Raped...
Branding iron…
—Battered—bruised—broken.
Rage runs rampant through my veins, rising to a fever pitch on the precipice of ruin.
What Fredrick did to my sister’s dead body has earned him a spot nearly at the top of my list. Second only to Mikah.
It’s why this game with my little fox is even more intriguing.
Who doesn’t enjoy hunting the hunter—who doesn’t like turning the predatorinto prey?
Frowning, I wonder if I should follow her.
What if something happens to her?
The question assaults me as indecision wars in my chest.
Talia is one of the best assassins in the world—one of the Deadly Seven.
If I go, she may see my assistance as an insult to her capabilities.
“That’s right bitch, stay still,” one of these fuckheads grunts so loudly that I’m sure all of Vermont can hear.
Whoever it is has a zero-stroke game. They fuck like they’ve never had pussy or dick in their whole life.
“Fuck,” they roar. “You cunt!”
Screams ricochet off tree trunks before I hear the sound of twigs snapping as someone runs.
“No. Stop. Let me the fuck go,” a shrill cry rips into the night sky before another thud. Expletives and heaving breaths quickly follow it.
Sliding behind the nearest tree, I wait to see which asshole steps into the clearing. As the pounding of feet against the ground draws nearer, I ready my sword.
My fingers tingle, itching to savor the kill, making it painful and slow, leaving behind no soul to reincarnate into the next life. The thought so real I can almost taste the blood in the air. But the need to ensure Talia’s safety tapers the urge until it’s a low, steady hum nestled in my chest.
A quick slice and dice before I find Talia. I certainly won’t earn any points for creativity.
“When I catch you, I’m going to fillet you and let Freddy fricassee you for dinner.”
Jackson.
He’s the Tweedledee to Fredrick’s Tweedledum—both feeding into each other’s depravity. A really fucking sick duo. Mikah and Griff are fucked too, but Jackson Wallace and Fredrick Rogers belong in someone’s supermax prison.
Another branch snaps, and I sure up my grip,readying myself to pounce, but it’s a tall, curvy brunette who stumbles on wobbly legs, falling with an audible oof muttered across her swollen lips.
She springs up from the ground, her body covered in bruises and blood, with one arm hanging limply—very obviously dislocated, more than likely broken with the twisted set of her shoulder. She takes another haggard step, inhaling with laborious breaths that rattle wet.
I tsk, observing her movements. I’m surprised she’s made it as far as she has. Fresh burns litter her back like someone was trying to make her a chessboard, and patches of her hair appear ripped out from the root.
“Fucking animals,” I mumble barely above a whisper in the wind.
She’s a fucking fighter, I’ll give her that.
Her body sways as she tries to steady herself before she fumbles along. She barely makes it a few steps, but the weight of her injuries brings her to a halt. Her body bounces off the tree with a thwack that is immediately followed by a snapping of bone.
Cringing, I shake my head at the sight of a portion of her femur protruding through her skin.
