Page 73 of Broken Pact

I pull up the feed from last night, fast forwarding until I see the familiar dark head of hair walking up to her front door. My breath freezes in my lungs when the two figures emerge out of the camera’s sight. It stays trapped by an invisible force as I watch them crowd her against her door.

I see it then. The moment she straightens up a little bit, her lips moving as she says something to them. The video continues to play, and I watch, my muscles coiling tighter with each passing second. Four minutes. They talk for four fucking minutes before he makes his fatal mistake.

Red descends my vision and rage boils in my veins like a vicious storm.

I watch, my grip tightening on my phone as the scene unfolds like something out of a nightmare.

Birds sing their morning song, the morning sun warms the porch, and the breeze rustles the trees around me. It’s an idyllic morning, one of those things you see in a montage of a movie. I should be enjoying it.

Instead, I’m casually plotting dismemberment. I’ve never really been a fan of it myself, finding it too gruesome for my tastes. But I’ve witnessed parts of the process before, during those exceptionally dark days when the Reapers were at war with rival MCs.

But now? Now I fucking get the appeal.

Because that asshole with the hoodie touched something that didn’t belong to him. So now he has to lose his hands. It’s really as simple as that. An efficient message. How else will he learn to keep his hands to himself?

I text Hawke, switching to our vanish mode messaging app.

Me: Find Falcone and his two henchmen.

Hawke: What, no good morning text?

Me: Good morning. Find Falcone and his two henchmen.

Hawke: You good, man?

Me: I’m fine. I’m not coming in today though.

My phone vibrates in the next second, and I already know it’s Hawke before I see his profile picture on my screen.

“What’s up?” I answer.

“My question exactly. What’s up with you, man? Asking for location and missing work? Something I need to know?” Hawke asks, his tone uncharacteristically serious.

I exhale. “Our new friends paid my girl a visit last night.”

“Fuck. Is she okay?”

I look behind me, a direct view into my living room and the woman in question sprawled across my couch. “She’ll be alright.”

“Shit. Okay. What do you want me to do when I find ’em?”

“Wait for me. We gotta be smart about this.”

“I’ll rope Rocks in on it. Kid’s a fuckin’ natural at this shit. Too bad he wasn’t around when we went through the trenches with the Savages way back, yeah?” Hawke muses.

Bringing up one of the bloodiest times in Rosewood Reaper MC history raises my blood pressure, which is not the goal right now. Not when I have big plans to woo my woman into staying with me, here where it’s safe. I’m having a hard enough time getting the images from outside her bakery out of my mind as it is.

“Just let me know when you find them. And Hawke? Thanks, man.” I clear my throat, the gratitude thick on my tongue.

“Anytime, bro. Later.”

He hangs up, and I pocket my phone. The sound of the door opening pulls me from my doom spiral. I turn to see Coraline standing there, wearing only my tee, her hair tousled and a smile playing on her lips.

She’s a vision, all soft curves and warm light, like a goddess who’s decided to bless me with her presence. She takes a sip from the straw, eyes sparkling as she leans her shoulder against the doorframe.

Her eyes look bright this morning, stark blue against the darkening bruise underneath her eye. I grit my teeth at the sight, my rage reignited too quickly. That prowling beast inside of me is all too quick to rush to the surface.

“The weirdest thing happened. I opened my eyes, and poof, an iced matcha latte appeared. You don’t happen to have a house elf you neglected to mention last night?”

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