Page 118 of One Spicy Summer

I feel like the world is falling away under my feet. Rage burns away the fear. All that's left is bloodlust.

“How the fuck did he find out where you lived?” Rafe grits out.

“I don’t know. But after I get Presley back, I’m gonna rip the answer out of his fucking throat.”

The motel looms out of the dark, like a rotting corpse.

Abandoned. Forgotten.

Perfect for monsters to hide in.

“Park over there,” I mutter. “Kill the lights. Slow.”

We creep toward the crumbling building. “They’re in room 707.” Rafe leans in for a closer look. “Second floor.”

I sling my black bag onto the cracked pavement. He kneels down and peeks inside. "Pick your poison," I say, voice like death breathing down a neck.

He whistles low. "Holy shit... Where'd you get all this?"

“My father’s legacy,” I growl. “And his curse.”

Rafe stands, one of the heavier tools of violence already gripped in his hand. His face glows with grim excitement.

"You think your old man still wants revenge?"

"I don't think," I snarl. “Iknow. I'd bet my fucking life on it."

The time for talking is over.

I sling the bag over my shoulder and roll them loose. Rafe cracks his knuckles beside me.

It’s time to paint 707 in blood.

And hell itself is coming with us.

As we close in on the battered motel door, I hear her voice… Raw, broken, desperate.

"Keifer, please, no more."

That’s all it takes. I don’t knock. I slam my shoulder into the door so hard the frame cracks, splinters flying. My eyes rake the room, hunting for the bastard.

Keifer crouches behind Presley with his fucking hand wrapped around her delicate throat, grinning like the fucking devil.

“Well, well, Rygaard finally decided to crash the party. We've been keeping our little toy… busy.” His laugh is a wet, rotten thing.

I barely hear him. My gaze locks onto Presley, crumpled in the corner like a broken doll, blood painting her mouth, a savage bruise blossoming around her eye. She was shaking, not just from the cold, but from the terror leaking out of her pores.

Something inside me tears loose.

“You know what happens to thieves in third world countries that touch what doesn’t belong to them, Keifer?” I ask, voice low, almost gentle. I’m already trembling, rage bottling up under my skin, ready to blow. “They get their hands cut off.”

He meets my eyes and spits blood onto the floor like he thought he was some kind of fucking man. “I don’t give a fuck what happens to some gutter rats halfway across the world,” he sneers.

Brave. Stupid. Dead man walking.

I smile. It isn’t friendly. It’s death carved into a mouth.

He still has his filthy hands around her throat. Still thinks he’s in control.

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