Page 102 of Sinner's Fury

“I can’t stop it, Josh.”

“Malice and Payne are going to help you out of this place. You will not attack your brothers, understood? Torment, find Mercy and keep watch on Charlotte.”

“Get me the fuck out of here,” he grated as his nose flared and his eyes turned dark.

Shit.

He was going to kill us before we could even get him out of the hospital.

“Where the fuck are we?” I asked, looking around the area as I stepped out of the SUV. The area looked nothing like the city we came from. The area, in fact, possessed the distinct characteristics of a rural township, with its dense forest and the old-style farmhouse that looked like it belonged in a storybook.

“This land once belonged to the Campbell Family back in the early 1800s. The Campbells were simple farmers when the Civil War broke out. All four of their sons died in the war, leaving only a daughter. With no male heirs to pass the land to, the family gifted the land as a dowery to their daughter’s future husband, a man named Adam Doherty.”

“Wait a damn minute,” Rage spoke up. “Are you telling me this land belongs to Reaper?”

“No.” O’Malley slowly shook his head. “I said the Campbells gifted the land as a dowery as long as it was passed down to the oldest daughter. Which it was, when Diana Doherty was born.”

“So how the fuck did this land end up in the Craven Family?”

Braesal O’Malley grinned. “In 1903, Diana Doherty married John Craven. And for an entire generation, the land stayed in the Craven Family because no daughters were born until Henry Craven married Sarah Williams in 1955. They had four daughters; the oldest was Elizabeth.”

“So, who does the land belong to now?” Rage asked, looking around the desolate place.

“Charlotte,” O’Malley informed. “At least that’s what I could find out on such short notice. As the last remaining descendant, the house and all the land belong to Charlotte.”

“I’m going to burn this fucking place to the damn ground, right after I kill that motherfucker. Where is he?” Fury growled.

“In the barn,” O’Malley said, leading the way.

As soon as I stepped inside and laid eyes on Steele dangling from a rafter, his arms encircled by chains, his body a canvas of blood and bruises, I let out a weary sigh, before turning my attention to O’Malley, whose arrogant smirk was the final insult.

“He’s lucky I didn’t kill him myself.”

“Let him go,” Fury ordered, and O’Malley’s men looked at their boss, who simply nodded. The two men, obeying orders, eased Steele to the ground, the sound of the handcuffs being unlocked a small disruption in the tense silence, before they stepped back.

“Your wife has a right tight pussy.” Steele grinned, wiping the blood from his lip with the back of his hand. “She sucks cock like a fucking pro, too.”

The air crackled with tension as several men let out growls, their hands reaching for their weapons until O’Malley’s outstretched hand commanded a halt, silencing the impending chaos.

I just stood there and slowly shook my head, the weight of the situation settling on my shoulders. Steele was gravely mistaken if he believed he could extricate himself from the predicament he had found himself in. He was trapped within the confines of that barn; escape was impossible, and I think even he realized he would not be leaving alive.

“You just gonna stand there with your thumb up your ass or you gonna do something?” the fucker shouted.

Despite the evident provocation, Fury still hadn’t moved. Instead, he stood in the barn’s center, the silence broken only by the occasional drip of water, his gaze fixed on Steele. I’d been fortunate enough to witness many of Fury’s fights since our first meeting, and although each bout unfolded differently, with various opponents and strategies employed, there was one consistent factor. Fury never struck first. Therefore, it did not surprise me when Steele let out a roar, immediately chargingtoward Christian, wrapping his arms around Christian’s waist in a tackle and hoisting him into the air before forcefully slamming him back to the ground.

When Malice moved to interfere, I clipped, “Everyone, stay the fuck back. This is Fury’s fight.”

I observed Steele for the next few minutes, during which time he seemed completely convinced that he was in a position of dominance and advantage. Although Steele’s size clearly surpassed Fury’s, the glint in Fury’s eyes and a subtle shift in his weight betrayed his amusement. It was obvious Fury was merely playing with his larger opponent.

Punch after punch, Fury absorbed the blows, the impact jarring his body, but his eyes remained unwavering, letting the man believe he had a chance. Even when Steele managed to get Fury in a headlock, the fighter I knew, with a surprising burst of strength and agility, wiggled his way out, forcing Steele to quickly adapt a new strategy. With each passing moment of Fury’s gamesmanship, Steele’s rage intensified, his breathing becoming heavy and his voice a low growl.

However, when Steele grabbed a farm rake—the sickening snap when it broke in half echoing in the silence—and brandished the jagged piece as a weapon, I knew he had just made a fatal error in judgment. Because when he charged Fury, the fighter I knew emerged with a swift, brutal dance of motion. The impact of Fury’s kick sent the wood flying, followed by a sharp crack as Steele’s wrist bent at an unnatural angle.

A roar tore from the man’s throat as he clutched his broken wrist, his breath hitching in his chest. With Steele hampered by his injured hand, I shoved away from the weathered barn wall, immediately sensing the loss of its cool, damp surface against my back, and gave the order.

“Finish him.”

I’d seen Fury fight many times, and this time was no different. He launched himself into the fray, a storm of irrepressible violence, each punch delivered with immense rage and precision. The smell of sweat and blood filled the air as Fury unleashed a ferocious barrage of punches, kicks, and jabs, each blow a thunderous testament to his power, leaving Steele broken and defeated.

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