I caught glimpses of them between blinks of sedation—climbing fences, breaching doors, cutting down anyone who stood between them and freedom. They moved with coordinated chaos, a pack of predators finally released from their cages.
And they were all following Rook.
Their King.
My King.
My Alpha.
Soon, I was being strapped into a seat.
The helicopter's interior was dark, lit only by dim red lights that made the blood on Rook's hands look black.
The leather seat was cold beneath my thighs. The harness was heavy across my chest. He secured each strap himself, his fingers checking twice, three times, making sure I was safe.
Out of the darkness, a guard rushed onto the helicopter pad before we lifted off. He had his gun out and pointed at me.
Rook moved before I could process the threat.
One moment the guard was climbing into the cabin, his face twisted with fear and determination.
The next, Rook had him by the throat, calm as still water, holding him over the edge of the open door. The guard's legs kicked at nothing. His fingers clawed at Rook's wrist. His eyes bulged.
I watched through the haze of sedation as my mate—my psychopath, my King—looked into the guard's terrified eyes.
No rage.
No hesitation.
Just cold, efficient calculation.
The same calm he probably wore when he arranged his victims' bodies into messages.
"You threatened what's mine. . .my Queen." Rook's voice was barely audible over the rotor wash, but I heard it perfectly.
Felt it in my chest.
“This is why you die.” He let go.
The guard fell without a scream. There and then gone, erased from existence for the crime of touching what belonged to the Trickster.
And then Rook was beside me again, his bloodstained hands cupping my face with sweet gentleness, his forehead pressing against mine. I could smell the death on him—copper and darker things—layered over his natural scent.
It should have repulsed me.
Instead, it made me want him more.
Next, I felt the helicopter lifting off.
My stomach dropped as the ground fell away. The rotor wash was deafening, a hurricane of sound and wind that whipped my braids against my face.
Through the open door, I watched Blackmoor shrink—alarms blaring, fires burning, bodies scattered across the yard like broken dolls.
Blackmoor State Hospital for the Criminally Insane was now a graveyard.
My eyelids began to droop. It was a struggle to keep my eyes open.
"Sleep, Beloved." His voice was soft now, tender, as if he hadn't just killed a man with the same hands now stroking my cheeks. "I have you."
