“And I heard it.” I tighten my grip. His gaze flicks lazily between me, Billy, and the gun aimed at his chest, before his gaze shoots over my shoulder to the woman on the table.
“You people ask the wrong questions,” he says, almost amused by us.
“Try me.” His lips twitch, not quite a smile.
“Who I am is irrelevant.” I slam him into the wall again.
“Funny, I don’t remember asking for your fucking opinion.”
A grunt escapes him, but it’s not from pain.
“Now, now boys. Didn’t your mothers teach you manners?” The comment hits a nerve I wasn’t aware was exposed. Not because I’m insulted. But because it’s funny. A laugh almost escapes me. My mother spent most of her life chasing her next fix. The few lessons she’d managed to leave behind for my sister and me before dumping us on our deadbeat father sure as fuck hadn’t included manners. The memory is gone as quick as it surfaced, and I shove the doctor into the wall again.
“Answer the fucking question.” He lets out a sigh,as though we’re nothing more than a pain in his ass, and I’m fresh out of fucking patience.
“I’m exactly what I said I am. A doctor.”
“Jesus fucking Christ.” The barrel of my gun leaves his chest and finds the center of his forehead. The asshole’s gaze follows the movement. “There we go,” he murmurs.
“You have five seconds before I redecorate this wall.” His lips twitch in amusement.
“A little dramatic, don’t you think?”
“Five.” The humor in his eyes dims. “Four.”
“You’re not going to shoot me, kid.”
“Three.” Something flickers across his features, but it isn’t quite fear. Whatever it is, I’m not playing fucking games, and I think the cunt is finally starting to understand that. “Two–”
“Alright!” The word explodes out of him, before silence falls across the room. I don’t ease the pressure of the barrel against his skin. As far as I’m concerned, his fate was sealed the moment we walked through that door, and he’s not leaving this room alive.
“Start talking.” He exhales slowly through his nose, his eyes fixed on the gun.
“My name is C-Cameron. It’s Cameron.”
Cameron.
The name hangs between us for all of half a second before Billy snorts.
“Well that was anticlimactic. I was hoping forsomething like Frankenstein or some shit.” I ignore Billy. The barrel remains pressed firmly againstCameron’sforehead while blood from the cut on his temple creeps down the side of his face, tracing the edge of his jaw before disappearing beneath the collar of his coat.
“Wanna tell me what the fuck you’re doing down here, Doc?” His eyes drift around the room, lingering briefly on the bodies scattered across the floor before returning to me.
“You think this is about me?” The question earns a short laugh.
“Should I not?”
“I’m a surgeon.”
“You’re a butcher.” Something shifts behind his eyes. Not guilt. Not fear. Offense. The realization puts me off. Of all the reactions I’d expected from this asshole, wounded pride wasn’t one of them. “A goddamn bottom feeder like the rest of them,” I growl, watching as his smile slowly morphs into disdain.
“You only see bodies,” Cameron mutters. I gesture around the room. Blood stains the floor in a pile of limbs and skin, enough evidence to fill a fucking cemetery.
“What the fuck else am I supposed to see?”
“You’re not looking hard enough, kid.” Behind me, something metallic crashes to the ground,followed by Billy rushing around in a fit of rage. Drawers slam open. Equipment rattles, but I don’t bother looking. For the first time since entering this room, Cameron sounds irritated, and irritation turns into impatience, and impatient men give answers.
“You people always think you’re hunting a person,” he says quietly. “A name. A face. A man sitting at the top.” The words are like a needle scraping against my mind. Every Royal we’ve dragged into the light has fed us some variation of the same bullshit. Another name. Another layer. Another person standing between us and the truth. “The thing about kings is everyone assumes the kingdom dies with them.” Blood drips from his temple and splashes onto the concrete between us. “People die. But ideas don’t.” I stare at him for a beat because I hate how much sense that makes. We’ve killed people. Destroyed operations. Burned everything we could find. Yet somehow The Royal survives. Different faces. Same fucking disease.
