Page 127 of The Ashes of Summer

"Fuck."

"Yeah," Adelaide says. "That's what I thought."

Ten minutes later, we're back in the SUV heading for the Ridge, towels spread over the seat beneath me because for all the bandaging, blood is still working its way slowly through the dressing. Summer checks it every few minutes, her hand sliding under the edge of the spare jacket Tamara pulled out of lost property for me.

The roads are dark and empty this late. Nobody talks much—the adrenaline crash is catching all of us at once. Adelaide drives with both hands locked on the wheel, and every so often I catch her eyes flicking to the mirror. Not at the road. At the blood on my clothes, making sure I'm still breathing.

Summer curls into my side for the whole drive. It can't be comfortable for her and I don't stop her, because every time she touches me something in my chest settles a fraction.

The Ridge comes back into view twenty minutes later, and somehow it looks worse than when we left it. The gates hang half open. Emergency lights still flash across the property. There are bodies on the driveway that haven’t been moved, and the whole place looks like a war zone.

Good. That's exactly what his empire turned into.

Adelaide pulls up near the main entrance, and the second I get out the cold slams into me along with the smell that's settled over the property. Smoke and blood. I grit my teeth and start walking.

We go in through the front and head for the room where they held us, and Carter appears at the entrance almost as we reach it. Christ, he looks nearly as bad as I do—blood all over his clothes, knuckles split open, fresh bruising along the side of his jaw.

But his eyes go straight past me to Adelaide, checking she's okay. Something eases in his face when he finds her standing there, and then his attention comes back to me.

"You look like shit, boss."

I glance at his knuckles. "You too."

A humorless grin pulls at the corner of his mouth, then fades. "He's waiting for you." Something wicked works its way onto his face. "Should warn you, though. He's barely alive. Conscious, but barely."

A smile tugs at my mouth, because today's the day Jackson Moore meets the devil.

Summer's hand slides into mine and we start walking. The closer we get, the more the air smells like blood. Fresh blood.

Carter looks at Summer. "You sure you want to see this?"

Her fingers tighten around mine. "Yes."

He studies her a second longer. Then steps aside.

Jackson Moore is chained to a chair in the middle of the room, and Jesus Christ. Summer's shot went through his thigh, high on the outside—there's a wide dark stain soaked into the leg of his trousers and a puddle beneath the chair, but from the angle of it she missed the artery.

Lucky bastard. Though looking at the rest of him, I'm not sure lucky's the word.

His face is destroyed. Blood coats his mouth and chin, one eye's swollen almost shut, the side of his jaw's gone dark with bruising, and there's dried blood across his teeth where somebody split his lip open more than once.

He lifts his head as we come closer. And despite all of it—the blood loss, the swelling, the chains—he smiles.

"Well," he rasps. "There they are."

My hand tightens around the gun Carter handed me. Summer steps in closer to me while Carter moves past us and leans against the wall.

I look at Jackson's face again. Then at Carter's swollen knuckles.

"I see Carter had fun with you while I was gone?"

Carter blinks once. "Wasn’t me, boss."

My brow pulls in. Jackson lets out a weak laugh that turns into a cough, blood dripping off his chin.

And then, from behind us, Constance walks into the room.

Her dark hair is tied messily back. There's blood smeared up her sleeves and exhaustion carved into her face, and her eyes are murderous. She folds her arms and looks directly at Jackson.