Page 10 of Complete Me
Malice’s eyes get big, glinting with excitement as he wiggles his thick eyebrows at him. “Don’t tempt me with a good time, buddy.” Malice has always been a little trigger-happy. He’s the most unhinged of all of us. He’s just over six feet tall but well under two hundred pounds, with a lean frame, wild brown hair—that I’m almost certain he cuts himself—is covered in random-ass tattoos, and has at least two personalities. He’s either batshit fuckin’ crazy or completely sane and coherent.
“Alright, you dumb fuckers, I actually do want to get this over with, so if you’re done flirting . . .”
“Rogue just wants to get back to going rogue. We shoulddraw this one out, Wrath, so he has to stick around a little longer. Maybe he won’t be so grumpy.”
“I’m not grumpy.”
“Lonely then. Maybe you should get a pet,” Malice adds.
“Got any leashes I can borrow then?” I quip, knowing that his bedroom at the clubhouse is nicknamed the dungeon for a reason.
Malice’s face goes from amused to heated, a lethal glint dancing around his irises, and I brace myself in case he lunges for me. I’ve never been on his bad side, but a few in our club have—with the scars to prove it.
“You want me to put you on a leash, Roguey, all you have to do is ask,” he snarls in a psychotic, amused way that is completely unhinged and wholly him.
I roll my eyes, a genuine smile lifting my lips. It’s hard not to miss my brothers.
“I’m heading in,” I say, over being stuck in the back of this hot-ass truck with two other huge men in the middle of summer with no AC. I open the back of the truck, stepping out of it as the cool, summer night air hits my damp skin.
Pulling my gun from its holster at my side and holding it between my hands, I move forward in the direction of the house. Malice follows me, flanking me on my left, while Wrath stays back to watch our backs from his drone footage.
The lights flicker from the streetlamps, the moon high in the sky as we skirt the tree line at the side of their shit hovel. The one-story house they’re camped out in is falling apart. The roof is partially caved in, windows missing, graffiti and stains from age and fuck knows what else covering every inch of space.
My eyes connect with Malice as we stand on opposite ends of a window. I glance inside, finding three assholes sitting in what looks to be a living room. They’re too relaxedfor a bunch of criminals who just beat and raped a few women, but then again, that’s probably a normal fucking day for them. What sends me over the edge and fills me with a deep sense of outrage is seeing the club patch—an insignia that will forever be burned into my mind—a wolf howling up at the moon.
I had almost convinced myself on the way here that Chaos was wrong. That there was no possible way the Iron Wolves could be regrouping, and strong enough to coordinate a hit on us to let us know they’ve woken from their slumber. Rage and vengeance take over all other coherent thoughts.
I hold up three fingers for Malice so he knows. There’s no way for us to know exactly how many to expect when we go in, so we have to be on guard. We move in sync, keeping to the edge of the house, walking up the rotting deck, and flanking the front door. It’s the only part of the house that seems to have held up. With full clips and an intense desire to get in there and kill these assholes, I hold up three fingers between us, counting down silently.
Three.
Two.
One.
I lift my leg and kick the center of the door with all my strength, the wood splintering upon impact and shattering as it busts open with a loud bang and falls off its hinges. Malice is the first one in, with his gun held out in front of him. I’m right behind him, stepping into the decaying house.
The stench immediately assaults my face, my eyes burning from the choking scent of ammonia—fucking urine. It’s soaked into the warped floors, yellow stains mixing with the green and blacks of mold climbing up the peeling wallpaper. I hold back the wave of bile wanting to purge itself from my body, doing whatever I can to not breathe in this putrid shit.
“What up motherfuckers? Heard you like to beat on pretty little dancers?” Malice hisses.
The three men are wearing their cuts, standing up and looking at the two of us like they’re genuinely shocked to see us here, but not reacting as they should be.
“Surprised, boys?” I ask. “You made a mistake hitting Hell’s Heathens. You realize you’re still in our territory?”
The three of them are too fucking high to do much but sway on their feet, looking around like they don’t have any clue who we are, and what we’re asking. That won’t do at all.
Malice has the same idea as he shoots first, a bullet landing true, right through one of their kneecaps. I wince as he howls like the little pup he is, grabbing his knee and collapsing to the ground.
“Who’s your leader?” I ask, taking a step closer to them, immediately regretting my decision when a wave of unwashed filth from their bodies crashes into me like toxic sludge.
“We don’t know.”
I shake my head in disappointment. “Impossible. Try again. Who’s your leader?”
“We don—” He doesn’t get to finish his sentence as I take the shot this time, putting a bullet right between his eyes. His body crumbles to the ground in a heap of useless bones and muscles, blood spreading across the floor from the back of his head.
“Let’s try again, huh? Who the fuck is your leader?” I try one last time before I let Malice work the remaining two over. The last man standing looks down at his brother before looking back at us.
