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My eyes bored into her resting form. A wild smirk spread across my face, my heart swelling like a balloon about to burst. She was mine, all mine—to shield, to look after, to keep out of harm’s way.
The desert, now that was a son of a bitch, with the sun hammering down mercilessly in the day and a cold, heartless cosmos taking over the night. But today, ripping through its godforsaken sands on my bike, I had been grinning ear to ear. I was on a mission, driven by a thirst for blood that wouldn’t be quenched until I had my fill.
It didn’t take much to flip my murder switch. I was the kinda guy who relished the thrill of taking the reins, in the most messed up way possible.
It didn’t take much to put me in a frenzy of murderous rage. I was the type of man who took pleasure in taking matters into my own twisted hands.
I was the type of man to make someone vanish without leaving a trace.
I wasn’t a hero—I loved being the villain. I derived perverse pleasure in destroying lives and sowing chaos wherever I went.
My mission was clear. I protected people. No matter the cost. It had become an obsession. A compulsion. An itch I couldn’t scratch.
My mother’s death echoed in my mind.
She was why I protected.
Why it had to be me who did it, no matter how hard or how wrong it felt. I had to save them because no one savedher.
The world was a cruel and unforgiving place. There were no heroes, no saviors or guardians. Only villains driven to burn the world down for their own selfish reasons.
I was the villain.
Clover had become my reason.
So when someone like Clover came along, I couldn’t resist. She was a lamb in the slaughterhouse, waiting to be gutted and dressed, and I wanted to try to save her. In my twisted mind, I convinced myself that it was all about protection. That no one had to suffer like my mother did.
But really, it was all for me.
The thrill of the hunt.
The thrill of possessing something so fragile and innocent.
The road became a blur as I sped away on my bike, the only thing keeping me focused on my destination—the campsite where Clover was attacked.
Maybe it was fucked up, but when she arrived at my door, covered in dirt and blood, I thought of my mother. How the men she dated used and abused her. How no one was there to save her. How I was a fucking coward.
Clover would have a fucked-up hero, even if my ghosts could not.
A cold, reckless rage whispered in my ear, promising twisted justice if I took its hand.
The campsite came into view as I rode my bike up the path. I parked a half mile away so I could sneak up on them. Dismounting my vehicle, I strode toward the tents with insane determination, wanting nothing more than to make sure I was the last thing they ever saw.
Every nerve in my body was on fire as I approached the campsite on foot, and I could hear the despicably vile voices of those who had hurt Clover.
Stooping behind a weathered rock, I spied on them with a poisonous eye—six men, each with their very own sins tucked away nicely in their souls. Every fiber of my being screamed to take action. But I waited . . . and watched . . . as something dark and twisted began to churn within my psyche.
Hank wanted me to bring him a head to prove my loyalty.
Well, I’d bring him six.
They were laughing and joking like this was all some huge joke, but something about them made me incredibly uneasy. They were out here in broad daylight. Enjoying the aftermath ofmygirl’s trauma.
I’d kill them all.
I’d fuckingruinthem.
My eyes narrowed as I assessed them one by one. The tall one had strength on his side, but he also wasn’t too agile or fast on his feet—an easy mark for someone like me. The scrawny one looked scrappy. They were all drunk or hungover, which meant they would be uncoordinated and tired.
