What the fuck is that?My mind struggles to make sense of what I’m seeing—eyes. Are they fucking eyes?
“Or maybe I should take… What’s her name? Raven?”
My eyes flash to Ricco’s in an instant and his smirks. My heart thumps hard in my chest. Not Raven. Not my kitten.
“Take him to the dungeon,” Ricco snarls before his dickhead puppet grabs me by the collar, dragging me across the marble floor.
Before I can even plan my next move, the window to my right explodes and something extremely fast whistles through the air like a streak of lightning.
The man above me chokes, his grip faltering as a wet, gurgling groan escapes him. A spray of warm blood rains down on me, splattering across my face before his heavy body collapses with a sickening crack against the marble, his dead weight crumpling beside me.
Everything slows again and my vision narrows. My heartbeat slams against my ribs, but my instincts scream louder. I stretch out, fingers clawing for my axe, and as soon as I feel its cold steel handle, I grab it tightly and roll onto my back.
Ricco moves like a cobra, the muzzle of his gun aimed squarely for my skull. He fires, the deafening sound echoing like thunder, but before the bullet reaches me, another sharp whistle cuts through the air.
A knife flies from the broken window and embeds itself deep into Ricco’s wrist. He howls in agony, his aim snapping wide. The bullet slams into the floor, an inch away from my head, ricocheting into the room.
Ricco screams, clutching his wrist as blood pours from the wound and his gun slips from his grasp, banging to the floor.
My blood surges, adrenaline drowning out every other sensation. Without hesitation, I leap to my feet, axe in hand, and roar as I swing it. The blade cuts clean through his leg, slicing it off mid-thigh. He collapses with a shriek, his cries echo through the room, but I don’t stop. I fucking won’t.
I raise the axe again, bringing it down with savage force until his other leg is severed, the bone cracking like brittle wood. Blood pools beneath him, but it’s not enough.
I’m not done. It’s not enough. She needs to feel it beyond the grave.
I swing the axe again and again, severing each arm at the shoulder, the splatter of warm, sticky blood painting me with every blow and I drown in the fucking feeling. His screams dissolve into wet gurgles, his limbs are now to twitching stumps.
Finally, I meet his eyes. He’s choking on his own blood, spitting weakly, his face a mask of pain and terror.
“Another one in hell. You won’t be able to fucking hurt innocents there, Ricco. Only you suffer,” I snarl, tears streaming down my face, mingling with the blood dripping from my chin.
With a final roar, I raise the axe high above my head and bring it down with all the strength left in my trembling body. The blade splits his face down the middle, halving the bone and flesh, opening him up like a ripe fucking melon.
I don’t stop. I continue swinging, over and over, my vision blurred by rage and grief, his remains turning to unrecognizable pulp beneath me. I keep going until my arms ache, until there’s nothing left of Ricco but carnage.
Only then do I finally fall to my knees, the axe slipping from my grasp with a dull thud. I hyperventilate as I sit there, head bowed, eyes clenched shut, trying to silence the screams still echoing in my skull.
Then I hear it—a low rumble, growing louder.Motorbikes.
My ears prick, every muscle snapping to attention as the faint growl filters through the night. I scramble to my feet, nearly slipping on the slick bloody floor beneath me. I stagger toward the shattered floor-to-ceiling window, dragging my wounded leg behind me before my gaze locks onto the treeline.
Through the shadows of the pitch-black woods, three motorcycles whizz through, riding away, their taillights blinkingthrough the darkness. The sound of their menacing laughter reaches my ears, even over the roar of the engines, chilling and unhinged.
My gaze narrows, feeling a mix of confusion and suspicion. The distant sound of the motorcycles fades into the night, leaving me alone with the aftermath. I turn around slowly, my eyes sweeping over the chaos behind me.
I take a shuffle forward, my boots squelching in the thick pool spreading beneath Ricco’s remains. My mind races, trying to piece together what the fuck just happened.
Something glints near the edge of the massacre. A knife.
I crouch down, my muscles shuddering as adrenaline drains from me, and reach out with shaky fingers. The blade feels cold and alien as I lift it into the light.
It’s a throwing knife with swirling engravings wrapped around the blade and handle, almost hypnotic in their design. Just like the eyes peering back at me.
My brows furrow as I study it, turning it over in my hand. It’s not random, not something you’d find lying around. This is crafted for accuracy, for skill—for someone who knows how to fucking kill.
Chapter Nineteen
Raven
