He throws curses at me, calling me all sorts of names as he lunges toward me, his right hand reaching for my hair the same way he grabbed his wife.
I let him. In fact, I welcome the wrap of his hand against my scalp. I’m built to combat these violent tendencies, so basic and enduring within the minds of attackers that Furies have the perfect weapons against them.
I barely feel the tug on my scalp before my black snake sinks her fangs into his hand.
“Why is it,” I muse, “that assholes like to grab women by their hair?”
He cries out in alarm, trying to withdraw his hand, but his eyes are already flooding with black poison. He stumbles back a step before dropping to the floor, his body convulsing.
My poison is beyond painful. Even more so because the agony of my own creation is still fresh within my memories, making my need for vengeance even more intense.
I sense that, to this man, the pain of my poison feels like his bones are splitting along their lengths, separating without completely breaking apart, extending the misery without reprieve.
I also feel his rage.
He wants to cut me. Punch me. Close his fist around my throat. Stop my voice. Stop my power. Control me.
He has no remorse. Only a belief in his right to bend a woman’s body to his will.
I’ve already cataloged every wound he gave Amanda, and now I will deliver them back to him, one by one.
I pull out my whip and let its metal tips hit the floor. Until the sun comes up, he will experience every pain he inflicted on her.
The assassins may kill quickly and efficiently, but that is not my purpose.
That is not what I’m built for.
I am a Fury.
I am built for vengeance.
7. STRIKER DRAVEN
Istep through the front door of the Draven Industries building in New York City wearing a tailored gray suit and a crisp white shirt, both of which cost a small fortune, courtesy of Cain Carter.
It turns out he lives a double life as an assassin and a multi-millionaire businessman. He and his wife, Archer, are currently visiting Hunter and Slade.
The morning sun shines brightly behind me, giving me a brief advantage as I stand in the glare, allowing me to take note of the security guards patrolling the reception area inside the building.
Only three of the guards are in uniform, while the other three are in plain clothes, wearing suits, and pretending to lounge like clients on the chairs scattered around the space.
The plainclothes guards are shifters—a wolf, a bear, and a jaguar, judging by the auras around them. They will be hired muscle. But if the assassins have taught me anything, it’s that even hired muscle has to pay for food and a roof over their head. I can’t assume these men are here because they love whatever brutality they’re asked to dish out, only that they’re bound to be good at it, or they wouldn’t still have a job.
There are no patrons in the foyer right now. I deliberately timed my entrance for a quiet moment.
The woman behind the front desk gives me a bright smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.
Hmm.She’s one of those.
“I’m here to see Oliver Draven,” I say, speaking clearly enough for all of the guards to hear me while I look the woman square in her eyes.
Her gaze flicks to the screen in front of her, and a slight crease forms on her forehead. “Do you have an appointment?”
I give her a smile—a real one since I can’t assume she hates me, just her job. Hell, I don’t blame her. Working for my stepfather can’t be pleasant.
“Tell Oliver that Striker Draven is here to see him,” I reply calmly.
“Striker…” Her eyes widen, and her voice fades into a choked whisper. She takes panicked glances at the guards. “But you’re?—”
