Page 80 of Breaker

“I heard you made quite the donation to the cause,” Zane says. Thanks to the black mesh covering my eyes, he can’t see them, though I can’t hide forever.

I nod, maintaining a smile. “I did,” I say, amazed that my voice comes out normal, not strangled by the tight panic gumming up my throat.

“Good man.” Zane claps on my shoulder. His eyes are a little glassy behind his green mask, telling me he’s tipsy. “Art is crucial. We must ensure it remains in schools and that our children receive a well-rounded education.”

Asshole. He knows nothing about kids or schools.

“But I’m glad you’re here,” Zane says. “Clyde tells me you are interested in our offer.”

“Indeed,” I say, my stomach roiling.

The offer to join Rune’s private lodge. All because we sold a container of weapons and ammo to Rune for his yearly hunts, along with our hotel chain.

Weapons—an entire fucking armory—are just sitting waiting for us at the lodge.

For her.

“I can’t wait,” Zane says. “You’re going to love it. The adrenaline is practically orgasmic. The smells, the sounds. There’s nothing like it.”

Oh, I know.

“I’m familiar with the hunt,” I say. “There’s nothing like tracking your prey. Locking in on it. Getting that perfect shot that takes them down.”

His twisted grin sends a chill down my spine. Little does he know, I am no stranger to stalking my victims. Luring them in, gaining their trust, and devouring all the information they spill, unaware of my true intentions, until it’s too late.

Like him right now.

When Zane claps my back again, I contemplate breaking his fingers one by one to remove them from me. Stepping away from his repulsive touch, my eyes scan for an escape route, desperate to get away before I lose control. That’s when I spot the grand piano in the corner of the room.

“We have a special event planned for this next hunt,” he says, leaning forward like he’s trying to peer through the fabric covering my eyes. “Once we go over the terms of your membership, we can discuss the rest.”

In certain circles, rumors of Rune’s lodge run rampant. He never confirms or denies them for good reason. It’s an invitation-only club, reserved for those who have earned trust from his inner circle. We’ve meticulously planned this for years. Every step calculated, every detail gone over multiple times.

And now it’s time to see if it’s actually going to work.

“Rune should be around here somewhere,” Zane says, scanning the room. “He’ll want to talk with you.”

Panic rushes through me, making sweat bead on my brow. I may be good at pretending, but even I have my limits.

Like standing face to face with the man who tore our brother apart.

That familiar tightness in my chest returns, unease needling at my fingers. My ring taps at my glass. I glance around some more, grateful Zane can’t see my face or how my gaze darts all over, continuing to look for an escape as a nervous tension grips my every thought, snagging it on the dread bubbling in my chest.

I’m not supposed to be here. Alone. We had a plan, and it got fucked the second we took Cora and were forced to return her. It got really fucked when I set things into motion. Way too soon.

If I mess this up, Rune will slip through our fingers, and we’re all dead.

I have to do this right, so he never sees us coming.

Now it’s my turn to be a dick. I give Zane an overly enthusiastic pat on the back, causing him to stumble forward a little. I point to the pretty woman standing next to the piano. “She looks a little lonely.”

I toss him a smile as I walk away, relieved he’s not following me. Trying not to be obvious, I glance around but don’t see Cora anywhere. Maybe she went home. She and Delilah rarely stayed long at these types of functions.

As I walk, Dave tries to flag me down, probably wondering if I’ll show up at his late-night party that he invited Ben to earlier today. I’d rather cut off my hand than attend that mess. When I reach the piano and the woman next to it, I slip past her and take a seat.

My fingers land on the ivory keys, and memories slam into me. Fallon behind me, patiently teaching me how to read sheet music. The sharp sting of a wooden ruler against my knuckles when I made a mistake. His soft words of encouragement and gentle squeeze on my shoulder when I successfully played an entire song without messing up.

He wanted me to be just like him. We have the same eyes, the same number of fingers, and the same capacity for violence.

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