Page 145 of Ruthless Reign

“Da—” Aodhán, said and Séamas turned his ire on his Son with the wrath of a vengeful god.

“You do not speak to me,” he spat. “You sit there and you watch, like Damien will watch. You’ll learn your lesson, fuil ma chud fola, and then you’ll die with all the other weak-hearted men. I should’ve known you would never be rid of your mother’s heart. Should’ve smothered you under the same pillow I used to smother her.”

I gasped, and Aodhán flinched at the admission like his father had struck him. Aodhán might’ve assumed as much, but he didn’t know. I could tell. He didn’t know until right now.

Oh my god, Aodhán.

Hardin’s grip on me tightened, and I let myself lean into his side. I wondered if he was thinking how close his own mother came to having a similar fate if he hadn’t stepped up and done something about it as a child.

“What do we do?” I whispered to them both.

Hardin’s jaw flexed taut as a bowstring.

Kaleb shook his head. “Nothing we can do, Vixen. He has us by the fucking balls.”

Aodhán dropped his head toward his clenched fists in his lap.

Please have a plan.

“So, here’s what’s going to happen,” Séamas announced. “You’re going to watch your kingdom crumble, and when it’s pulverized to dust, I’ll let you go down with it. Sound fair?”

Damien’s lips parted but no sound came out.

“Begin,” Séamas called out.

The Sons who’d still been spread out in the gymnasium moved forward. Several dragged captured Saints along with them. While others searched behind the covered areas, dragging more of them out. None fought. None drew their weapons or shot at the Sons. They allowed themselves to be hauled out. Hauled forward. Pulled into Séamas’ circle of hell.

“There has to be a way we can finish this that doesn’t end in more bloodshed,” Damien reasoned, looking like a ghost of himself. “If we could just?—”

“The time for talk has past, St. Vincent. This is my circus, now.”

A gunshot punctuated his final word and a Saint slumped to the ground. Dead. Killed by a Son.

“Next,” Séamas barked.

I recoiled as another gunshot pierced the quiet, and another Saint found an early grave.

“Séamas, please, you can’t?—”

“Next!”

Bang.

Damien stepped forward, fire in his eyes.

“Uh, uh,” Séamas warned, grinding the mouth of his pistol against the back of Sloane’s skull. “One more step and she gets the next one.”

“You fucking bas?—”

“Next!”

The next Saint pissed himself, his eyes skyward until the bullet kissed the back of his head and his eyes shut forever.

I couldn’t watch anymore.

I slumped behind the desk, wishing that covering my ears would be enough to block out everything. Damien’s unheard pleas. The pop of gunfire. The slump of corpses on the ground.

It needed to stop. When would it stop?

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