Page 167 of Hidden

I knew this place. I knew where the blind spots were, knew where the shadows pooled deepest between the outbuildings and the tree line. Knew which corners men liked to piss around when they thought no one important was watching and which spots got neglected because everyone assumed someone else had already checked them.

And I knew, more importantly than anything, that men like this always got lazy in the quiet.

They got comfortable.

And comfortable men died easiest.

The second one was behind the old storage shed near the side fence, leaning against the wall with his phone in his hand and his head tipped back as he laughed at something on the screen. I didn’t recognise him until I was close enough to smell the cheap aftershave on him.

Then it hit me like a brick.

He’d been there that night.

One of the ones standing near the bar while Gabriella tore my life apart in front of both clubs.

I remembered his face because he’d smiled. Not a huge grin. Nothing dramatic. Just that little smug twitch at the corner of his mouth that said he’d known exactly what was happening and had enjoyed every fucking second of it.

He saw me too late.

His eyes widened, mouth opening around a sharp intake of breath that never became sound because my knife was already in his gut, angled upward and twisted hard enough to fold him over around it. I caught him before he hit the ground, lowered him slowly, then pulled the blade free and drove it once into his neck just to make sure.

His blood was hot over my hand.

I left him there in the dirt and kept moving.

By the third body, I had stopped counting.

Because it didn’t matter. They could all die for all I cared.

I moved from one patch of darkness to the next like I’d been built for this, my body taking over in the way it always did when the line between control and violence blurred enough to become instinct.

A gun would have been easier, but easier wasn’t what I needed. Easier got attention. Easier got lights switched on and alarms raised and every bastard on this compound suddenly deciding to become useful all at once.

No.

A knife let me choose the pace.

A knife let me keep this personal.

The fourth one was younger than the others, barely more than a prospect by the look of him, and he died because he rounded a corner at the wrong time and looked directly at me with surprise instead of caution. I had him against the wall before his brain had fully caught up, blade under his jaw, eyes wide and terrified as I drove it up and into the soft part beneath his chin.

He made a wet, choking sound that would have haunted me once.

Not tonight.

Tonight, he was just another obstacle between me and Gabriella.

I lowered him carefully to the ground, stepped over his legs, and kept going.

The dogs barked once somewhere off to the far side of the compound, and I froze instantly, flattening myself into the shadow of the garage wall as a pair of Riders moved across the yard toward the sound. One of them was muttering under his breath, already irritated, while the other carried a torch he clearly had no idea how to use without shining it directly into his own fucking eyes.

Idiots.

I waited until they passed.

Then I followed.

The one at the back never saw me. My hand caught his shoulder and spun him just enough for the blade to slice straight across his throat before he had a chance to do anything other than make a confused noise into the night. The one with the torch turned too slowly, his face going slack with shock as his mate collapsed at his feet, and I was already on him by the time he reached for the gun at his hip.