6
COLTER
Need to shoot.Strangle. Carve.
Blood sloshes through my veins like river rapids, the churn so loud that I can hardly hear the world around me.
My teeth saw from side to side beneath my mask.
Taken.
Brylee’s been taken.
A canyon gouges through my chest at that reality. A canyon that I’m going to pile full of bodies until it doesn’t fucking exist.
We have a location.
Fucking finally.
Our esteemed guest—ahem, prisoner—came through after a little encouragement from us, and now we’re gearing up to head out. It’s hard to keep my pulse under control. Ruthlessness surges hot and quick beneath my skin. The need to protect her and shatter everyone in her vicinity.
Broken strands of the present break through the rush of fury.
Ridge snarling at our prisoner, his fists covered in blood, a few drops speckling his cheeks.
Kylian jabbing his knife into the fucker’s leg with a deranged laugh that rattles my teeth.
The fucking king and queen speaking to us through the phone, holed up in a safe house or bunker somewhere, demanding we save the princess “no matter the cost.”
The walk back to our cabin.
Luka’s quiet focus, the expression on his face the darkest I’ve ever seen it.
But I only absorb quick moments. Tiny blurs of the world around me. Most of my focus is internal. On this need blaring like an alarm. Loud and overpowering.
Mate.
We have to rescue our mate.
Now, crowded into the living room of our tiny cabin under the golden glow of the fan light whirring overhead, we’ve pulled out the arsenal that’s kept us all alive over the years. Guns stacked so tightly that the couch is hardly visible beneath them.
It better be enough to keep her alive.
If it’s not…
Nope. Can’t think that possibility into existence.
I check the magazine on my semi-automatic, feel the satisfying click as it glides into place. Seated. Ready to destroy.
Extra mags go into the strap running diagonally across my bare torso. The stupid penguin clothes are shredded in the corner and barely visible in the periphery of my vision as I grab a rifle and a hunting knife. An extra pistol at the back of the waistband of my cargo pants. A few grenades.
Boots not even laced up, I turn to the others, who all wear the grim, determined looks of alphas in a wild rage. Angry scents fill the room as we all prepare to kill.
Beneath a new bulletproof metallic skull mask, my own face heats.
Pulse thunders.
“Let’s move!” Ridge commands, and we file out, splitting into two vehicles, because you never know what we’ll face.
