The guy has fake blood streaming down his face, soaking his ripped T-shirt. He groans in agony when Axe fake kicks him in the gut. The scene is so realistic I can smell the metallic tang of blood.
Axe has clearly gone deep in the act. His knuckles look raw and bloodied, and he bounces on his feet like a pro boxer ready for the next round. Strike stands beside him, his head whipping around at the sound of the door swinging open.
Two things about Axe MacKenzie: He’s hot and he sucks. There was a minute last spring when Honor introduced us when she thought her best friend and her man’s best friend would automatically hit it off. Unfortunately, the opposite happened.
Yes, he’s gorgeous: tall, broad-shouldered, with shaggy chestnut-brown hair and piercing denim-blue eyes. And yes, he has that delicious Scottish brogue that makes women melt. But he’s also an asshole, and I’m done with assholes. Life is too short to let some guy ruin my hard-earned happiness just because he sounds sexy calling me adear lass.
The first time I met Axe, he laughed in my face because I happen to be a believer in astrology and the occult. I’ve got no problem with nonbelievers. I get that it can seem a little kooky to think the stars and planets are out here plotting our lives or that the tarot can tell our future—though in my opinion, it’s no kookier than any traditional religion.
But what I can’t abide, what made me want to clock him in the face—much like he’s pretending to do with that poor actor strapped to a pole—was the disrespect he showed my beliefs.
Don’t agree? Totally fine.
Try to make me feel small? We’ve got a problem.
Also, and yeah, I know how this sounds, but there’s something about his aura that puts me on edge. Like he just rolled into town from some Highland Games where he won Most Likely to Hunt You for Sport and you can’t shake the feeling you might be next. Maybe it’s his unpredictability and contradictions that set me off-kilter—he’s all raw masculinity and untamed spirit, but every so often, a sliver of vulnerability cuts through, just enough to mess with my head.
As Axe steps closer now, the dim light casts shadows across his face, and his eyes bolt to mine with an intensity that feels almost predatory.
The air crackles with tension. I shiver.
The man on the rack lets out a cry so loud that it makes my bones ache.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d think Axe was actually trying to kill the guy.
Two
Axe
“You’ve got to be joking!” I mutter under my breath at Strike, my eyes darting to his lass, Honor, who’s standing with her pal pretty Josie the Rosie—that’s what I call her on account of her wild tangle of strawberry-blonde hair and the way her cheeks lit up like a bonfire the first time we met, right after I said astrology was fan fiction for nutters, and she looked at me like I’d just insulted her granny.
We’ve had a few run-ins since then—the second time, I told her believing in tarot cards is about as sensible as taking life advice from a Go Fish deck. Can’t help it. I’ve got a knack for saying exactly the wrong thing with that lass. Honesty’s not always the best policy, but watching Josie’s cheeks flame is my guiltiest pleasure.
Even if it means I’m constantly tripping on my own words around her.
Both women’s mouths are open like a pair of carps as they take in the scene of our lobotomy lab. Christ, how long have they been here?
“You’re the dumbass who didn’t lock the door,” Strike growls, redirecting the eleven-inch blade that he’s been using to slice anddice old Petrov—to get the information we need, but also for being the todger that he is—to the space between my eyes. I laugh. No way Strike would even nick me with that thing. We go way too far back—practically kids when the CIA recruited us. Years of missions and a bond forged in fire have made Strike Madden the closest thing I have to a brother. There’s no one I’d rather have watching my back.
Maybe I didn’t lock the door, but Petrov has proven to be the true dumbass of the night, crying and confessing names we haven’t even asked for. He calls himself a pimp and a daddy, but strip him of his guns and flunkies, and the guy’s a fucking wuss. He deserves every last punch I’ve given him. In fact, he deserves way worse. If I still believed in Heaven and Hell, there’d be no doubt which direction this guy is going—and I’d be thrilled to be the one sending him there early.
“What the fuck?” Honor asks as Josie’s green eyes widen like teacups. If I’m ever a lucky enough man to blow Josie’s pupils, this is not how I want to do it. “Please tell me you are not this stupid.”
“What is…happening here?” asks Josie, who’s rubbing at the crease in her forehead. She looks like a confused Disney princess, but I remind myself this is not someone who needs rescuing.
We need to get the lasses moving and finish the job. Can’t have anyone else stumbling down here and catching a glimpse of this mess. The room is swimming in blood. Lucky for us, the whole venue’s a forensic nightmare—too much contamination for them to ID anything.
After all the scheming we did dreaming up our House of Horrors, the last thing I expected was for the girls to stumble into the one room where Strike and I—in the spirit of the old days—decided to get up to some of our more questionable hobbies. We knew it wasn’t smart or careful, not our usual way. But once theidea was out there, neither of us could back down from the challenge. Who’d notice a bit more gore in an asylum already swimming in the stuff? The party planners painted the walls with buckets of bovine blood, so why not add a dash of human splatter to the mix? The DNA here is more mixed-up than a Scot on a six-pub crawl.
Strike smiles sheepishly at Honor. She’s known about our independent investigations since Strike took down her sister’s killer six months ago, and it’s obvious that we’re definitely not fooling her.
“Firefly, don’t worry. We got this all under control,” he says, and even though he’s literally holding a wet knife, Honor melts like butter on a hot scone. Now, I don’t believe in soulmates—that’s as daft as astrology, or Heaven and Hell for that matter. But when I see Strike and Honor together, the way they just accept each other’s darkest bits without flinching, I can’t help but wonder if maybe someday I’ll find someone who’ll love me like that—madness and all.
I shut that thinking down. The last bloody thing I need, the last thing Iwant, is a lady mucking up my life. I’ve got my ducks lined up exactly as I like them, and I do just fine on my own, thanks. Besides, there’s not a soul broken enough in this world to put up with the real me. What’s that famous expression?I’d never want to join a club that would have me as a member.
“We thought we’d put on a show for the guests,” Strike says.
“Maybetooreal, guys, if you want my opinion,” says Honor.
