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“J…” I reach for him with numb fingers.
Then they press a rag to my mouth, and a chemical tang takes me into the dark.
THIRTY-EIGHT
HUNTER
We bagged ten Redfang goons, but yet a-fucking-gain missed that snaky shit, Dom.
As our teams sweep the warehouse, double-checking we’re clear, voices crackle non-stop through my earpiece, and I fucking hate being the one who has to answer.
I expected Atlas to fight.
Atlas always fights.
He was supposed to wrestle me for power.
I was going to fake cave, pretending to grudgingly hand back the reins the second he proved he could be our compassionate leader instead of our drill sergeant.
Instead, Atlas stands at my shoulder, waiting for me to give a command that sticks in my throat when his dominance is Everest to my Kilimanjaro.
Another voice crackles. “Sir! Upstairs is clear.”
“On the way.” I grab Finn who’s dripping blood and Riverdancing on a Redfang’s chest, dragging him with us to Dom’s converted loft.
The warehouse is stacked with crates of drugs we’ll let the feds bust for brownie points. I’m more interested in what he stashed upstairs.
Finn whistles when we step inside.
Looks like King Triton’s twisted fucking bachelor pad with walls of neon fish tanks, sex swings, and leather porn set furniture.
“Find anything?” I ask the squad leader.
“One desktop. Bunch of files and…” The guy looks away and swallows. “Photos.”
My intuition clangs. This is gonna be fucked. “Photos of what?”
“Your mate.”
Someone growls.
Maybe me.
Maybe all of us.
“Show me,” I snarl.
He leads us through a fish tank hallway to a sleek office where agents are digging out file cabinets.
But on the desk…
Lilah.
Photos and photos and photos.
“How the hell…” A sick barb tears through my gut as I pick up a picture taken years the fuck ago.
Soft, baby Lilah, fifteen, maybe sixteen, in a ponytail, hugging her arms to her chest in a too-big sweatshirt while she scowls at something off-camera.
