Page 135 of Pucked Around and Found Out

The playful cruelty becomes something colder.

Sharper.

More dangerous.

“Then we're done here,” I say. “Every cunt dies. No prisoners.”

“Copy that, boss.”

I move through the facility like a force of nature. Every agent in my path meets their end, I shift into becoming their Reaper. Their souls are mine to claim and deliver to Lucifer himself.

Some quick—throat slashes, heart punctures.

Some slow—gutted, left to bleed out while they scream.

All of them lose their fucking lips.

Every. Single. One.

Their deaths don’t sate the force of my hunger, they aren’t the ones whose blood I want soaking me. It’s their cockroach of a boss, the gutless bitch who was nowhere to be seen.

By the time we reach the parking garage, my pockets are heavy with trophies.

Red coats my hands all the way to my elbows.

My clothes are soaked through with blood.

And I feel nothing.

Just cold, empty focus.

Alex Denver appears beside me as we reach the vehicles.

Up close, he's even more impressive, early-thirties maybe, scarred, eyes that have seen everything and been impressed by nothing.

“Devlin,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “Your reputation undersells you.”

“Likewise, Butcher.”

He grins, a predator recognizing another predator. We exchange a look, something like respect passing between us. We may be on opposite sides of this war after this moment but we can both recognize the set of skills the other possesses.

“We need to move,” Carnage calls out. “Toren's at the mansion. But there's a fire.”

The words cut through everything.

Fire.

Toren.

I'm moving before I've made the conscious decision, climbing into the lead SUV.

Cas slides in beside me, still carrying the gun he took, his crutch thrown in the back.

“Drive,” I order the fucker behind the wheel. “Now.”

The convoy peels out, leaving the facility and its forty-three dead behind.

I sit in the back, covered in blood, lips in my pockets, and something's building in my chest.