Five steps away. Four. Three. Two.
When I reached it, I didn't hesitate. I grabbed one of the knives from the ground—bending over and standing up so fast that my head swam—and I plunged it directly into the target. Right at the center. Down to the base of the blade. And then I sliced. The resistance of the material was satisfying against my rage. I dragged downward, putting my weight behind the movement, feeling the vinyl split beneath the steel edge. The sound was visceral.
A ripping tear that shot through the air and mirrored the feeling in my chest.
High-density foam spilled out like pale innards, the target's face now sporting a gaping wound from middle to bottom. I yanked the knife free and stabbed again, and again, tearing at the ruined surface until my arm burned with exertion.
Finally, breathing hard, I stepped back to survey the destruction. The target hung in tatters, unrecognizable, destroyed by my hand if not by my throws. Foam particles drifted in the air around me, settling on my sweat-slick skin like artificial snow.
The knife dropped from my limp hand, the rage draining from me as suddenly as it had erupted, leaving hollowness in its wake.
"Well, that was productive," I muttered to the empty yard, the sarcasm falling flat even to my own ears.
I knelt and began gathering the scattered blades. Tonight, they felt like strangers instead of friends. I'd need to clean them all, check for damage, resharpen those that had struck gravel instead of dirt.
Standing with a heavy sigh, I turned around to face another thing in my life that didn’t feel right anymore. The home I shared with my pack. The home we’d shared for years. We’d always been angry with the world. We’d always raged against the machine. But together. Not separate. And not often at one another. Sure, we’d beaten one another to a pulp now and again, especially when drunk off our asses, but nothing… nothing like this.
The building stood dark and quiet, save for one light pushing through a sliver of space between heavy curtains. I knew I wasn't the only one awake. Fallon had roared out on his bike hours ago, his face set in that distant expression that meant he was seeking oblivion somewhere in the city lights. Asher hadn't returned from whatever destructive diversion he'd found tonight. Kane was buried in his workshop, the rhythmic clanging of metal on metal as much a part of the evening’s music as the dog barking or the cars driving by or the church bells five blocks over that rang every hour on the hour.
And Xander—Xander was probably several drinks deep standing sentinel in the house somewhere, maybe from that window bleeding light. He watched us all fall apart, keeping his distance. Not because he wanted to stay away. He was losing control too, bit by bit.
We were coming undone. All of us. The evidence was scattered around me in bent blades and destroyed equipment. It was only a matter of time before a show turned disastrous, a stunt deadly, due to our lack of focus.
I looked up at the star-scattered sky. The vastness of it usually put things in perspective, made my problemsseem smaller. Tonight, it only emphasized how adrift I felt, unanchored and spinning out of control.
Something had to give. Soon. Before one of us did something we couldn't come back from. We’d waited long enough for that fucking Institute to find us an Omega. Not that I thought bringing another person into our pack could really cure our ailments. There had to be something else. A different answer.
Forcing my body into action, I moved toward the house with my collection of knives clutched against my chest like a goddamn security blanket. A strip of cloth, worn and tattered, that I no longer recognized as my own.
Tomorrow, I'd set up a new target. Tomorrow, I'd try again. I’d honed my skill over more than a decade.
This was just a temporary fuck-up.
I was just temporarily broken.
This faltering, failing, fucking mess I’d become wouldn’t last.
I’d do better.
But tonight, the truth that I was no longer Nitro clung to me. It traced over my skin uncomfortably like lotion that refused to absorb.
4
FALLON, DEMONX PACK
{Four months ago}
Carefully. Curated. Chaos.
The dancer moved effortlessly, her body catching the private room's blue lights in sweeping arcs as she spun around the pole. It gave her skin a stunning glow. Technically flawless. Aesthetically perfect. Her eyes met mine with practiced seduction as she completed another revolution. Her gaze spoke volumes.
Don’t stop watching me.
Don’t stop wanting me.
Don’t forget to pay me.
She was good at her job; there was no denying that. A year ago, she’d have been more than enough to get me going. Now, I sat feeling empty. Oh, I still observed and analyzed and planned what I would do to her when she left the platform, but it was clinical. No desire. No real need for her. Just… apathy flooding my marrow.
