thing, but the longer I stand there, the bigger it gets.

I didn’t think it would take so long to burn down a house, but I made sure to disable any alarms or security systems set in place to stop it from completely consuming the place. That was one benefit to having so much time to myself and so many resources to keep me entertained—I was able to learn anything and everything. I was able to learn exactly how to commit these crimes and how to get away with them.

I walk around the side of the house, stopping every so often when I come upon one of the many wide windows that line the house. I glance over the ground and find a rock, hefting it into my hand, I weigh it and then turn, throwing it with all the might of a damn baseball league champion. It smashes into the window and the glass breaks inward, shattering across the burning floor inside. I toss in more matches, hurrying the process along. Lighting the rooms on fire and helping the flames to spread, until there’s no chance of saving this place.

Ashes dance down around my face as I tip my eyes up towards the sky. White and gray flecks stick to my cheeks, fuse to my lashes, and just because I can, I withdraw a pre-rolled joint and light up with the last remaining match I have in the box, tossing that too into the already roaring flames before moving away from the building and out of harm’s reach. It’s not every day that a girl challenges a powerful man to a death battle; it deserves a little celebration.

Burning down the Kincaid family mansion won’t truly hurt Thomas Kincaid—he’s wealthy enough to replace a monstrosity like this again and again. For me, though, this is a sign.

A sign to him that his reign of terror and power over me is over. This is the very house my mother fucked him in. The very house she signed over all rights to me before she died. Maybe she thought a wealthy man like Thomas Kincaid could afford to take care of her daughter. Maybe she thought he loved her enough to care, but I know the truth. Thomas Kincaid is not capable of love.

But he is capable of one emotion, the very emotion that kept me tied down for so long. The very emotion that allowed me to be fucked under his command, used and discarded at his will.

There’s no running away from it now, Thomas, I think as I inhale the weed smell and watch the fire of his family’s estate rage higher.

I plan to burn down more than just this. I plan to burn down his whole fucking world, and only then will I finally take him to the place he’s always belonged. The place he locked me in for the last six years.

Hell.

THANK YOU FOR READING!

Thank you so much for reading Clover and Braxton’s story. If you enjoyed their books, please don’t forget to leave a review here.

If you’re excited to finally uncover Micki and Luc’s story, you can pre order a copy right here.

In the meantime, make sure to also check out the Sick Boys prequel, Forbidden Deviant Games, featuring Viks and his wife, Haley. Their book will be releasing at the end of September 2022. You can pre order your copy right here!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lucy Smoke, also known as Lucinda Dark for her fantasy works, has a master’s degree in English and is a self-proclaimed creative chihuahua. She enjoys feeding her wanderlust, cover addiction, as well as her face, and truly hopes people will stop giving her bath bombs as gifts. Bath’s get cold too fast and it’s just not as wonderful as the commercials make it out to be when the tub isn’t a jacuzzi.

When she’s not on a never-ending quest to find the perfect milkshake, she lives and works in the southern United States with her beloved fur-baby, Hiro, and her family and friends.

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ALSO BY LUCY SMOKE/LUCINDA DARK

Contemporary Series:

Sick Boys Series

Forbidden Deviant Games (prequel)

Pretty Little Savage

Stone Cold Queen

Natural Born Killers

Wicked Dark Heathens

Bloody Cruel Psycho

Bloody Cruel Monster

Vengeful Rotten Casualties (coming soon)

Iris Boys Series (completed)

Now or Never

Power & Choice

Leap of Faith

Cross my Heart

Forever & Always

Iris Boys Series Boxset

The Break Series (completed)

Break Volume 1

Break Volume 2

Break Series Collection

Contemporary Standalones:

Poisoned Paradise

Expressionate

Wildest Dreams

Criminal Underground Series (Shared Universe Standalones)

Sweet Possession

Scarlett Thief

Sinister Engagement

Fantasy Series:

Twisted Fae Series (completed)

Court of Crimson

Court of Frost

Court of Midnight

Twisted Fae: Completed Series Boxset

Barbie: The Vampire Hunter Series (completed)

Rest in Pieces

Dead Girl Walking

Ashes to Ashes

Dark Maji Series (completed)

Fortune Favors the Cruel

Blessed Be the Wicked

Twisted is the Crown

For King and Corruption

Long Live the Soulless

Nerys Newblood Series (completed)

Daimon

Necrosis

Resurrection

Sky Cities Series (Dystopian)

Heart of Tartarus

Shadow of Deception

Sword of Damage

Dogs of War (coming soon)

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Contents

Epigraph

Author’s Note

Acknowledgments

Prologue

1. Clover

2. Clover

3. Braxton

4. Braxton

5. Clover

6. Clover

7. Clover

8. Braxton

9. Clover

10. Clover

11. Braxton

12. Braxton

13. Clover

14. Braxton

15. Clover

16. Clover

17. Braxton

18. Clover

19. Braxton

20. Clover

21. Braxton

22. Clover

23. Braxton

24. Braxton

25. Clover

26. Clover

27. Clover

28. Braxton

29. Clover

30. Braxton

31. Clover

32. Braxton

33. Clover

34. Braxton

35. Clover

36. Braxton

37. Clover

38. Braxton

39. Clover

40. Braxton

41. Braxton

42. Clover

43. Braxton

44. Clover

45. Clover

46. Braxton

47. Clover

48. Clover

49. Clover

Epilogue

Thank You For Reading!

About the Author

Also By Lucy Smoke/Lucinda Dark