Page 46 of The Outlaw's Savage Revenge

There’s something darker taking root. Something I dare not name, let alone examine. Something that whispers this is exactly who Cade was all along, and maybe that’s why I couldn’t look away from the first moment I set eyes on him.

Time stretches like melted candy, sticky and surreal until Hector’s body goes completely limp. Cade holds his position for several calculated heartbeats before he finally straightens, and lets Hector crumple to the ground. The rosary unwinds from Hector’s neck, beads glinting as it dangles from Cade’s steady hands.

I swallow hard, ears straining for sirens, for the distant wail of police, for any sound that would make this feel real. But the road stays dead quiet. Unnaturally quiet. No cars, no witnesses, no curious faces at windows.

It’s as if the world knows better than to interrupt Cade Quinn at work. As if reality itself has pressed pause, holding its breath in the aftermath of his violence.

And this is the person I’ve asked to help me—this avenging angel of death, the executioner. I am so far out of my depth that I can’t even see the surface.

Heputs the rosary back on, tucking it behind the tactical vest and T-shirt until it’s once again hidden from sight. Then his head snaps up, eyes finding me with laser precision. Not that I’m hard to spot, since I’m practically dangling out the window, gawking like some twisted Rapunzel.

The smile that curves his lips isn’t like the one I saw earlier—this one’s warm and real. He lifts one finger, waving it back and forth in a ‘you shouldn’t have’ gesture that somehow manages to be both playful and terrifying.

And I am terrified, only, what scares me the most is the way my lips twitch, returning his smile. It must be adrenaline. It has to be. Surely I’m not that sick.

The smile vanishes like it never appeared and that familiar stoic mask slides back into place. When his hand moves to his pocket, my whole body tenses, ready for another weapon. Instead, he pulls out a phone, and I realize I’ve been holding my breath.

His eyes stay locked on mine as he lifts the phone, his voice pitched too low to catch. The rhythm of it, clipped and controlled, tells me all I need to know: he’s arranging a cleanup, not calling for help.

Well, since he’s wrapping up his . . . activities(murder, Luna, call it what it is),I might as well join the party downstairs. Better than waiting for him to zoom off and leave me to explain this bloodbath to the cops. Though I’m not sure which prospect is scarier—facing the police or facing him.

Climbing down proves to be a lot harder. Every bone in my body is rattling, and every nerve is on high alert. By the time my feet hit solid ground, I’m covered in dust and I’ve added a few new tears to my already abused skirt.

Each step toward him feels like walking into deeper water. My pulse spikes as the distance between us closes. Cade tucks his phone away, and then his eyes bore into mine with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.

An awkward silence stretches between us, thick and loaded with everything that’s dying to be said.

Dear Lord, what’s the etiquette here?Nice kill? Lovely technique with that rosary, do you take requests?

My mouth runs ahead of my common sense, as usual. “So, do you always accessorize with murder weapons?” I nod at the silver visible at his nape, “Or is it just for special occasions?”

His expression doesn’t change, but there’s a flicker in his eyes that could be amusement. Or annoyance. Or murderous intent. At this point, who knows?

“I told you not to watch,” his voice is like gravel wrapped in velvet.

It’s not quite a reprimand, but there’s an edge that makes me want to take a step back. I shrug instead, aiming for nonchalance. “Yeah, well, you’ll find I don’t always do as I’m told.”

Silence, again. He watches me like he expects me to crack. As if the meltdown currently happening behind my carefully constructed calm isn’t enough for him.

“Anyway, I imagine that was you calling the clean-up guys. So we should be good to leave. Where are we going next?”

A single brow arches—no doubt at my use of “we,” and for a moment I wonder if I might have overstepped. But hell, after what I’ve just seen him do, I’ve fucking earned the right to use whatever pronoun I damn well choose.

Cade takes a step closer, and suddenly, I’m acutely aware of how much he towers over me. The air between us feels charged, a force field of danger that makes me want to run, but I swallow my fear and stand my ground.

“I,”he emphasizes the word, “am going to get some supplies and then head to Moscow.”

“Ouch. You extended an invite to me less than an hour ago.”

“Yeah, and it expired the moment you turned it down because you thought I was planning to sell you.”

“I did not think—”

His gaze narrows, daring me to finish the lie. Those eyes could strip away paint and, apparently, bullshit.

“Okay, fine, the thought crossed my mind, but can you blame me? You're a trafficker. Who, given that . . . demonstration, has an interesting way of disagreeing with his partners.”

He pauses like he’s searching for the right words—a look that doesn’t fit him. “You shouldn’t ask for help from someone you don’t trust. And just so you know, trust goes both ways.”

---