Gone is the charm he was just lavishing me with—now he looks ready to commit all kinds of murder.
Damn. Is it always this sexy when men literally breathe smoke? Thinking of how Crypt looks when he’s smoking reverium, I decide the answer must be yes.
Then again, it’s always sexy when they’re murderous on my account.
The other suited man doesn’t bother approaching. He just nods at the desk. “Fine. Join us, Miss Oakley.”
When he starts to break into a sweat from the immovable death stare I’ve perfected, the woman tsks and walks to the bed, reaching for the bottom strap of Everett’s straitjacket.
No—her hands are going for Everett’s pants.
“Maybe this will make her compliant,” she coos, smirking over at me. “I bet thetelumwon’t tolerate someone else playing with her prettiest toy.”
Everett tenses on the bed, struggling uselessly as he realizes how close she’s gotten to him.
Visceral rage floods me as my vision almost goes dark. I’m off the ground in a split second, crossing the room with all the inhuman speed I still possess until the top of my head slams into her throat. The bitch collapses immediately, flailing in panic when she can’t draw in a full breath.
I glare down at her. “Get close to any of them again, and I will split your skull open, scoop out what little brain matter exists in there, and shove it in your mouth so you can taste how stupid you are for trying to fuck with me.”
One of the suits shouts in alarm. He rushes over to help the idiot to her feet as she wheezes. I don’t miss how handsy he is with her, but he's not the same guy who smelled like the perfume I just noticed on her.
They don’t seem like quintet members, and these men seem extremely uninterested in each other, so they're probably not a throuple. An open relationship, maybe? Kenzie told me about those before. They happen sometimes with unbound legacies, and now and then among humans.
“Gods above, how I’ve missed your beautiful threats, darling,” Crypt sighs from his bronze confinement.
The man guides the photographer away from me quickly. When he looks over his shoulder, I’m satisfied to see the fear Ishouldevoke in these assholes written all over his blanched face.
“J—just sit down, now,” he insists, pretending to still be in control. “We need to complete this interview, and then you can meet with the council executives before the official trial.”
Trial? He’s joking.
They’re pretending the legacies who live here are civil and follow political procedures, but I know how the world of legacies works. They cull off the weak. They destroy their competition. They kill.
This so-called trial is nothing more than entertainment for the top-tier, spoiled legacies living in this secret “safe haven.”
“If you don’t do this interview with us, we’ll kill the redhead,” the other suit finally says, folding his arms.
Douglas?
Damn it. If they’re not bluffing about him still being alive…
I arch a brow. “Show me proof of life first.”
One of the suits pulls out a device I don't recognize. It’s not a phone, and it plays static whenever he’s not talking into it. Someone replies affirmatively before a big fae man throws open the door, dragging a brutally beaten Douglas into the room.
He’s tossed aside, half-unconscious and bleeding, but he’s still breathing. As much as I still don’t fully trust him with my quintet, especially Crypt, there’s something annoyingly likable about this unpolished mercenary. Letting him get killed by these idiots over a superfluous, fake interview would be a waste, especially since we'll need him to transport us back to Everbound.
Glaring at the suits, I finally move to sit across from them. The woman still looks shell-shocked, and her throat is already bruising nicely, but she sniffles and takes another picture of me sitting across from them before she moves to sit in the free chair beside me, scooting away slightly.
I blink away the spots left behind from the bright flash, ignoring when heat suffuses my chest again.
The suit on the left pulls documents and a little black box out of the desk. Clearing his throat, he pushes a button and the little device begins to blink with a light that is as sapped of color as everything else in this place.
“This is a recorder, Miss Oakley. You see, we would like to keep a perfect record of this pre-trial interview for future forensic psychiatrists to study, since you're quite the specimen. The information we’re about to gather from you, the defendant, will help the court decide your fate.”
“What a motherfucking joke,” Bael mutters from the floor behind us.
The legacy shoots him a dirty look before continuing professionally as he regards me. “My name is Nathan Thatcher, and this is my associate, Mr. Grant. Miss Bailey will be taking a few pictures to be published in our fantastic safe haven, which is, of course, buzzing with the news of your return.”
