Page 182 of Beautifully Reckless

“Yes,” Cookie splutters, his face contouring in agony. “Fuuuck… his fucking face man. When he realised what I’d done. That I’d betrayed him.” Cookie presses his hand, along with the clip of the gun, to his temples, crumbling under the weight of his betrayal.

“You could’ve come to us. We could’ve tried to save your sister. We still can.”

“No.” He shakes his head, his arms trembling with pain and fury. “It’s too fucking late. The Satans raped her for days… and killed her this morning.” His voice breaks. “She’s fucking gone, man. Fuckinggone.”

Cookie buckles in half, a wailing scream tearing out of him.

A loud shot cracks through the air, and a bullet tears up the dirt at Cookie’s feet.

He jumps in fright, before spinning to face the treeline.

“Okay! Fucking give me a second!” he yells, his voice ragged, soaked in despair.

I glance towards the thick pines, not able to see a damn thing through the glare of the spotlights, before Cookie turns back to face me.

“I don’t wanna do this.” Cookie chokes out. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

“Do what?” I ask, a chill slicing down my spine as dread pools thick in my gut.

“I have a message for you… from Ian Allen.”

“What the fuck is it?” I growl, squeezing the gun in my hand, itching to unleash hell.

“This… me.” He swirls his free hand through the air. “I’m nothing more than a diversion.”

I stop fucking breathing, as I watch an eerie calmness settle over Cookie’s face.

“While you’re here dealing with me...” he deadpans. “Allen is taking your woman.”

The words slam into me like a freight train, rage exploding in my chest, my heart hammering against my ribs… but before I can move… before I can say a single fucking word, Cookie lifts the gun, presses it to his temple, and pulls the trigger.

31

Another storm is rolling in, leaving me with an eerie feeling as I sit beneath the Jacaranda tree in the darkness of the early morning.

Ringo left over an hour ago. I’ve felt nothing but dread since. That familiar feeling has crept back in, but this time, it’s settled deep, like it has no intention of going anywhere.

Everyone is still asleep. The call came in around 1am, so everyone here was out cold. Except for Stoner, who I know is stationed at the front gate.

Mule, my constant shadow, must have taken the night off with Ringo’s arrival earlier, which is fair. There was no need for him to remain on my watch with my husband here.

But he’s gone now, and for the first time in weeks, as I sit at Hope’s gravestone, I am truly alone.

Theentire sky lights up, illuminating my surroundings with a blinding flash of lightning… and I stiffen, the air in my lungs getting trapped.

Surely my eyes are playing tricks on me, because I could have sworn, at the last second, I caught sight of the silhouette of a man up on the ridge.

Thunder cracks loud overhead, making the hairs on my arms stand on end. As my heartrate kicks up, thrashing wildly in my chest, I stand from the ground, my paranoid eyes darting around me.

There’s no one there, Abbey. Stop conjuring up stuff that isn’t real.

Another flash, this one delayed, sending forks of lightning streaking across the sky, but I barely register it.

A gasp lodges in my throat, my eyes locking onto not one, but six or seven moving silhouettes up on the ridge… heading straight for me.

I nearly slip as I stumble backwards, heavy drops of rain splashing against my cheeks as I spin and run.

My legs won’t move fast enough as I charge uphill towards the house. My run is a desperate mess, a frantic mix of leaps and waddles, as I try to put distance between me and the men closing in.

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