“Back the fuck off, traitor,” I growl, ramming the barrel into his temple.
The metal clicks against bone.
Liam goes still. Then he grins.
Blood slicks his teeth, running from a split lip down his chin. His eyes shine, bright and ecstatic, already halfway gone. Probably gone for a while.
“Dying like this,” he breathes, voice raw with devotion, “for this? It’s an honor you’ll never understand. You’re not a Baron, you’re a pawn. He’ll betray you the same way he betrayed our brother. Like the rest of Forsyth, legacy reigns, he will always choose blood over loyalty.”
Rage spikes hot behind my eyes.
“You’re fucking pathetic.”
I grab his mask and rip.
The straps snap. Metal tears free. His face is exposed–sweat and blood–everything stripped bare in the flickering tunnel glow. My finger is on the trigger when Killian steps behind him and slams the butt of his gun against Liam’s head, cracking his skull, and he falls into a heap.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, sweat dripping down his neck, “what a fucking asshole.”
Behind me I feel the King shift.
He folds himself around Arianette, dragging her fully behind his body, one arm locked across her shoulders, the other still clamped on Liam’s ruined knife arm. Shield. Fortress. Claim.
No onetouches her now.
The King turns, breathing hard, blood on his gloves, Arianette clinging to him with tears streaming down her face.
And that’s when I see it.
Blood seeps through the front of his white shirt–dark, spreading fast from his abdomen.
Arianette notices at the same time.
She screams–raw, broken. “Timothy!”
He sways–once, twice–then drops to one knee–fingers gripping the edge of his mask as he rips it free. It falls, clattering against the stone slab as he takes short, rasping breaths.
“What the fuck,” Killian mutters, staring down at Maddox’s face.
I’m already moving–gun up, shouting for Tristian or Sy, “Get help. Somebody get help,” but the chamber is spinning, torchlight flickering, and the only thing that matters is the look on her face.
Pure terror.
And the King, bleeding out at her feet.
44
Hunter
I leave the chaos behind–theshouts, the hard scuffle of bodies fighting for their lives–growing more faint as I go deeper into the tunnel. My boots pound the uneven floor, flashlight beam jerking ahead of me like a dying heartbeat. Billy’s ahead, moving so fast that I don’t doubt he’s familiar with every twist and turn in the tunnels. I use the sound of his feet and breath as a guide, occasionally catching the tail of his long ponytail whipping behind him as he ducks under a low arch or disappears around a bend.
He hurt her.Them.All those girls. Laura, Kesley, Stella, Arianette…
That stops today. I don’t give a fuck what he thinks he believes or who he’s working for. Vengeance isn’t a word big enough for what’s burning in my chest right now.
The passage narrows, the brick walls are slick with condensation, ceiling so low I have to duck my head. Water drips somewherebehind me, steady and maddening. My lungs burn, and I try not to think about how stale the air is back this far, forcing myself to push harder, trying to close the gap. Up ahead, he stumbles, foot skidding. I hear the curse, the scrape of his shoe against the flagstone as he rights himself. I’m gaining.
Another turn. The tunnel splits: left dark and narrow, right wider, but sloping down. I catch the flash of a hand disappearing to the right. I follow.
