Page 3 of Princes of Carnage

I bite my lip, frustrated by my lack of answers to those questions, then start poking around, looking for anything that might stand out as more than just trash left behind by random vagrants.

I find piles of plastic bottles and some broken needles in a heap, but not much that looks fresh. It’s all covered in a fine layer of dust, but I keep digging, pushing a rotting wooden crate aside with the toe of my boot.

There’s a dark smudge on the cement floor beneath where the crate was, and I’m about to lean down to try to ascertain whether it’s another bloodstain—but before I get the chance, the hair on the back of my neck rises, a prickle of awareness shooting up my spine.

I’m not alone in here.

Everything in me goes on high alert, my heart kicking against my ribs. Almost before I’m conscious of having that thought, I move on instinct, whirling around and putting up my hands to block a pair of strong arms as someone tries to grab me.

2

QUINN

Motherfucker.

I duck out of the way of my would-be attacker and lash out, aiming a punch at his gut. There’s a small grunt of pain that lets me know I hit my mark, and I swing an elbow, going for the face this time.

Just as I make contact, someone slams into me from the side, knocking me off balance as strong arms wrap around me. We stagger sideways, and I drop my weight suddenly and twist out of my second attacker’s grip, going down to the floor.

“Shit,” I grunt under my breath, my pulse hammering in my ears. I put my hands on the rough cement floor and use that for leverage, turning quickly to try to sweep the legs out from under the first man.

I kick him in the ankle hard enough that he stumbles, and then I’m back up, ready to fight off the second man. He comes at me hard and fast, going for a tackle again, but I sidestep him and catch him with a fist to the jaw, falling back on pure instinct and muscle memory.

This isn’t the first fight I’ve gotten into in some shitty warehouse, and it won’t be the last.

Despite the fact that both men are bigger than I am, I’m holding my own just fine. Or at least… I am until a third person joins the fight.

As I back away from the first man who tried to grab me, my gaze scanning for an opening to attack, a fist wraps around my hair from behind.

I cry out in shock and pain as my head snaps backward. I can’t see whoever grabbed me yet, but his grip is tight and unyielding, and when he finally lets go, it’s just to grab my throat and shove me painfully against the dusty, graffiti-etched wall of the building.

“Get. The fuck. Off me,” I growl, my chest burning as I dig my nails into the guy’s forearms, ready to draw blood.

He tightens his hand in response, cutting off my air enough that my heart rate spikes, making my pulse thrum against his palm. Our gazes lock for a long moment, his dark green eyes burning into mine. Then he releases me and steps back smoothly as his two partners move in.

The second one presses me against the wall with his body, using his bulk and height advantage to keep me pinned in place. The one who attacked me first grabs my wrists, yanking them up to pin them over my head against the wall.

I fight against his grip, but he just tightens it painfully.

“I’d stop struggling if I were you, Quinn. I’d hate to have to break your wrists,” he says, a note of amusement in his deep voice.

Son of a fucking bitch.

My lips press together, fury filling me as I glare up at Nico Morelli.

It’s bad enough that three people managed to get the drop on me as I was investigating the attack on Paulie. I got fucking distracted by what probably wasn’t even a blood stain after all, and that distraction made me drop my guard—just for a half-second, but it was long enough. That’s the kind of mistake my dad would’ve berated me heavily for if he were still alive. He taught me better than this.

But what makes it all even worse? The three men who caught me in my moment of fucking weakness are the leader of the Princes of Carnage and his two best friends.

Nico is taller than me by a good bit, built like someone who was raised on violence and born to lead. His dark hair is mussed up from our altercation, and a sort of savage pleasure fills me as I take in the bruise that’s blooming on his handsome face from where I hit him. His mismatched eyes—one blue and one green—glitter as he stares back at me, his gaze scanning my face.

His friend and de facto bodyguard, Atlas Demaro, is the one keeping me shoved against the wall.

Atlas isn’t quite as bulky as Nico, and definitely not as built as their third friend, Killian Graves. But he has a fighter’s body, and I know he knows how to use it. He has a reputation for being an enforcer, taking people down with ruthless efficiency, always ready to protect the motorcycle gang they’re all a part of.

“I should have known,” I spit out, my lip curling as I narrow my eyes. “You’re the ones who’ve been fucking with my business. Did you send your men to attack my runner?”

Atlas snorts, drawing my attention to his face. His features are less harshly angular than Nico’s, but they’re perfectly symmetrical, with strong cheekbones and a straight nose. His brown eyes turn to a color almost like amber near his irises, reminding me of the warm flickering of coals, and they seem out of place against his harsh facial expression and inky black hair.

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