Page 59 of Whispers of the Dead

“Do you care about her well-being after nearly dying, or is it more about getting your dick wet?”

Avery laughs. A real laugh this time. “Straight to the point. I respect that.” His eyes flick between me and Cole, and I catch something calculating in his expression. “You know, this room is far more interesting with the two of youin it.” He tilts his head in mocking thought. “Maybe we could all have some fun together.”

Heat starts in my core at the implication and then I feel it creeping up my neck, but I refuse to react.

Cole eyes my reddening ears, and I’m grateful when he looks away. He tilts his head to indicate Avery’s hand in his pocket. “What exactly did you do to the guy who toyed with Zoey’s insulin?”

Avery’s face remains unreadable. Blank as a fresh canvas. Colder than the rotters outside these walls. “I took care of it. Like I said, I fucking care.”

The tension thickens. Then a dreg steps inside with an expression tight with urgency. “Avery, we need you. Now.”

Avery lets out a long, dramatic sigh before turning his head and glancing over his shoulder as though the intrusion was bothersome. “Of course you do.” His tone is bored. He shakes his head. “Everyone always needs me.”

His eyes flick back to me one last time, but they’re too dark and unreadable.

“Don’t worry, firecracker. This isn’t over.” Then he walks away, and the room feels colder in his absence.

Cole glances over at me. “Firecracker?”

I shrug. “It’s a thing.”

Avery pauses at the door and gestures to two dregs who are waiting outside. “Escort them back to their cells. Nicely. And give her your jacket. I never want to see goosebumps on her arms again.”

I glance down and am surprised at the raised bumps on my arms that I didn’t even notice. Regardless, I gladly accept the blue cotton jacket that’s three sizes too big.

23

AVERY

The room reeks of sweat and blood. The kind of scent that clings to the walls, seeps into clothes, and settles deep in the bones of whatever lingers too long.

A man sits slumped over in a small wooden chair in the center of the room. His head hangs low and blood drips from his split lip and onto the concrete floor. His breathing is shallow, labored, and I can tell he’s trying to gauge how much fight he has left.

Not much, I’d wager.

I lean against the wall, arms crossed, watching him like a hawk sizing up prey.

My men, the only four I trust right now, flank the room. They’re silent and motionless, their presence a quiet but deadly reminder of where this pathetic excuse for a man stands in the hierarchy. Or rather, where he sits.

Actually, I don’t want to be anywhere in the hierarchy line. That’s why I stepped away months ago, but Eugene’s unraveling doesn’t give me much of a choice, which I’m pretty pissed about, so this should be fun. “You’re going to tell me everything.”

There’s no room for negotiation in my tone. This isn’t aconversation. Eugene’s been amusing enough, a curious little game to watch unfold, but lines have been crossed.

He crossed the last line the moment he toyed with Zoey’s life. Now this sniveling, gutless coward in front of me is about to pay the price.

I push off the wall and take a slow, deliberate step forward. “What exactly has Eugene been ordering you to do with Zoey?”

Barnes lifts his head. One eye is swollen shut courtesy of my right fist, but the other glares at me with all the pathetic and meek defiance he can muster.

His blood-stained teeth flash in a sneer. “Why do you care? She’s not yours. She’s nothing to you.”

The corner of my mouth twitches upward, but it’s not a smile.

Oh, I care, but I’m not about to give him that satisfaction. Hell, I can barely even admit it to myself, let alone out loud. “You want to talk about caring? I suggest you start caring about what happens to you if you don’t answer the question.”

He still doesn’t answer. What a stubborn little bitch.

I crouch in front of him so my face is level with his, so close that he can see exactly how much control I’m exercising not to rip his spine out through his mouth. I tilt my head and drop my voice to something colder. “What. Has. Eugene. Been. Ordering. You. To. Do?”

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