Page 56 of Turn That River Red

It’s not just fear, though. It’s sorrow. That same sweet, overpowering sadness I felt the first time I saw her down by the river.

“Fuck.” I try to shove Max back as I fling the door open, but he tears out of my grip and takes off across the courtyard. “Fuck!” I shout, louder, and I follow him. I know exactly where he’s going because I’m following the same scent.

It leads me around the block to another set of empty cabins. Visually, they all look abandoned—no lights, no movement. But the one closest to the walkway is throbbing with life. Mercy is in there—frightened, angry, upset. Someone else is in there, too. A man. And he’s not fucking upset at all

I know, with a sudden and blazing clarity, that I’m going to kill him.

Max bounds up to the cabin’s front door, barking furiously. “Heel,” I order, and to my relief, he listens, falling silent and backing off from the doorway. His hackles are still up, though. Teeth bared.

“I’ve got this,” I tell him. “Wait.”

Then I kick the door in, the flimsy wood splintering beneath my boot heel. A male voice shouts from inside thehouse, a mix of surprise, confusion, and guilt. I stomp inside, my bloodlust surging inside me as I follow the delicious trail of Mercy’s fear.

I know what I’m going to find, but knowing it intellectually andseeingit are two different things.

There’s Mercy,myMercy, on the couch, naked, tear tracks over her cheeks.

And there’s one of the goddamned church guards scrambling away from her, his pants shoved down over his hips.

“What the hell?” he shouts. “What are you doing here?”

I look over at Mercy, and she lets out a soft, hiccupy sob. She’s not afraid anymore. But I can still sense her shame and her sorrow. Her self-loathing.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

I look back at the guard. I’ve seen him before. He’s always hanging around Gunner and Gunner’s right-hand man, Sullivan. I don’t remember his name, just his smarmy smile. He’s not smiling now, though. He’s glaring at me as he tries to tuck his cock back in his pants.

“This is none of your business,” he spits out, although I hear the fear behind his words. Not real fear, not life or death fear, although that’ll be here soon enough. He’s just afraid of getting caught. “Go back to your cabin, preacher. This is a church matter.”

I step toward him. Cold. Calm. His fear twists and darkens, and I can’t help but smile a little.

Because he’s slowly realizing what I am.

“Mercy,” he says softly. “Mercy, you need to run.”

“Mercy doesn’t need to do anything she doesn’t want to.” The words come out slow as molasses. “Mercy’s safe.”

That’s all I need to say before I let the bloodlust take me completely.

I launch myself at Mercy’s rapist using all my speed. He shrieks and tries to duck away, but I’m much too fast for him. Igrab him by the neck and slam him up against the nearby wall, hard enough that I leave a smear of blood behind. Then I fling him down to the floor, slamming his head against the cheap vinyl floorboards. He chokes and sputters, blood oozing between his lips. I pin him there one-handed, fury surging through my blood.

“You shouldn’t have touched her,” I snarl, tightening my fingers around his throat. He grabs at my wrist, kicking desperately up against me. But he’s human, and I’m furious.

I drag his head up by his neck and then slam it back down again. Again. Blood splatters across the floor. “Don’t fucking touch her,” I growl, over and over. “Don’t touch her. Don’tfucking touch her.”

He’s dead. I sense it when his life cuts out, when he goes from being prey to being meat. And with that death, the rage washes out of me. I drop him, staring down at his ruined head and the gore splattered across the floor, trying to catch my breath. Trying to calm myself.

Behind me comes a choking, terrified whimper.

The full realization of what I just did slams into me. I jump to my feet, whirling around to face Mercy. She’s pressed up against the wall, still naked, tears streaming over her face, her mouth twisted in anguish.

“You’re safe,” I tell her immediately. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Even though I should. She knows what I am now. She knows, and she’s horrified by it.

“It was you,” she chokes out, shoulder hitching with her sobs. “All this time. You—you killed—why?” She screams the last word. “Why did you do that? Why did you?—”

She doesn’t finish her last question because she breaks down into tears instead, but I can guess what she was going to ask. WhydidI fuck her?

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