Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 134654 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 673(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134654 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 673(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Silent rage battled with grief. “He’s dead, Mo. Got him for you.”
He flinched, blood leaving his skin a ghostly white. “Go—good.”
Trying to keep the knowledge that he was a goner hidden, I smiled softly. “You’re all right. Don’t stress, okay?”
Hopper met my eyes. I shook my head slightly.
His arms tightened around his brother, his mohawk quaking as he sucked in a breath.
Mo sighed heavily. “J-just my shitty l-luck.”
I grabbed his hand. “Don’t talk. We’ve got ya.”
He smiled, fading fast. “You were a g-good prez, Kill. B-been a plea-pleasure …”
My heart fisted as his eyes suddenly lost their wicked loyalty and intelligence and turned to vacant film.
“Ah, shit …,” Hopper choked.
Unfolding from my crouch, I looked down on the two men who’d helped me become someone better than a lost convict. “Keep watch over him. I’ll go finish this.”
Fisting my hands, I left before I gave in to the fucking fury building inside. Mo’s death was my fault. His life stained mine.
I didn’t feel worthy. Why did he have to die for me? What made me so fucking special?
Drawing my weapon, I sought enemies on which to take out my rage.
I craved something worthwhile—to prove he hadn’t died for nothing.
Entering a bedroom, I didn’t find what I wanted.
Instead of eradication of filth, I witnessed another murder. Only this one wasn’t a Dagger or Crusader; it was a kid who was far too young to go.
“No!”
My vision stuttered as Beetle gasped, slamming to his knees before a man I recognized.
“Little twerp. I’ll show you—” Sycamore laughed as a hole appeared where Beetle’s heart used to be.
“Fuck!” I couldn’t move as the youngest prospect’s eyes shot blank, his body slithering into death.
It happened so fast. One second he was alive … the next gone. Just like Mo.
The cock-sucking-tobacco-chewing asshole who’d been there the day I was carted off in a police wagon giggled like a drugged-up slut.
Bastard!
“You fucking—”
Sycamore spun to face me, his arm raised to shoot. “You!”
He didn’t get a chance to fire. I’d hated this fucking bastard all my life. My father’s wingman. A devil within the ranks. He’d undermined Thorn and taunted Cleo constantly.
My gun swung up—so much lighter than my semi—and exploded in a spark of sulfur.
Sycamore stumbled backward, clutching his throat. The bullet tore out his windpipe, leaving him mute and gurgling as he smashed into a pile of worthless body parts.
My ears rang with injustice. I’d wanted him dead—but killing him wasn’t nearly enough for the life he’d just taken.
Shit!
I turned to check Beetle’s pulse. Poor kid. He was far too young to die. I’m fucking responsible. Two deaths now on my conscience.
A shadow appeared to my right.
I spun around, gun raised.
I was too late.
A sharp blade sliced through my side.
I bellowed, dropping my gun as a flash of agony scrambled my thoughts.
I staggered sideways.
Instantly, sticky wetness drenched my side. I flinched in excruciation. What the hell—
Then my eyes landed on him.
Thin lips, greasy skin, rampant greed, and diabolical ambition.
The one man I wanted dead above all others.
My father.
He smirked, darkness swarming in his green eyes. “Fancy that … you actually killed someone. After years of disappointment, I finally rubbed off on you.” He came closer, weapon raised. “Any last words, son? Because I’m about to fucking slaughter you.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Cleo
I’d found a dying bird today.
Its nest-mates had kicked it from its home, leaving it to die at the bottom of the tree. I’d wanted to tear apart the nest and see how the other chicks liked it—being bullied and left to wither alone. Instead, I’d scooped up the baby bird and took it home.
It was so easy to help. So gratifying to save another who needed saving. If I could change the life of a baby bird, perhaps I could change Arthur’s life, too. After all, he’d been fighting to leave the nest for years. —Cleo, diary entry, age twelve
I was a prisoner.
For six long hours, I’d been barricaded in Arthur’s home by Switchblade—the Pure Corruption security detail left to protect me.
Only, he wasn’t protecting me. He was imprisoning me. And there was nothing I could do about it.
But then … I felt it.
A snipping … a slicing.
The link forged between Arthur and me through a lifetime of love suddenly … severed.
My stomach plummeted.
My heart disintegrated.
And I gave up being calm.
I didn’t know how, but I knew …
… something had gone terribly wrong.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Kill
Pain had layers.
I’d been wrapped in a layer for weeks—ever since Rubix had shown me how a creatively wielded baseball bat could be used.
But tonight, I was buried in layers.
Tonight, he’d beaten me so fucking bad, I swore to do anything just to get it to stop. That was when he’d laughed. That was when he’d told me what I had to do to make the pain stop.
Kill the Price family. —Kill, age seventeen
“Hello, Father.” I gritted my teeth, holding my bleeding side. “I hoped I’d find you.”