Page 38 of Whispers of the Dead

“Next time,” Cole rasps out, “I’ll aim better, and take out one of them, too. Maybe even both at once.”

Despite the ache in my chest, a shaky laugh escapes. It’s weak, but it’s something.

Damon’s exasperated. “You’re an idiot, you know that?”

Cole chuckles, a deep, throaty sound that somehow warms me. “Yeah, but I’m your idiot, and she’s still alive.”

13

COLE

Zoey’s blue eyes are the last thing I see before the taser strikes again, lighting up my body with pain.

Her eyes still burn into my mind when cold metal cuffs clamp around my wrists, and rough hands drag me from my cell. Their grips are bruising, but that’s the least of my worries. Their boots scuff against the concrete while they shove me down the dark corridor.

I don’t fight. I don’t resist. Even when they slam my face against the large door before leaving the cell block, I still don’t say a damn word.

They’re already furious, and that’s exactly how I want to stay. Focused on me, and only me. A few bruises and a bloody nose are worth it if it keeps the heat off of her.

I’m forced to shut my eyes when I’m thrust into the blinding, shitty fluorescent light outside the cell block. This is the first time in far too long that I’ve been out of the darkness. It takes a little while to adjust, but they don’t want to give me that time.

The air turns stale the moment they haul me into a small room. The stench of mildew and sweat clings to the cracked walls, stained with years of neglect. A single bulb flickersoverhead, casting erratic shadows that crawl across the floor like specters.

Eugene stands near a window at the far end. His back is rigid with his arms clasped behind him. The tension radiating off him feels like a storm that’s about to break. He’s talking to Avery, the man who carried Zoey back to her cell earlier. She had said he helped her when Eugene tried to get her. Their conversation halts when the dregs push me forward and force me to stand beneath that weak, flickering light. Was the world always this fucking bright?

Avery is the first to look at me. His dark eyes drag over my face with something like intrigue. Whatever serious conversation he was having with Eugene is now forgotten.

One dreg clears his throat. His eyes shift from side to side as though he wants to be here almost as much as I do. “Uh, boss, about the knife we found.”

Eugene turns around with his face a mask of icy rage. His nostrils flare and he sets his cold, calculating stare on them. “Explain.”

The dreg swallows hard. “It was thrown into the rotter’s head. Saved the girl.”

Eugene’s jaw tightens, but my attention shifts to Avery. For a fraction of a second, a flicker of something hot flashes in his expression before he smoothes it over with feigned indifference.

Eugene crosses his arms and presses his lips into a thin line for a moment before speaking. “Where, exactly, did this knife come from?”

The dreg stammers, “We don’t know. This one had it.” He shoves me forward another step.

Before Eugene can speak, Avery’s voice cuts through the tension like a blade, sharp and biting. “They tell you this man saved the woman you’re obsessing over, and your first concern is how he got the knife?” His lips curl and mockery laces his tone. “Way to show your appreciation. I’d be moreconcerned with what he had to save her from, but maybe that’s just me.”

Eugene’s face darkens, and his nostrils flare again. No wonder they’re so damn big. They’re always flaring like a bull ready to charge. Maybe I should find a red cloth before they throw me back into the cell. “Give me a chance to question him, will you? Stay quiet, or get the hell out.”

Avery’s fingers twitch near the gun strapped to his belt, but he forces himself to relax, though the intensity with which his jaw clenches looks painful. There’s something off about the tension between them, something deeper than the usual power plays of men like this. For the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like the most hated person in the room.

Eugene’s gaze snaps back to me and narrows with barely contained rage. He studies me in silence, as if trying to decide how much pain I deserve for existing. When he finally speaks, his voice is low and venomous. “A knife thrown. Near her.”

I meet his stare without flinching. “She’s fine, by the way. You’re welcome.”

He’s not welcome at all. In fact, that knife should be embedded in his gut right now. I drop my gaze to his stomach and imagine the handle protruding from his flesh, slick with his blood.

“She’s fine?” he repeats, his tone sharp enough to cut. His boots clink against the floor when he steps closer. “She could have been killed.”

“Yeah, by the rotter your men let loose in her cell while she was sleeping.”

His gaze flicks toward the dregs on either side of me, but the true fury, the lethal kind, simmers only in Avery’s expression. “I see,” Eugene says, his voice colder than before. “So my men decided to play a little game with my property.”

I grit my teeth, but I can’t keep the words from spilling out. “She’s not your property.”

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