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I turn and hurry toward the exit, curling my hand around the gun at my hip. I don’t like this. Not one fucking bit. I’m a few feet from the door when it slams shut, cloaking the warehouse in darkness once more.
“Fuck,” I hiss, pulling my gun from the holster at my hip.
I blink rapidly, willing my eyes to adjust to the lack of light as I back up against the door. If I can’t see, I need to keep my back covered so they can’t sneak up on me. My index tightens on the trigger, ready to fire at the slightest noise.
Click.
A light flicks on at the same time I shoot. The bulb bursts, sending a shower of glass to the floor as the room is cloaked in darkness once more.
“Jesus fuck! I’m going to turn on another light—don’t shoot it.”
That voice. My blood turns to ice as another light flicks on, illuminating the dark green leathers covering my best friend’s shoulders.
My chest squeezes as I look into those familiar chocolate eyes.
“Wes?” I choke, my finger sliding from the trigger. “I thought you were dead. I thought he—”
“Killed me? You know I’m too tough for that.” A low chuckle rumbles through the air.
I frown. Something’s not right. Wes isn’t right.
“Why am I locked in here with you?” I wonder, attempting to meet his gaze. I haven’t lowered my gun yet, and I’m starting to realize that might be the only reason I’m not fucking dead. They expected me to let my guard down in front of my best friend. He expected me to.
“Wes?” I demand. “Why am I locked in here with you?”
All at once, his mask drops, giving way to pure, unadulterated malice. “You always were too smart for your own fucking good.”
“What are you doing? Are you helping them?”
Wes throws his head back in a mocking laugh. “‘Are you helping them?’ God, listen to yourself. You sound fucking pathetic.”
“I trusted you.” My voice sounds foreign to my ears, like someone else has taken control of my voice box. Someone hurt. Someone vulnerable.
Wes has the decency to finally meet my eyes, but the hatred swirling in them causes the air to leave my lungs.
“You shouldn’t have.”
This can’t be happening. Not Wes. Anyone but him.
“Why?” I demand, my pulse thrumming wildly in my ears. “Why are you doing this?”
“It should be obvious,” he snarls, inching his hand toward his own weapon.
Click.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” I mutter, my thumb sliding from the safety. “I really don’t want to kill you. Please… please don’t make me.” The last part comes out barely above a whisper, meant more for my ears than his.
“You’re not going to hurt me,” he spits, reaching for his gun anyway. I aim the tip of my barrel down and to the side, and shoot.
“Fuck!” he screams, cradling his bloodied hand to his chest. “My fucking fingers!”
I cock the hammer and aim it between his eyes. “Open the door and let me out, Bear. We can still fix this.”
“Fuck. You,” he seethes, wrapping the last two of his fingers in his shirt. In his anger, he doesn’t manage to tie it off very well, and all it does is drench his tee in blood.
I take a step forward. “Here, let me help y—”
“No!” he screams, tearing his shirt clean from his back. “Get the fuck away from me! FUCK!” He doubles over as an inhumane roar tears from his throat. “I’m so fucking sick of you! It’s always about motherfucking Kain Hellfyre, and I’m SICK OF IT!” He straightens and takes a step toward me, his eyes holding a manic sheen. His movements are oddly choppy, like a tin soldier learning to walk. Like a man hooked on X.
