Page 97 of Rampage

"Nothing to say now?" Walter taunts, dragging the blade slowly across my skin.

I meet his gaze steadily, channeling every ounce of strength Reid has helped me discover within myself. My heart hammers against my ribs, desperate prayers cycling through my mind—please find me, please hurry—but my voice, when it comes, is steel.

"You're already dead," I tell him softly. "You just don't know it yet."

The distant rumble of motorcycles grows louder, unmistakable now. Walter's head snaps toward the window, panic flashing across his features.

The heavy-set man steps onto the porch, peering into the darkness. The silence stretches, taut as a wire.

"I don't see—" His words cut off abruptly, replaced by a wet gurgling sound. He staggers back through the doorway, a throwing knife protruding from his throat, before collapsing in a heap on the floor.

"What the fuck?" Walter hisses, backing away from me. "Danny, check the windows! You—" He points to the camera operator. "—get the gun!"

As they scramble to follow orders, Walter turns back to me, his eyes wild with a desperate, cornered-animal fury. He grabs the front of my shirt with both hands and yanks, the fabric tearing with a loud rip that echoes in the suddenly silent room. Cool air hits my exposed skin as he tears the shirt open to my navel, leaving me partially naked and vulnerable.

"Might as well enjoy the show before your boyfriend gets here," Walter sneers, one hand dropping obscenely to his crotch, squeezing himself through his jeans as his eyes rake over my exposed flesh.

"Maybe we'll let him watch, even let him see the camera rolling while we each take turns on you."

Walter's face then contorts with rage. He grabs my throat, squeezing until black spots dance at the edges of my vision. I focus on Reid's face in my mind, his blue eyes, his strong hands, the safety of his arms. If these are my final moments, I'll spend them thinking of him, not giving this monster the fear he craves.

His free hand reaches eagerly for my breast, fingers splayed and ravenous. A gunshot cracks through the room like thunder, sudden and deafening. The sound is so unexpected, so shockingly loud in the stillness, that I flinch against my restraints.

Walter screams, a high, shrill cry like a wounded animal, as blood sprays from his hand where a bullet has torn through his flesh. The wound is ragged, gushing, the hole in his palm large.

"Kill her," Walter orders, already backing toward the door. "Don't let them take her alive."

He’s ordering the youngest boy, the one who didn’t want to be here, and he raises his gun toward me.

I close my eyes, Reid's name a silent prayer on my lips.

The gunshot is deafening in the enclosed space, but the pain doesn't come. I open my eyes to see the man crumpling to the floor, a red stain blossoming across his chest.

"Touch her again and the next one goes between your eyes." Reid's voice, cold and deadly calm, comes from the doorway.

He stands like an avenging angel, his tall frame silhouetted against the night, gun extended in a two-handed grip that doesn't waver. Behind him, I glimpse other shadows—Mason, Lane, Christopher, his dad, and Greyson I recognize from the Devil Souls MC—fanning out with military precision.

Walter clutches his wrecked hand to his chest, blood streaming between his fingers. "You're too late," he spits, though fear has replaced the smugness in his eyes. "The whole world's already seen what we did to your little whore."

Something snaps in Reid. The cold calculation in his eyes transforms into something inhuman—pure, undiluted rage that turns his features feral. In three swift strides, he crosses the room to Walter, holstering his weapon.

"You don't get to look at her," Reid growls, his voice barely recognizable.

His fist connects with Walter's jaw with a sickening crack, sending the man stumbling backward. Reid follows, relentless, another blow landing on Walter's temple. Blood sprays across the wall as Reid drives his fist into Walter's nose next, bone giving way beneath his knuckles.

Walter tries to scramble away, but Reid seizes him by the throat, slamming him against the wall with such force the plaster cracks. His thumbs find Walter's eyes, pressing inward with merciless precision.

Walter's scream is primal, agonized as Reid's fingers sink deeper. Blood and fluid run down Walter's cheeks like grotesque tears as Reid systematically destroys the man's vision, his expression terrifyingly blank throughout the brutal act.

"You don't deserve to see her," Reid hisses, twisting his fingers before withdrawing them. "You don't deserve to see anything ever again."

Walter collapses, hands clutching at his ruined face, howling like a wounded animal. Reid steps back, his blood-covered hands still clenched at his sides, chest heaving with exertion.

"Reid," I whisper, my voice breaking through his rage-induced trance.

He turns to me, the murderous fury draining from his expression as our eyes meet. In three strides, he's at my side, gently cutting through the zip ties binding me to the chair.

"I'm here, baby," he murmurs, shrugging out of his jacket to wrap it around my torn clothing. His touch is impossibly tender, a stark contrast to the violence I just witnessed. "I've got you now."

---