Page 169 of The Outlaw's Savage Revenge

Right now, there’s no life for Scar to shadow anymore. And the life I have with Luna isn’t something that can be shared or duplicated.

A plaintive whine interrupts my thoughts. Saint. He’s right outside the door, his nails clicking against the floor in a restless rhythm. Pacing. That’s unusual for him first thing in the morning.

I ease my leg from between Luna’s thighs, careful not to wake her as I untangle our fingers and get dressed.

The moment I crack open the door, Saint’s on me, his body pressing against my legs.

“Hey, hey, mate.” I slip out, shutting the door quietly behind me. Saint’s behavior is off. He’s normally stoic in the mornings, but today he’s all nervous energy.

I lead him downstairs, heading out to run off whatever has him wound so tight. However, I catch sight of our discarded clothes strewn near the fireplace, so I make a quick detour to scoop them up.

As I grab my leather jacket, something hard drops from one of the pockets, hitting the wooden floor with a thunk.

My kill list.

Something else I wanted to give Luna.

Somehow, it’s still intact despite last night’s rain and all our antics. I shove it into my sweatpants pocket and grab the rest of the clothes off the floor.

“Come on, mate. Let’s go.”

I lead him into the pre-dawn air, but he refuses to patrol, sticking to my side like a shadow. Every few steps, he stops to push at me, as if herding me back inside.

“What’s up with you, mate?” I crouch and he immediately climbs into my lap—all hundred and fifty pounds of him. His whines grow sharper, his paws scrabbling at my chest. When I stand, he grabs my wrist in his mouth—not biting, just holding.

Something’s wrong.

Saint’s always been smart, more attuned to danger than any human. But this? This isn’t just anxiety. This is terror.

I head back inside, Saint practically glued to me. The kitchen light spills into the hallway through the partially open door. Faint sounds of ice clinking against glass tell me Scar is still in there.

I find him staring out through the kitchen window into the yard, unmoving as a statue. He must have been watching Saint fumble through his morning routine. He whirls at my entrance, vodkasloshing in his glass. His knuckles are raw and bleeding. Christ, he looks wrecked.

I move toward him, but Saint cuts me off, nearly knocking me back. “What the fuck, Saint Michael?” I look up at Scar. “What’s the matter with him? He’s been acting crazy since last night.”

Scar’s voice comes out as flat as his expression, which I recognize to be intense irritation. Scar is nothing if not controlled. “He was fine until you came back last night. Acting like a savage.” His lip curls. “What are you turning into, Cade? You act like you’ve never seen a woman before.”

I let that one slide. He’s not wrong. Luna and I need to talk about keeping things more . . . domesticated. Or maybe just find somewhere with actual privacy. All I know is I’m mad for her, completely gone, and she doesn’t help matters.

“We’ll take it elsewhere tonight—”

Saint’s whine cuts through my apology, his body trembling against my legs as he tries to herd me back.

“You want to see Luciana? Is that it?” I try for casual, ignoring his whine. “She’s tired—”

The glass explodes in Scar’s grip. Blood drips between his fingers, and his eyes—so much like mine—look haunted.

“Scar. Talk to me.”

“Talk?” His laugh comes out broken, like everything else about him right now. “You want to talk? You’ve nailed my coffin shut and now you want to talk.”

“You understood that this . . . arrangement couldn’t last forever. Hawkins is dead.”

Another laugh “And whose fault was that? I fucking warned you, you selfish son of a bitch.”

“This was happening regardless. The Division has always been a shell, controlled by—”

“By the fucking Beast of New York. Yeah, you managed to throw in a two-word explanation in between your fuckathon last night.” More blood drips, joining the vodka on the floor. His hands are shaking, but it’s not from the cuts because his threshold for physical pain is sky-high.

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