“Fuck, yes.” I pull out my phone, thumb swiping the app open. The map loads–and my heart lurches when I see the green dot pulsing as it moves deeper underground. “I’ve got her,” I say, fighting relief. “She’s definitely down here, but I may lose her once we’re further in.”
Tristian and Hunter take point, the latter saying, “All of these tunnels tend to run North to South. If we’re really dealing with a Baron then they’re probably going to go North East, back to our territory.” Everyone turns on their flashlights, bringing light to the small pathway. Killian and Simon flank Timothy–obviously unwilling to take their eyes off of him. I bring up the rear, phone in one hand and gun in the other.
“How come you both get guns?” Sy asks, ducking his head.
“Because you’re on Lord’s territory,” Killian says, the mother ofpearl handle glinting in the light, “and Kemp and Sorrin didn’t go through the front door.”
I’m not sure how far we go but I’m sweating by the time the tunnel narrows, then opens into a chamber–old stone walls and a low ceiling with torch brackets spitting flame. Three masked men stand over a stone slab in the center.
It looks like we’ve interrupted a sacrifice and my heart fucking explodes.
My girl is on her knees, dress torn at the shoulder, hands bound behind her back, gag in her mouth. Tears streak her face, mascara running in black rivers. Her eyes are wide, terrified, and locked on the man holding the blade to her throat.
Mateo.
I recognize his eyes, but not the emotion in them. I have no idea who the fuck this cold and fanatical monster is, who dares to think he can hurt what belongs to me. The other two, hidden behind their masks, are strangers to me, but not to the King.
“Liam,” he says, identifying the man as one of the former Barons. That means the other, the one with the ponytail, is Billy. The King continues, voice low and lethal, “I knew your brother was rotten, but you?”
Billy steps forward. “You betrayed us first. You offered Will to the enemy. You allowed his murder, for what? To appease children that never should have existed?”
Timothy’s gloved hands flex. “Will attacked the Princess. He was a threat to a woman, a Royal, and her unborn child. I handed him to Whitaker as a sacrifice. He earned his death.”
The man laughs, bitter and unhinged. “You think that balances the scales? He was one of your chosen.”
“Andsheis my wife.” He takes a small step toward the altar. “Walk away now and maybe I’ll let you live.”
“It’s too late,” he says. “It’s always been too late. You turned your back on the old rites. The Guardian remembers.”
The Guardian.
The name lands like a stone in my gut. He’s talking aboutwhoever is orchestrating this entire thing–the kidnappings and killings. Mateo shifts as the King moves closer, knife pressing harder against Arianette’s throat. A thin line of blood wells up. She whimpers behind the gag.
“This ends tonight,” Liam proclaims, lunging suddenly.
“Fuck,” Sy curses, and we’re all a second behind as Liam snatches the blade from Mateo’s hand and drives it toward Arianette’s chest.
She screams, muffled behind Liam’s grip and the gag, and everything detonates.
The King moves first.
One second he’s braced beside her, the next he’s airborne–pure violence from a man known for his calm. He launches himself at Arianette’s attacker. They collide in a brutal tangle of limbs and steel, bodies slamming into stone hard enough that dirt falls from the mud-packed walls.
From there the world fractures into simultaneous war.
Simon hits Mateo like a battering ram. They crash to the ground, Sy already on top, fist pistoning down again and again, the wet crack of knuckles on bone echoing off the walls. Mateo snarls, trying to twist free, but Sy’s fighter instincts are feral and relentless.
Killian’s gun is up–steady, merciless–barrel inches from Mateo’s eye. “Don’t move,” he says, voice as flat as a grave marker.
Billy flashes steel. His knife arcs in a savage slash toward Tristian’s throat. Tristian jerks back, heel catching Sy’s outstretched foot–Sy having shifted just enough to wreck his balance. Tristian stumbles, giving Billy the opportunity to bolt–panic finally cracking through zealotry–his long hair flying behind him as he vanishes down a side tunnel.
Hunter is already moving. He chases after him, silent and lethal, the chase swallowing them both into dark. Back at the epicenter, the King and Liam slam into the wall.
The impact thunders through the corridor. Stone dust rains down. Liam’s knife arm is trapped, wrenched backward at a brutal angle as the King drives into him chest-to-chest, mask-to-mask, horns scraping rock. Liam snarls, trying to twist the blade toward Arianetteanyway, still reaching for her even with his shoulder half-torqued out of socket.
I’m moving before I think.
I shove between them, shoulder checking the King aside just enough to open a line. My gun is in my hand, cocked, muzzle snapping up, straight to Liam’s head.
