Page 136 of Shattered Souls
Exhaling, Riley gives a slight shake of her head. “I hit him over the head with a lamp. I-I don’t know if he is… I just ran. I-I don’t know.”
“It’s okay. Grayson will be here soon, and he can update us.”
“I hope he’s dead.”
They’re the first words Riley has spoken tonight that haven’t been coated in hysteria or panic. The steel in her tone, the sheer strength. Well, fuck, now might not be the time or place, but it gets me fucking hard.
“If he’s not, he’s going to wish he was, real fucking soon.”
Logan’s tone drips with menace, eyes flashing with delight at whatever torture he’s imagining. He might be a golden retriever. He might come across as the laid-back, easy-going one of us, but if anyone hurts someone he cares about, he can be just as ruthless as me.
It’s what makes the three of us such good friends.
Grayson is like a phantom—silent and deadly.
Logan is the fist to the face you never see coming.
And I’m the brick wall you slam into when you try to flee.
Together? We’re fucking deadly.
Especially when you come after either of our girls.
Riley’s eyes begin to droop, exhaustion weighing her down. “Go to sleep, sweetheart,” I encourage, bringing my lips to her knuckles. She gives me a small, sleepy smile as she sinks deeper into the pillows. “We’ll look after Aurora and be here when you wake up.”
With that reassurance, her lids drop closed, and knowing she’ll be alright, I finally allow myself to relax as my head drops to the mattress beside our joined hands, and I close my eyes.
38
GRAYSON
Iwatch as the ambulance speeds away, its sirens blaring and flashing lights cutting through the night like a blade. My lips are flattened into a grim line at the thought of Riley inside, unconscious. She better be okay! Royce is with her, and he said he’d keep me updated—which is the only reason I’m still standing here.
Another ambulance follows, taking Aurora and Logan. I can’t help the knot of worry tightening in my chest. It’s been squeezing tighter since I first spotted those flames in the distance. Arriving to find the house engulfed in flames was like waking up in a living nightmare. Then, seeing Aurora and Riley like that—Aurora scared out of her mind and Riley so fragile… It broke something inside me.
Turning my back on the ambulances, I stare up at the blacked-out carcass of what was my childhood home. The flames have mostly been subdued, and the firefighters are methodically working to put out the last stubborn pockets of fire. The smell of smoke hangs heavy in the air, acrid and suffocating. I stare at the wreckage of what was once a house, now reduced to charred remains.
The only reason I’m still here is to hear if there is any word on my father. Not because I care, but because I want to make sure the bastard is truly dead. I need to see it with my own eyes.
After what feels like hours of waiting, the fire chief finally approaches me. His face is grim, eyes shadowed with the weight of what he has to say. “The cause was a gas stove left on,” he explains. “The fire spread quickly, probably started in the kitchen. If there’s any consolation, it was an accident.”
An accident? I nearly snort aloud. This was no accident.
There’s no stopping the curl of my lips as it dawns on me, and I turn away, pretending I’ve got a bit of ash in my eye. Riley. My smart, fierce Tempest. I bet it was her. She must have turned it on when my father was distracted, creating an opportunity for them to escape—even if it meant risking everything. I mentally praise her for being strong and clever, even in the face of danger.
When I turn toward the fire chief again, my face is impassive as I listen to him explain how the fire spread, what his men are doing to combat it, and the likely outcome. I have no interest in saving anything, so I don’t give two shits if the entire building is razed.
“Any signs of anyone else in the house?” I ask him.
“Nothing yet,” he says grimly. “But we’ll keep clearing rooms.”
Time drags on as I continue to wait, watching the firefighters move through the wreckage, their shouts and orders filling the air. Then, suddenly, there’s a commotion. Voices rise, and the controlled chaos escalates as a group gathers near the front door.
My heart pounds in my chest, a mix of dread and anticipation swelling inside me. I take a few steps closer, trying to see through the haze of smoke and steam rising from the scorched earth.
Then I see it—a body being lifted out. He's burnt, his skin charred and blistered, but there's movement. He's alive. Barely. EMTs rush over from a standby ambulance, scurrying around him, working quickly to stabilize him. Their efficiency is clinical and detached, and I watch as they check his vitals, administer oxygen, and prepare him for transport. He's unconscious, a mere husk of the man I despise, but he's still breathing.
Before they can lift him onto the stretcher, I step forward, catching their attention. “Where are you taking him?” My voice is sharper than I intend, the words laced with the remnants of my anger.
