Page 157 of The Outlaw's Savage Revenge

He thinks I’m still in Harmony. He’d taken the blow surprisingly well. All he asked was if I could come and talk to him in person.

Ofcourse, I promised. I just have no clue when that would be. He’s likely self-destructing right now, but I can’t let myself think about him.

Luna, though. Nico and Dante will look out for her, and so will Phoenix. She’ll be more than fine. No doubt loving her life as a biker chick.

I stare at my phone so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t burst into flames. It’s around five in the morning in Harmony right now. She’s still asleep.

Or maybe she’s lying wide awake the same way you have for the past seven days.

Don’t do it, Cade. You’ve done well so far. Don’t screw it up now.

I pick up the cell phone and dial. As the phone rings, my fingers trace the tattoo on my chest.

Druids till the reaper takes me

The words of the Reaper Druids etched into my skin, into my very being. My eyes drift to the kill list spread out beside the tablet. Names crossed out, lives ended by my hand. Only a few left and one less tonight.

I tell myself this is not caving. I just need a minute to see if she’s really okay.

“Luciana.”

Her voice comes through, warm and sleepy. “Oh wow. The Moscow Strangler has a moment to spare? To what do I owe the honor?”

I fight the laugh rumbling in my chest. “That’s a terrible name, princess. Make it classier.”

“Oh? Like what? The Kremlin Killer? The Red Square Reaper?”

Her snicker fills my ear, and I close my eyes, letting it wash over me. For a moment, I’m back in Harmony, her head on my chest, the world quiet and safe.

“How’re you?” I clear my throat, trying to shake off the longing settling in my bones.

“Missing you,” she says softly.

I swallow hard, my free hand clenching into a fist. “Luciana—”

“Hey, just stating cold hard facts,” her tone lightens. “So, guess what I’ve been up to while you’ve been gone?”

“What?”

“Working on Phoenix’s manners.”

I scoff. “Good luck with that.”

“I know, I’ll need it. My God, Cade, he’s so grouchy he winds me up all the time. But I’m confident it’s doable. Take you for example. You’re practically neutered.”

My laugh comes easier this time. Talking to her feels so damn good. Normal. Like I haven’t spent a week avoiding her and digging my own grave. Like I’m not about to kill a man—

“Speaking of winding,” she purrs, “I’ve been wondering about something you did.”

“What did I do?”

“Your rosary,” she says softly, all playfulness gone. “Did you leave it on my wrist on purpose? Like . . . like a stupid promise ring or something? Because that would be lame—like ‘ick’ territory lame.”

I think of the rosary—of all it represents. My past. My vengeance. My pain. And yes, I deliberately left it with her.

“I agree. It was pathetic. See, I left in such a hurry, I didn’t have time to yank it off you.”

“I noticed. You literally couldn’t wait to go and die.”

---