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Carter sounds as serious as a heart attack about all of this, and it leaves me reeling a little while I try to keep up with everything he’s saying.
“Why are you telling me this?” I press, studying his strained face.
“Because you’ve caught the eye of the society,” he replies, shaking his head. His usually styled hair is unkempt, a lock of it falling over his forehead. “And you don’t want that. Believe me. I can try to help you, but you have to help me.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, my heart pounding heavily now. “Help you with what? And how the fuck do you know all of this?”
He bites his lip and drags his fingers through his hair, looking almost desperate. “Because I’m in the society too,” he tells me, his jaw clenching. “And I want out.”
What?
I open my mouth, half a million questions on the tip of my tongue. There’s so much I want to know, and I’m about to press Carter for more answers, but before I can get a word out, his body jerks hard.
His face goes slack, and then he crumples on the wooden slats of the dock, limp and lifeless.
My stomach drops down to my feet, a rush of adrenaline chilling my veins.
Fuck.
Someone just shot him, but I didn’t hear it or see anyone.
The Kings all react immediately, drawing weapons and closing in around me as they scan the dimly lit docks around us, trying to find the source of the threat.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a voice says, rising out of the shadows where the dock meets the shore.
My gaze whips toward the sound of the voice, and I blink as I see someone moving toward us, back-lit by the street lamps in the distance.
“I have men posted all around,” the voice continues, smooth, masculine, and collected. “If any one of you shoots, you’ll all be dead before you can pull the trigger again.”
As he finishes speaking, the man takes another step forward, and at last, I can make out his features. He’s middle-aged, with light brown hair and an aristocratic face.
A face I recognize.
Alec Beckham.
