Page 11 of Marked
It’s such a close resemblance to what was on Lilah’s hips that fire rolls through my veins. Squashed fast under the memory of her blatant hatred of what I am.
“Cops grabbed the owner, Vic, seven staff members, two dealers, a whore, and a partridge in a pear tree.” T walks back to us, sliding his phone in his pocket as he speaks. “A female, L. Marks was released back to society an hour ago.”
“Which means, the owner will be in holding,” Gage adds, ignoring the other man as he watches me for orders. “Untouchable until he makes bond.”
I snarl. “Fuck me.”
Gage smirks. “Fangs aren’t my thing, Cap.”
I flip him off.
“What about the girl?” T asks. “Lilah? That would be with an ‘L’, true? Could she be the ‘L. Marks’ that was released already?”
My body turns, ready to slip him the same gesture as the Fae for even bringing the woman up.
“Girl?” Caine calls from part way up the stairs. “What girl?”
I glower.
If looks could torch ...
“She may know something. Even if it’s just where the fuck’s house is,” Gage reasons. “We could get her address easy enough from staff records. Pop over and—”
“No,” I snap. Clamping my lips into a hard line, I roll my head on my neck. My body is wound so tight, it makes everything snap, crack, and pop. “I got it. Head to the compound. I’ll bring her in.”
And I will.
Because of the human woman, we lost Vlad. Lost our lead. And she is going to give me another one. Whether she likes it or not.
Hell, whether she likesmeor not.
Chapter 6
Lilah
My hands shake as I shove balled up pairs of socks in my bag. The streetlight outside offers enough light to see by through the old gossamer curtains. But dawn will be here soon.
Too soon.
Every small noise is the foreshadowing of my demise; Vic’s hired thugs coming to take the breath from my lungs and the blood from my veins. I snare the last few shirts, crumble them on top, and cinch the old ties as tight as they will go.
Below the open window, the soft snick of a car door closing floats up to my ears. I still, hand on the strap. Masculine grumbles rise between the sills.
I dart over and lean against the wall. Three massive male forms step over the front walk, a keen, inhuman glint to more than one pair of eyes.
Shit.
Racing towards the hall door, I ignore the lights and the keys and fly out to the landing. I run down the cement corridor. The back set of stairs are dark and dilapidated from lack of use. Stained. I hurtle down them, bag high on my shoulder.
Louisiana humidity hits me square in the face as I clear the hall and step into the open night. I race over the barren backyard of the apartment building, tripping and stumbling on a discarded watering hose. Sprawled out, palms slick, my heart slams. I wait for the shouts, the baying howls of my own personal hell chasing me. There is nothing but my erratic breathing.
I climb to my feet and take off again.
At the back of the long, half-rotted fence, a narrow space waits between propped up slats. I shove my bag through and dive out after it. No cars flow up and down the roadway, but the bushes and overgrown trees make seeing beyond my hiding place difficult.
Moving cautiously, I right myself and set off down the sidewalk at a fast clip.
It won’t take long for Vic’s goons to put two and two together. Empty apartment, missing bag ... no car.
