Page 142 of Ruthless Reign

There was guilt and shame in his beautiful eyes when he turned them on me. Guilt, shame, and rage at himself for not being able to do it. His jaw flared as she clenched his teeth and set himself back into position, taking out every other Son around his dad instead.

I could tell he hadn’t given up. He was working himself up to it. I knew if his aim was good enough to shoot Kaleb in the chest and not kill him, he could finish his dad from this distance with little effort. He might’ve been the only one who could. But I couldn’t fault him for not being able to.

I knew what that was like.

I loved a monster once, too. Back in Thorn Valley. The grip of his manipulation ran so deep that at one point I would’ve done anything he asked me without argument or question. I hated who I was then, but I needed to be her to become this version of myself. This Becca 2.0.

Aodhán might not have been able to do it, but I sure as hell could.

The new clip clicked into place, and I pulled the slide back, taking aim, trying to recall every lesson. Every piece of advice given to me by the Saints lying dead on the gym floor.

Don’t hold your breath.

Stand with your feet apart.

Shoulders squared.

Strong arms. Relaxed grip.

I followed Séamas O’Sullivan’s movements as he shifted forward with a horde surrounding him, trying to gauge where he would step next. Anticipate his movement before he made it.

Another ten yards and he would be in cover.

He was looking for something, I realized. Every few seconds when I caught a glimpse of his face, I saw how his eyes shifted, head swiveling left and right.

Come on, Becks.

I squared my shoulders, looked down the scope, through it, through him. And fired.

His head pinged to the left and a sharp inhale pulled at my lungs, but then he was recovering, pressing his fingertips to his bleeding ear. Then his mismatched menacing eyes were on me. Looking up. Smiling.

“Now!” he shouted, and I fired again. Again.

Propelled by that look. That single word.

Because I recognized that look. It was the same one he had on his face before he stabbed me in the leg. The same one he had a second before he shot Toby.

That smile meant pain. Torment.

“No.” The words came out a growl through my clenched teeth as I emptied the clip and canisters started to fly.

There was no question as the smoke grenades were launched by every Son in the gym, tossed in every direction—Séamas had managed to recoup what Aodhán destroyed. And then some.

The gray-white smoke filled the room, rising, billowing out all around us.

The last thing I saw before it reached us was Séamas’ eyes, staring right at me with murderous intent.

I coughed as it hit my lungs, filling them with the burning odor of used up fireworks as my eyes burned.

In the lack of gunfire, there were running steps in every direction. They jangled the bleachers beneath us, but it was impossible to see which direction they were coming from.

Actually, it was impossible to see more than a foot in front of my own damned face.

“Hawk!” Hardin called and I reached in the direction of his voice, sensing more than seeing or feeling the Sons getting nearer. I thought I could determine where they were coming from, but I was terrified to shoot through the smoke. What if I hit one of ours? One of mine?

Fuck.

My heart stuttered in my chest, scalp prickling as dread coiled in my belly.

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