Page 46 of Brutal Savior

“No.”

Seb sips his champagne. “I like her. She seems fun, but…” He swirls the liquid in his glass, “I’m not sure how she’s going to geton in the Compound. Look at Eve. She’s a nerdy homebody. She loves working with you. There’s a lot of good in the Brotherhood for her. Quinn, though…”

My chest tightens as he gives voice to the worry that’s been eating at me all day. As new Brothers, we’re all advised, very strongly, to choose Wards who will adapt well to the Compound. Intelligent, submissive, calm natured.

Quinn is a firework in a box. I can keep her contained and have fun doing it, but I want her to thrive, too. She’s going to need something of her own, and I don’t know her well enough yet to work out what it should be.

My train of thought is interrupted as a young guy who looks half pissed comes over, clutching a copy of one of my books. He hands it to me for signing, which I do, feeling like a fucking idiot. Since when do scientists sign stuff? We have a brief chat, and then he’s replaced by another chap.

An hour later, the flow finally slows, and I tilt my head toward the exit. “Let’s go. I don’t want to leave Quinn any longer.”

Seb drags his gaze away from the absolute stunner who has slipped into the seat next to him and is enjoying a glass of his champagne. As initiates, we’re not meant to sleep around, but I’m not sure Seb takes the rule seriously. I’ve never seen a bigger flirt. His face is a picture of disappointment. “Really? Now?”

“Really. Now.”

He sighs, whispers something in the girl’s ear that makes her laugh, and kisses her on the cheek. He leaves her with the champagne bottle and a huge smile on her face as he gets to his feet. Slick bastard.

We say our goodbyes to the organizer and make a slow exit, stopped every few feet by someone wanting to congratulate me on my speech. By the time we reach the exit, I’m getting to the end of my rope. I’d expected a message from Quinn by this point, and the silence is making me nervous.

Stupid. She’s probably asleep. The girl sleeps like a corpse.

We exit into the much quieter corridor, and I breathe out just as my phone beeps. I pull it out, open the message, and stare, unable to process what I’m seeing. Then it hits, and a red haze falls over my vision, matched by the buzzing in my ears.

The glass cabinet for my special memorabilia is on its side, smashed to pieces. Everything is gone. A text comes next.

Guess what I’ve done with all your shit?

“Hey, is everything okay?” Seb looks back when he sees I’ve stopped dead.

I hold up a hand, eyes glued to the screen.

First comes one of my signed West Ham balls. She’s taken a permanent marker and covered over all the signatures, turning them into pictures of bunny rabbits. She’s posing in the photo, holding the ball in one hand with a wild look on her face and her middle finger raised.

“That fucking…”

Another photo, the winning boots from the 1964 FA Cup. Irreplaceable. I made sure all the sharp knives were locked away, but the little cow is holding my boots over the flame of the gas stove. In the next photo, they’re sitting, destroyed, in the kitchen sink.

More photos follow, my other balls, ruined. The final text plasters itself across the screen.

That’s what you get for being a fucking liar.

What the hell is she talking about? I should work it out, but my anger is running too hot. Grandad and I searched for all the memorabilia together. He found the boots at a tiny collectibles shop in Bristol, of all the weird places, and couldn’t contain his excitement when he took me to get them.

She’s destroyed them. Destroyed that special memory.

A familiar feeling creeps over me, one I haven’t given in to for a long time. A deep, reckless anger—the sort that had me stealing cars and crashing them into walls just for the hell of it when I was a kid. If Quinn thought I was strict before, she has no fucking idea what’s coming to her now. I’ll—

The sound is so faint, and the buzzing in my head so loud, I almost miss it. Only my years of training make me register the faint click. My body moves before my brain catches up, and I smashinto Seb, knocking him to the floor as the bullet whistles past.

“Jacob, what the f—”

I’m moving, on my feet and pounding down the corridor toward the shooter. The man—I can see him now, hovering in a fire escape door—fires again. I’m ready for it and launch myself to the side, leaving the bullet to smash a chunk of plaster out of the wall.

Seb is shouting something but I’m barreling toward the guy. I get a brief impression of dirty blond hair and wide, panicked eyes before I crash into him, driving him to the carpet.

The gun flies out of his hand as I raise my fist and smash it into his face over and over until he goes limp.

It’s over in seconds.

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