“But first,” I say softly, “those fingers.”
I tilt my head, meeting his gaze with a bright smile. “The ones you used to yank my sister’s hair. Very rude of you.”
I don’t give him time to plead. The blade comes down on the first finger. A wet crack. A thud. His body jolts, then slows. On the second finger, his voice is gone. By the third, his eyes glaze. By the fourth he’s so far gone I doubt he feels anything at all.
I tap his cheek with the flat of my knife. “Wake up. Come on, don’t sleep yet.” My voice drips with false disappointment. “I don’t have much time to play.”
He sags forward, barely conscious, blood pooling beneath him. His breath rattles like loose screws.
“It’s too bad you won’t be awake for the best part,” I whisper.
A soft whimper escapes him.
“Do you want four or eight legs on your octopus?”
His eyes roll back before passing out.
“Spoilsport,” I huff. “Eight it is.”
I don’t bother checking if he’s alive. It makes no difference. I go to work methodically, pinning him in place, carving symmetrical slices, shaping the grotesque little creature I once threatened Jory with. I end each motion with a grunt, mimicking a man’s weight as if I’m the one being overpowered. Between each cut, I let out a scream that ricochets off the walls.
“Please! Please stop!”
“No, don’t! I’ll do anything!”
“Please don’t kill me!”
My voice fractures into pleas and sobs, carefully layered for any ears beyond the door. I let the cries weaken on purpose, stretching the timing, dragging them out. To anyone listening, it’ll sound like I’m slipping away.
In reality, I’m only getting started.
Chapter Eighteen
Ronan
The basement door clicks shut behind us as we slip inside. The bay doors are sealed tight, and everything inside me turns razor sharp. We came in through an old employee entrance; the lock easy to pick, abandoned to time and neglect. This is the point of no return. Kimber and Berk are somewhere above us. And every second we waste is another second Dean gets to keep breathing.
Rowan moves first, slipping ahead with that fluid, predatory ease he’s always had. Emerson follows, sweeping low with his barrel, methodical and steady. I anchor the back, every sense tuned to movement, sound, breath, danger.
The loading dock yawns wide, a cavern of concrete and rusted steel. The air tastes of old oil and mold, laced with a metallic tang that sinks into your lungs and refuses to leave. Three truck bays stretch along the far wall. Forklifts sit abandoned, frozen mid-task. Tarps drape over crates stacked into makeshift walls, each one stamped with the HL logo.
Horizon Logistics.
Their empire lay out across the floor like a confession.
Two guards stand near the service lift—one leaning on a pallet jack, the other scrolling his phone like he’s bored out of his mind. Perfect. Idiots make the easiest corpses.
I raise my silencer.
Emerson mirrors me.
Rowan angles slightly, ready to pounce if either man twitches wrong.
Two muffled shots.
Two bodies dropping like sacks of meat.
Rowan is on them within seconds, hauling both bodies behind a stack of crates without breaking stride. Emerson kneels beside them, stripping their weapons clean and unclipping the walkies from their belts. He checks for IDs but comes up empty.