Page 59 of Crown of Lies

Still nothing.

My pulse thrums in my ears as I unscrew the cap and take a long drink. Every instinct screams at me to run, to get out of here. But I can’t. I need to figure out where they’re hiding, what they want.

I move through the house with deliberate casualness, my senses on high alert. I pause in the living room, pretending to check my phone as I scan the space. The curtains are drawn. The couch looks undisturbed, the pillows still neatly arranged.

But then I see it. A slight scuff mark on the hardwood floor, leading toward the hallway. It’s faint, barely noticeable. But it’s enough.

I keep my movements slow, measured. I set my water bottle down on the coffee table, making a show of stretching my arms above my head. “Man, what a day,” I say to the empty room, my voice just a touch too loud.

I force myself to yawn, keeping up the charade as I wander over to the fireplace. My fingers brush against the framed photos on the mantle, lingering for just a moment before slipping behind them and touching the cool metal of the gun I keep hidden there.

Heart pounding, I slide the weapon into my waistband, making sure my shirt covers it completely before making my way to the staircase. As I reach the first stair, I pause, my gaze traveling up toward the second floor.

My breath catches in my throat.

The door to my bedroom is slightly ajar, a sliver of darkness visible through the gap. I freeze, my hand instinctively moving toward the concealed gun.

I know for a fact I closed that door before I left. I always do. Someone’s been in my room. Someone’s probably still there.

I stand motionless at the foot of the stairs, weighing my options. The intruder must have heard me come in, must know I’m here. Are they waiting for me to come upstairs? Or hoping I’ll go to sleep, completely unaware of the danger?

My fingers twitch, itching to grab the gun. But I resist the urge. If they don’t know I’m armed, that’s an advantage I can’t afford to lose.

I start up the stairs, each step measured and careful. I keep my movements relaxed, as if I’m completely oblivious to the danger lurking above.

As I reach the landing, I pause, pretending to check my phone. My eyes dart to the bedroom door, and my heart is trying to thump its way out of my chest, but I force myself to stay calm on the outside.

I push the door open, my hand finding the light switch with practiced ease. The room floods with light, and I blink, adjusting to the sudden brightness. My gaze sweeps across the familiar space, searching for anything out of place.

Everything looks normal at first glance, but there’s a tension in the air that sets my nerves on edge. My eyes land on the closet, and I feel a chill run down my spine. The doors are closed, but something about them seems off.

I take a few cautious steps toward the closet, my hand inching toward the gun at my waist. Suddenly, the doors burst open with a loud bang. Before I can react, a dark figure launches itself at me.

I barely have time to react before his body slams into mine, knocking the wind out of me as we crash to the floor in a tangle of limbs.

I struggle against his grip, but he’s strong and his hands are rough as they grab at my arms. I manage to land a solid kick to his shin, and he grunts in pain.

We roll across the floor, each fighting for our lives. I claw at his mask, trying to get it off, but he jerks his head away. His elbow catches me in the ribs, and I gasp.

His weight pins me down, and suddenly I’m not here anymore. I’m with the Bullets again, surrounded by leering faces and grasping hands.

“No!” I scream, panic making my throat close up. The memories flood in, vivid and terrifying. The smell of sweat and cigarettes. The sound of cruel laughter. The feeling of helplessness.

Fuck, this can’t be happening. Not again.

18

QUINN

I’m not here.

This isn’t happening.

Those words are on repeat in my head as I fight against the panic. No, I refuse to be a victim again. I’m Quinn fucking Kent, and I won’t go down without a fight.

With a surge of adrenaline, I thrust my hips upward, throwing the attacker off balance. His grip loosens for just a second, but it’s enough. I twist my body, breaking free from his hold.

My elbow connects with his face, and I hear a satisfying crunch. He howls in pain, reeling back. I scramble to my feet, my hand finally reaching for the gun at my waist.

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