Page 52 of Lost King

I look at him. "All of them?"

"All but one."

"Twiggy?" I question and hope he says yes.

He nods.

"We may have had a little fun with him," Logan confesses with a grin.

"But he's still alive," Gabriel grunts.

"You want us to come in with you?" Prez asks.

I don't hesitate, "I do." My brothers are what it means to be family and we have each other's back. Always a united front.

Grey swings the rickety door open, and the hinges make an ominous sound as if the old place knows what is about to happen. Tied to a chair in the middle of the barn is Twiggy himself. Blood and bruises mar his face. Surprised to see me his eyes widen.

"Who killed their President?" I ask.

"I did," Prez speaks.

The thing is, I don't remember a hell of a lot. None of it matters anymore, because I'm here and the Satans Reapers aren't, and the last one is about to fall.

Gabriel reaches inside his cut and pulls my revolver out and places the handle in my hand. I grip it. My fingertips pulsate with every beat of my heart, but I push the pain to the back of my mind.

I don't take my eyes off Twiggy. I don't say a word.

He doesn't speak. He doesn't plead for his life.

Wouldn't make a difference if he did.

I've done some bad things in my life, and I'm about to do another.

With the men standing behind me I don't have to justify my reasons. They let me choose for myself. With the flick of my wrist the cylinder pops out, and I slide the bullet I'm holding between my fingers into the chamber. Closing the cylinder, I raise my arm.

Staring down the barrel of my .44 Magnum I pull the trigger.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Emerson

It's been nearly a week since Quinn was rescued. Once his fever broke, and he was through the worst of the withdrawal effects the heroin had on him, we haven't been able to keep him down. I for one am surprised. Those assholes had been pumping his veins full of heroin for seven days. That for Quinn has been the toughest part about the whole ordeal to deal with. Quinn will be the first to tell you he's no saint when it comes to his health. He has on occasion smoked weed and he smokes cigarettes, but he has not once delved into the heavy stuff. Quinn said he could handle a lot of shit, but not being able to have control over his own body is not one of them. I am so proud of the way he has been walking through his recovery. In true Quinn fashion, he has taken the situation by the balls.

Feeling strong arms snake around my middle, I look over my shoulder and smile at the handsome man laying next to me in bed. "Mornin', Sunshine."

"Good morning." Rolling over to face Quinn I ask, "how did you sleep? You in any pain?"

"Yes, I'm in a lot of pain.

Sitting up in bed, I pull back the blanket and begin to frantically look over his body from head to toe. "What—where? Tell me where it hurts." Taking my hand Quinn places my palm over his very hard and very noticeable erection.

"I hurt right here, Dr. Pretty. My cock is in desperate need of your expertise." Glaring at him, I pinch his side. "No! You are in no condition to even be thinking about sex. You need to heel."

"Come on, Sunshine. I promise to lay very still and not exert myself while you rub one out for me."

I shake my head, "you're too much. What am I going to do with you?" Just as Quinn is about to answer my question, I cut him off before something smart comes out of his mouth. "Don't answer that."

"Come on, babe," he wines. "It's been too long."