Page 41 of Ruin Me
I kick it open. “Jackpot.”
Stairs plunge into darkness. I go down, Quen on my heels, our footsteps heavy on the wooden steps. Every step down tightens the coil in my gut, fury simmering hot and dangerous.
We emerge into a dingy basement, and the first thing I see is Vogue, half stripped, chained to a bed. Two guards look up and then rise when they see it’s us, hands reaching for their guns.
But they aren’t quick enough. Not by a long shot.
Quen’s axe swings through the air, its edge catching one guard across the throat. Blood arcs, and the man clutches at his neck, gurgling, eyes bulging in shock before he hits the ground.
The second guard aims his gun at me, but he’s trembling, fear in his eyes. I aim and fire before he can squeeze the trigger. The bullet sinks into his chest, and he drops with a loud groan.
We are surrounded within seconds, Thayer and Harry joining us with half a dozen Vipers on their tail.
“Hold tight, Vogue,” I state. “This won’t take long.”
My blood boils at the sight of her, but I push it down. These bastards have touched what’s ours. I don’t think; I act. I’m on them before they can even react, my gun death incarnate as I squeeze the trigger. The Vipers fall, tripping over themselves and each other in their panic to get away from the fury of The Crowned Syndicate.
Thayer’s blade is a silver flash in the dim light, carving paths through flesh. He’s silent as always, buthis eyes tell the story—anger, protectiveness, a hint of satisfaction with every thrust and parry. Harry uses his fists and knuckles, which are coated in red, and his face is set into a mask of grim determination. Quen’s axe is dripping blood. He hacks limbs from bodies; the screeching from the violence feeds the devil inside me, and I turn to Vogue.
“Who touched you?” I growl.
“Pinkie,” she stammers.
I pause in my rage. “Who?”
She gives me a weak smile. “The one you shot first.”
Spinning back to the asshole that is still alive, gurgling as he chokes on his own blood, I crouch over him, pulling my knife from my boot. “You touched what’s mine, and now you will die, but before you go, I’m going to make you suffer, you little prick.”
My words are ice, no hint of emotion as I press the blade against his skin. He whimpers, but I’ve got no mercy left in me. I carve into him slowly—precision guided by rage. He screams, but the sound is drowned by the club’s pounding bass. His blood stains my hands, and it feels glorious.
Quen’s shadow falls over us, letting me know we are clear, for now. “Callum, we’ve got to move,” he says, voice taut with urgency. “They’ve called in reinforcements.”
“Get Vogue.” I nod, knowing he’s right. We can’t linger with Vogue vulnerable, and our power at the university is compromised. I stand, wiping my bladeon the soon-to-be-dead man’s shirt before turning back to Vogue.
Quen is already by her side, raising his axe to bring the incredibly sharp blade down on the metal chaining her to the bed. She whimpers, her eyes are wide, watching us with terror but trust as well.
I get to work on the cuffs around her raw wrists, using the tip of my knife to pop the locks. As soon as she is freed from the manacles, she clings to me for a moment before we all turn our attention to getting out. The club is chaos above us – alarms blaring, people screaming.
“Can you walk just while we get up the stairs?” I ask, deftly pulling her shirt closed and tying it off as best I can to cover her up. We could carry her, but we’d be leaving our hands tied instead of free for more carnage.
She nods, even though her legs are shaky.
We move up the stairs in tight formation, Vogue in the middle, protected on all sides by our violent promise. The sense of urgency is discernible as we push through the maze of bodies and wreckage.
Quen cuts a path through the havoc, and we burst back into the now-empty alleyway. We’re stained in blood, breathing heavily from exertion and adrenaline. The van’s waiting where we left it, so I scoop Vogue up into my arms and carry her towards it while Thayer, showing what a sneaky fucker he can be, pulls the pin on a grenade with his teeth and tosses it down the alley to stop anyone from following us through the back, the front being crowded withpanicked club-goers with no clear route for anyone to get out.
As the explosion rocks the alley, I slide Vogue into the back of the van, and Quen climbs in after her, brushing her hair gently out of her face. She gives me a weak smile, and then he holds her tightly. I leave them to it as I leap back into the driver’s seat, Thayer and Harry clambering into the back and slam the door closed behind them.
Vogue launches herself at Harry, holding him close. “You’re alive.”
He grunts from the agony of having his shoulder jolted by the fight and her hold on him, but he hugs her back just as fiercely. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs.
“It’s okay. We’re both still here.”
After that, none of us says a word. The silence isn’t comfortable, but it’s necessary. We’re all processing, recalibrating after what we’ve just been through.
My mind is now reeling from everything we’ve had to sacrifice for this mission.
