Page 92 of Soulless Saint

“His, uh, his head’s outside. On a spike.”

“Oh my god.”

“Zade, Arch,” Dad said without looking up, likely not ready to see the haunted expression both his oldest companions were wearing right now. Jimmy Boy wasn’t part of the original crew, but that didn’t mean the guys would miss him any less. “Clean up our boy and then come back inside.”

He plucked the postcard from Ma, whose shock was quickly warping into something far more dangerous.

“This can’t stand,” she hissed as Dad fell into his seat at the dinner table, getting dirt all over the carpet.

“I know.”

“There has to be retaliation.”

“I know, Sloane.”

Dad tapped the postcard against the table, and I knew he was thinking the same thing I was. If we weren’t there a second time, someone else was going to die. Hell, maybe more than one someone. Even if we had everyone brought in on that date. The sisters, brothers, cousins, children, and wives of every single Saint, there was no guarantee they wouldn’t just strike the next day, instead.

When we least expected them to.

We had no choice. We were going to that meet. The Sons may’ve had the advantage of choice location and time, but they were playing on our turf. There was no telling whether home field advantage would be enough, but then again, I’d never needed much to get a job done.

“We go,” I said, echoing my Dad’s thoughts. “We go there, and we kill every last one of them.”

I woke up with a sandpaper throat and limbs that felt like they’d run a fucking marathon last night. My head pounded, and I squeezed my eyes against the warm sunlight trying to burn out my corneas.

“Ughhhh,” I groaned to myself, rolling over to feel the surface of my nightstand, searching for anything to make the scratchy burn in my throat go away. I knocked my phone to the floor with a clatter and couldn’t be bothered to pick it up as I slitted my eyes open, finding a full glass of water and a bottle of pills.

Fuck. Yes.

Clearly somebody loved me.

Even though it hurt, I somehow managed to prop myself half up and twist the cap from the bottle of pills. I dumped several directly into my mouth and swallowed them down with three greedy gulps of water that drained the glass dry before flopping back onto my pillow.

“No more drugs,” I promised myself and any gods who might take pity on me and get rid of this damn hangover. What the hell happened last night.

I lay there, eyes shut, arm draped across my forehead as I tried to piece it all back together. I remembered seeing Ava Jade and bits and pieces of the concert, but it was like I wasn’t really seeing it. Like it happened to someone else.

And oh my god, was there dirt on my blankets? What the fuck?

Shit. I needed to check my messages. Oh! And my camera roll. That should jog my memory. I rolled back onto my side, reaching my fingertips to the floor, but the stretch made a sharp pain bloom on my inner thigh, and I cursed, forgetting the phone entirely as I shot up.

My breath caught in my throat seeing the unmistakable ring of teeth marks in my flesh. The tiny scabs were surrounded by purpling skin. What the…

It all came rushing back and my vision doubled, my head spinning as a barrage of illicit images bombarded my mind, playing in a compilation of sin across the backs of my eyelids.

Hardin.

His mouth on mine. On my body. His hand fisted in my hair. His fucking gun… pressed to my thigh, forcing me to keep my legs open as he brought me to the absolute precipice of pleasure, not allowing me to forfeit a single second of the rush.

And then after, the feel of him on top of me. Holding me down.

Except… was he? Was he really?

I remembered the cruel way he thrust into me from behind. The insane way he seemed to fill me up perfectly, not in a way I’d ever felt before. I remembered him releasing my arms, dragging me to my knees.

Me… rocking into him, pushing my hips into each of his brutal thrusts, wanting him harder, deeper, more.

I covered my mouth with a hand to stifle the strangled sound that tried to escape because the truth was… the truth was…

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