Page 110 of Savage

I enter the living room and freeze when I see Stef lying across the hardwood floor, completely naked, leashed to a pole in the center. Her body is streaked with dirt and cum, and her eyes are too dilated to focus.

I glance at her arm almost out of reflex, and I can see a bloody spot on the inside of her elbow.

Shoot him, my mind shouts.

He’s standing too close to Stef though. If I miss, if something ricochets, if Dylan uses his own gun…

Fuck.

Dylan gapes at me. “What the fuck? How did you find me?”

Stef has lifted her head, and I can tell she’s trying to look at me. Tears are leaking out of her eyes, though, and she can’t hold her head up for long.

“You’re pretty fucking sloppy,” Drake says. “Now, unless you want to end up with your brains splattered all the way across the floor, get down on your goddamn knees and put your hands on the back of your head. Just pretend I’m a cop. You’ve been frisked by plenty of those, right?”

Dylan clearly doesn’t like being outnumbered. His fear is palpable, but he stands taller despite his trembling limbs and aims his own gun at Stef. “Yeah, well. You pay me or she dies. How’s that for a threat?”

“You won’t get paid anything if she’s dead,” Drake says, his voice colder than I think I’ve ever heard it. “Drop the fucking gun, dickhead.”

“Mas-Master?” Stef manages to get out, her voice wobbling. “What are you…” Her voice is so thick and sluggish that I know without a shadow of a doubt that she’s on something.

“What did you feed her?” I ask, my vision hazy around the edges. “If she overdoses because of you—”

“I fed her my cock,” Dylan answers bluntly. “You’re welcome, by the way. For warming her up for you. You should be thanking me that you got to fuck her at all, actually. Without me, she’d probably just have killed herself after her friend died. Stef’s always been a weak-willed bitch.”

Stef whimpers, scratching at the scars on her wrists.

I hand my gun to Drake. “Hold this,” I say, barely conscious of what I’m doing. I walk closer to Dylan, who jerks back.

He isn’t holding his gun like he intends to shoot. His finger is nowhere near the trigger.

“You should have quit while you were ahead,” I say with more calm than I feel.

Dylan doesn’t seem to comprehend what’s about to happen. “Hey, back off, buddy. The only way you’re getting out of this is by handing over—”

He jerks the gun in my direction, and I lunge forward. Dylan yelps, but it’s trivial to pry the gun from his hand.

Drake’s right there to grab it from me, probably afraid I’m going to just shoot Dylan—but that’s too kind. He deserves to be pummeled into unconsciousness, only to wake up and have to face the pain of his injuries day after day.

“Mas— Hunter,” Stef whimpers, nearly choking on the words with her sobs. “You came…” I want to go to her, to wipe away her tears, but I’m too fucking focused on Dylan.

“Take care of her,” I order Drake. “I’ll handle this asswipe.”

“Sure you don’t want me to just take out the trash?” Drake asks.

Dylan tries to throw me off him, but I punch him in the face. And then I punch him again, satisfied by the crunch of his nose, and the blood that starts gushing out.

“Fuck! Stop, stop!” Dylan begs, but did he stop when Stef was crying? Did he stop when she was begging?

I squeeze his throat and continue to pummel him, until his face is a mess of black and blue and red, and the only noises he makes are incoherent moans. He’ll have a concussion, and the associated aftereffects. Memory loss, muscle issues, migraines—

Or I can keep going, until he can’t breathe at all anymore.

I should have brought a scalpel.

“Hunter. Hunter!” Drake says urgently.

I blink, my hand still around Dylan’s neck as I glance over at where Drake is crouched by Stef.

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