Where I want to have her.
How I want to fuck her.
Would you beg for me? Would you beg me to make you scream? What would you look like when you finally gave in? The thoughts burn in my mind as my hand reaches out, brushing the gag.
Fuck.
Realizing what I’m doing, I yank my hand back and finish bandaging her wounds quickly, my touch rough and callous. Then I shift over on the seat, trying to put as much distance between us as possible. The cramped van seats don’t offer much space.
“Did you get anything out of him?” I turn my attention back to Lucas, refocusing on what’s important in this moment. “Who does he work for?”
“I have no clue. He was only lucid for a few seconds, and he didn’t give anything up.”
“What the fuck was he doing at the wedding?” I grit my teeth, the adrenaline that surged through me inside the church rushing back. “Actually, while we’re on the topic, someone want to tell me who the fuck compromised our mission?”
There’s a moment of quiet tension as we all contemplate the shit storm that happened back at the church. It’s amazing we all made it out of there alive, and maybe I should feel more grateful for that. But right now, rage is burning too hot through my veins to feel grateful for anything. What was supposed to be an easy in and out job turned into a shit show. Because what we were supposed to do was simply take Grace’s father and bring him back to Chicago, not cause a fucking bloodbath.
We’ve been looking for Grace and her father since they escaped six years ago, and when their location was finally discovered, Zaid, Lucas, Ciro, and I volunteered for the collection mission. It wasn’t even a fucking question. It was our duty. It was our right.
Samuel Weston was supposed to be ours.
“I don’t have a clue who the other group was.” Lucas breaks the silence. “Didn’t recognize a single one of them.”
“How did they even get there?” Zaid clenches his fingers against the steering wheel. He’s just as irritated as the rest of us, but his focus stays on the road, alert for any signs of someone following us. “We searched for Weston for six years. Our syndicate is the only one that found out where he was and what he was doing. We have a rat on the inside. Someone is giving out information.”
“And now Weston is fuckin’ dead.” Ciro grunts. “That seems to be the real problem.”
The van goes quiet again, and we all know he’s right.
Not only is our target dead, but our mission was compromised, and we potentially have a traitor on the inside. For years, we’ve built a reputation of fear and respect around my family’s name, and everyone knows it’s a bad fucking idea to try to cross us.
Whoever this rogue group is, they’ve just asked for war.
And that’s exactly what they’ll get.
4
Grace
When Brian smiles at me, I know I’ve made the right choice.
His hand is warm and steady in mine as he puts the ring on my finger, his gaze never leaving mine. In just a few moments, all my nerves are washed away, and as I listen to him recite his vows, happiness and calm fill me.
“You may now kiss the bride,” the priest says.
Brian leans down to kiss me, sweetly bringing his lips to my own. He’s always been a good kisser, but modest in public. I know that later tonight, I’ll get the real bridal kiss, not just this innocent, honey-sweet brush of his lips against mine that melts all of the old women’s hearts in the audience.
The guests clap as we pull away, turning to face them. Taking my hand in his own, Brian begins to lead me back down the aisle. My father smiles at me from the front seat, wiping away the blood that covers his face.
Wait.
The blood…
My footsteps slow, my feet dragging against the polished floor as my heart stutters in my chest.
The blood…
I tug my hand from Brian’s, looking down at my open palms. My hands and forearms are covered in blood, slick and red with it. It drips onto the floor, each dark droplet landing with the finality of a hammer falling.
Pop!
A bullet pierces my side, and pain explodes through my body.
Wave after wave of a dull pain washes over me as I float somewhere between awake and the realm of my dreams, head pounding. My whole body feels like it’s been run over by a car, and though my mind is foggy from sleep and pain, I know that everything is wrong.
Deep inside, something doesn’t feel right.
I try to roll over, to move—anything to feel some control over my own body—but gravity weighs me down, pressing me into the hard mattress beneath me. My limbs are slick with sweat and my body feverish. My mind is a confused mess.
Why am I so weak? I don’t remember being sick.
Groaning, I try to arch my body off the bed, but I barely have the strength to lift a finger.
My eyes feel glued shut as I struggle to open them, needing to see the familiar and comforting walls of my bedroom. The dreams about the wedding have been haunting me for weeks now, but I know it’s just nerves. Cold feet, maybe. It’ll be fine.
But the survival instinct embedded in my chest pulses out a steady rhythm, the message strong and unchanging.
Wrong.
Wrong.
Wrong.
This is wrong. Something is wrong.
A rush of adrenaline helps clear some of the pain and grogginess from my system, and I force my eyes open. I’m staring at a blank wall, painted a dull beige color with water stains near the baseboard.
That’s not my wall.
This isn’t my bed.
At that thought, everything comes rushing back. The church. The gunshots. The blood. My father, dying in front of me.
I surge upright with a choked gasp. Pain instantly floods my body, and a wave of nausea sweeps over me. But I ignore both sensations, crawling toward the edge of the bed and scrambling off of it, looking around wildly for an exit. The world tilts in my vision, and my knees go weak before I’ve even taken two steps.
“Not so fast, kitten.”
“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”
I hear the sound of chairs scraping the floor behind me, and I know it’s too late, but I still try.
I lurch forward, throwing myself toward the door as though if I can just touch it, just reach it, I’ll find salvation.
But I should’ve known better than to even hope.
Zaid and Lucas are quick, far quicker than I could ever be in this state. Within seconds, they’re on me. Strong arms wrap around my waist, hauling me back and throwing me onto the bed again. A fresh wave of nausea and pain bursts through me, and panic beats like a drum in my chest. I struggle against their hold as two large bodies pin me to the bed from either side.
Memories come flooding back at the familiar feeling of being trapped between them. Memories of being sixteen and a little tipsy on stolen wine from a party the adults were having downstairs. Of feeling wild and free, wanton and brave. Of wanting something but not wanting to choose.
Zaid and Lucas always share.
That night, the feeling of being pinned between their bodies was the most exquisite thing I’d ever felt. Four hands explored my body, touching me in ways I’d never been touched. New feelings blossomed in my chest—feelings that took my breath away, feelings I wanted to explore and chase. Zaid and Lucas were relentless, determined only to give me satisfaction.