He stands up, adjusting his cufflinks. “I knew when I first purchased Ellie that it was a trap. I would have to be an idiot not to know that the last few men and women who bought her ended up dead. The Divine One obviously wanted me taken out—probably because I’ve never bought into the whole Cassia religion.” He chuckles, a dry, dusty sound. “But The Divine One underestimates how much a single night with a creature like Ellie is worth. It’s a price I’ll gladly pay.”
Something inside me snaps. It’s not a clean break. It’s a violent, shattering explosion. The pain, the straps, the cross—it all fades away. There is only his voice, his words, and the image of Ellie in his hands.
A roar tears from my throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated fury. I thrash against my restraints, the leather biting into my wrists and ankles, the frame of the cross groaning under the strain. I’m not a man anymore; I’m an animal, and I will tear him apart with my teeth.
The weasel with the knife steps forward, ready to shut me up for good.
And then his head explodes.
It’s not a metaphor. One moment, he’s there; the next, his face is a shower of red and gray mist, and his body is collapsing to the floor. The other three fuckers don’t even have time to register surprise before their heads erupt in a similar, violent fashion. They drop in unison, a quartet of puppets with their strings cut.
Moreau stares, his mouth agape in horror. Before he can scream, a dark figure moves from the doorway like a shadow. There’s a sickening thud of metal meeting bone, and Moreau crumples to the floor in a heap.
The figure steps into the light.
Landon.
He’s holding a silenced pistol, probably one he stole from a dead POP guard, a grim, tired look on his face. He lowers his weapon and looks at me, strapped to the cross, bloody and furious.
“Well, look at you,” he says, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. “The pretty princess in her tower. And I suppose this makes me your handsome prince.”
“Cut me down, asshole,” I rasp.
He works quickly, cutting the leather straps with a combat knife that he takes from the dead weasel—the same knife they used to slice at my skin.
I slump to the floor, my muscles screaming in protest, but the rage is a fire in my veins, burning away the weakness. I don’t waste a second. I grab Moreau’s discarded suit jacket, wrap it around my fist, and kick the unconscious man onto his back. Landon doesn’t say a word. He just hands me his knife.
I don’t remember everything I do. It’s a blur of motion and a symphony of wet, tearing sounds. I know I make it last. I know Imake him pay for every filthy word he spoke about Ellie. When I’m finally done, I’m breathing hard, covered in blood that isn’t all mine, and the rage has cooled into a single, burning purpose.
It’s done.
Mr. Moreau won’t hurt Ellie ever again.
He won’t hurt anyone.
Landon claps a hand on my shoulder. “Come on. We have to move.”
We have to move.
We have to move.
We have to move.
I suck in a shuddering breath.
Ellie needs me.
With considerable effort, I pull myself away from Mr. Moreau’s dead, beaten body and give Landon a curt nod. That one eloquent motion says,I’m in control. I’m fine. We need to find our girl.
We stumble out into the hallway, leaving the carnage behind us.
That’s when we see them.
A team of men and women in tactical gear, FBI emblazoned on their vests, is sweeping down the corridor, weapons raised. They move with professional precision, a stark contrast to the chaos we just left.
One of them sees us, his eyes widening slightly at our blood-soaked appearance, but instead of stopping, he yells into his comms, “Clear on the east wing! Moving to the ballroom!”
My heart stops. FBI.
