Page 218 of Lethal King

The attack on that union building was clearly a distraction. My worry now is that it was a distraction to separate Roz and me.

My heart sinks.

I just want to feel her again.

Closing my eyes, I picture her in that elegant red gown one last time. The stale mansion air tingles with electricity.

With a final deep breath, I rip my eyes back open. A sneer twists my lips.

Let’s do this.

My gun whips around the corner first. When nothing attacks it, I follow. The hallway ahead is darker than the one I just came down, but it’s just as empty.

Looking ahead, I search for more bloody footprints.

But they disappear just a couple of yards ahead. A pair of bloody handprints stain the walls, just below a bent sconce. Then, there’s nothing.

The stale air thickens. My fingers curl tightly around my gun handle. There must be another hidden door.

Cautiously, I approach the bent sconce. When I pull at it, though, it hardly budges. When I pull harder, it rips off the wall.

“Fuck…” I mumble, jumping back.

So much for being quiet. The metal fixture clanks against the creaky floor as I rip my gaze ahead, half expecting to see Tytus charging at me from the darkness.

But all I get is silence.

… Until I hear the faintest dripping sound.

What the fuck is that?

Turning around, I hold my breath and listen for it again.

The next drop is louder than the last.

My gaze drops to the floor. There, right next to my feet, I find a spot of blood that I swear wasn’t there before.

My hackles rise.

I’m already lifting my gun to shoot at the ceiling when a huge weight falls on me. My knees buckle under the force. I hit the ground with a heavy thud and the wind is momentarily knocked out of me.

My gun goes flying across the floor.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” A growl comes from on top of me.

The voice is red with anger. It lashes into my ear as I fight to push myself up. But before I can get to my knees, a thick forearm wraps around my throat and shoves me back to the ground.

“Fuck off,” I rasp, scratching at the impossibly powerful grip strangling me.

“You first,” the voice barks. Black spots pop up in my vision as I scramble to reach for the knife taped to my ankle. But whoever’s on my back has me pinned down so hard I can barely move.

“I swear to fucking god,” I curse. Closing my eyes, I touch my chin to the fucker’s forearm, then plunge the back of my skull directly into his forehead.

I hear a crack. The grip around my neck eases just enough that I can wrestle my own forearm through the chokehold.

“You fucking asshole,” the fucker shouts, falling backward.

I reach down for my knife and turn around. But before I even see my attacker, I’m greeted by a fist.