Page 119 of Crave
Only now, something had ripped through the heart of it.
A shattered crate of Lalique crystal vases lay strewn across the concrete. A display table, once holding a sixteenth-century Venetian clock was overturned. The clock itself lay in pieces, its delicate gold-plated hands pointing nowhere.
“Kieran,” I murmured, reaching around for the gun at my back. Someone was here…recently.
The second Kieran stepped ahead his body went rigid. “Fuck.”
I rounded the side of a large shipping crate and stopped dead.
There, hanging from the steel beam above us, was Sloane.
Stripped to the waist, his arms were hooked behind him, wrists bound so tightly they cut into his skin. Blood—so much fucking blood—ran down his arms and chest, pooling onto the polished concrete below him.
They gutted him.
His abdomen was ripped open, a jagged canyon of flesh and ruin, his organs exposed—something raw and gaping in the harsh warehouse light. His head hung to the side, eyes glassy, mouth slack as if the last thing he tried to say had been stolen from him. There was a piece of paper stapled to his chest, the words smeared in his own blood.
I stepped close, ripping it free to read the crimson stained words.
A liar always bleeds. A traitor always dies.
Hand her over, or you’ll all join him.
But underneath, lined red ink—one final sentence.
Angelica, we’re coming.
My vision tunnelled. The room blurred into nothing but raw, pulsing fury. A scream ripped through the warehouse.
Notmine.
Kieran’s gun was already swinging wide as shadows moved all around me and I caught the glint of steel far too late.
I barely had time to move, dodging the first swing—the knife missing my throat by inches, slicing through my jacket instead. Pain flared along my ribs, sharp and hot.
I caught the bastard’s wrist before the knife could arc again, twisting my body and drove his own blade into the fucker’s gut.
The man grunted, his breath turning wet.
I twisted the blade deeper, forcing it so far inside the glistening steel disappeared. Kieran grunted loud and brutal behind me, but I was transfixed by my attacker as his eyes went wide…wide enough to see the fear trapped inside.
Come for my fuckingFAMILY!
Rage roared through my veins, humming louder than any thunderous pulse ever could. I twisted the knife deeper, then wrenched it free, spun and slammed the blade into the enforcer neck, pinning Kieran to the ground.
The asshole jerked upright, blood spurted from the gash the blade left behind before he gave a sickening gasp, choking on his own blood, then crumpled to the floor.
But it wasn’t over.
A third attacker emerged from the dark with a machete raised high in his hand. I saw it far too late, the hatchet arced down, carving through the air before it bit deep into my shoulder, slicing through flesh and muscle. The pain was instant—blinding, electrifying.
He staggered, but his grip tightened around his own weapon. I lunged, ignoring the fire in my shoulder. The asshole grinned—until I smashed the hilt of the blade into my hand into his face.
Bone cracked.
But I didn’t stop, driving my attacker back against a crate, my fist colliding with his skull over…and over again.
A gurgled scream—then silence, before he slowly crumbled to the ground, his back sliding down the wooden pallet.
