One of the junkies spots us and shouts, “Cops!” jolting like someone jammed a live wire into his spine. His finger spasms on the trigger, sending a cascade of gunshots cracking through the room–wild, panicked, ricocheting off rotted beams and mold-slick concrete.
DK moves before my brain fully catches up. He’s a blur of denim and muscle, charging the nearest shooter. The guy barely gets a second shot off before DK slams into him full-force, sending both of them crashing to the floor. The gun skitters across the ground, metal sparking.
I scoop it up before the junkie even finishes wheezing. Another man raises his weapon, but I’m already aiming the one in my hand back at him. DK drives his fist into the guy beneath him, once, twice—efficient blows that knock the fight clean out of him.
The rest freeze. Not brave. Just stunned.
And now—now we have control.
The largest of the tired ones steps forward, a sawed-off loose across his forearm, pointed somewhere between me and DK.
“Jesus Christ,” DK shouts, chest heaving. His hand shoots up, showing his ring. “We’re not the fucking cops. We’re just here to pick up the body.”
“You’re the freaks?” a voice rasps from the junkie side, tongue too thick for his mouth. “Who the fuck called you?”
“It doesn’t matter.” I keep my voice flat, the same tone I use when I’m talking to cops or corpses. “Just be thankful they didn’t call the cops, dumbass. We don’t care what you’re doing holed up in this rat’s nest, but we’re taking the body. You want to keep your little civil war after we leave, have at it. But right now you’re gonna lower the guns and let us do our job.”
“Or…” a junkie with shaking hands giggles, “... maybe we add two more to the pile.”
“Shut the fuck up, Neal,” someone calls from the back.
“You know the system,” DK says. “If we don’t come back from a pickup, then the rest of the Barons show up, and they’ll bring a whole case of body bags.”
Neal shrugs. “Do it. We can take them too.”
God, this fucker is an idiot. Don’t do drugs, friends.
“No.” The big guy studies me for a long second. Then he lets the sawed-off dip toward the floor. The others are reluctant to follow. “Let them in to do their job. I don’t want trouble with the King.”
Convinced they’re not going to shoot us, I wave in Jace and Slade, who come in with the folded-up body bag. DK holsters his pistol, and quickly we get to work. The kid’s blood is still warm; I feel it when it soaks through my gloves.
Slade steps in, grabbing under the armpits. Jace takes the legs. Together they lift. Even though the guys are fit and used to the job, bodies are always heavier than they should be. Thankfully, no one stops us. Because I agree with that big son of a bitch, I don’t want trouble with the King either.
We back toward the door, boots sliding through the blood puddle. The junkies just watch, twitching and swaying, all of them looking like they’ve already lost whatever they’re fighting over, if they even remember.
Outside, Nicole rushes forward when she sees the shape in the bag. She presses both hands to her mouth and starts shaking. “Thank you.”
We slide the kid into the van, zipping the bag the rest of the way.
DK peels off his gloves and tosses them in after. “Tell your mom we’re sorry,” he says quietly.
She nods, tears cutting clean lines through the dirt on her face. Knight stands a few feet away, expression solemn. I’m not sure what his current affiliation really is with the Counts, but it’s obvious he wants to do right by them. I can’t fault him for that.
I climb into the passenger seat, where Ares rushes over, sniffing my body vigorously. Carson starts the engine before the guys even get seated.
Behind us, inside the warehouse, someone starts shouting again. Then a gunshot–muffled, lonely, almost bored.
We pull away, fog swallowing the building whole, taking the last of the Counts, or at least this version of them, with it.
12
Arianette
I sitat the long ebony table in the morning room, spine straight, hands folded in my lap like a good little Baroness. The black tulle from last night is gone, replaced by a high-necked charcoal sweater and a long, loose black skirt that hides every bruise and fingerprint. My thighs still ache when I shift. My cunt is tender, swollen, the ghost of blood crusted between my legs even after the bath. The piercing throbs with every heartbeat, a dull, accusing pulse that reminds me exactly who put it there and who used it as an excuse to ruin me all over again.
Across from me, the King drinks black coffee and reads the financial pages as though the world didn’t tilt off its axis in the back of his car last night. His knuckles are scraped raw where they met stone. He hasn’t looked at me once.
The truth is plain: every time he touches me, it results in more distance instead of bringing us closer. There’s only anger and hurt.
