Page 108 of The Hunter
Drawing his pistol, he trained it on Dorshaw, but the angle made a shot too dangerous. At this caliber, the bullet could go through Dorshaw and puncture Millie.
Besides, he wanted to get his hands on the man with a relish he’d not thought possible.
Standing back at an angle to avoid ricochet, Argent shot through the thick iron lock.
The sound reverberated against the stone with deafening force, but Argent had been prepared for it, and he wrenched the chains off the gate and kicked it open.
***
The blast of the pistol broke the haze of bloodthirsty rage holding Millie in its thrall. She knew who’d come for her before she looked up. She trusted that she was safe, that this nightmare was over. Because a man who somehow continued to perform incredible, nighimpossiblefeats had kicked down the gates to her prison, liberating her body and soul.
The lanterns set his hair ablaze and glittered off eyes the color of the frozen north. His strength and prowess magnified the depth of his wrath as he entered, the pistol still smoking in his hand.
Millie realized that she’d been so, so wrong about him. All this time, she thought she’d made a deal with a demon. With the devil himself perhaps. That she’d signed her sinful contract in blood. That he was a man forged in the depths of hell and, as such, irrevocably doomed to a life of darkness and despair.
But that was just not so.
Christopher Argent was her fallen, avenging angel.
Not a seraphim. Nor a cherubic innocent garbed in white. But a guardian. A warrior. A boy who had traded his halo and wings, and perhaps even his soul, for a knife and a garrote and ultimate vengeance. He’d been baptized in blood and now he rose from the ashes, something hard and sinister and unholy, but ultimately redeemable.
He had a heart. She could see it in his eyes as he drank her in.
His arrival revitalized Dorshaw, whose struggles increased as her strength waned. She could feel the trembling now, the burning in her lungs and the aching of her muscles. She wanted to think that she could have done it. That she could have saved herself, that she could have taken a life. But it became clear that she would never know.
Christopher said nothing as he reached her and gently pried the chain from her aching fingers. His nostrils flared and taut muscles tested the seams of his shirt as he took a moment to thoroughly examine her, unspoken questions twitching on his hard lips.
“I—I’m all right.”
Nodding, he turned his attention to Dorshaw, and Millie couldn’t help but feel a slight touch of compassion for the villain.
Without seeming to put forth any effort, Christopher pulled the chain tight. Dorshaw’s eyes bulged, but an awful squeal of breath still struggled into his constricted throat. Exerting just the right amount of pressure, Christopher leaned down and put his cold, brutal,beautifulface the space of a breath from Dorshaw’s.
“Your death willnotbe quick.” Christopher repeated Dorshaw’s words to him, as a vein popped out on the dark assassin’s straining forehead. “You will twitch and struggle.”
And, indeed, he did. His boots made terrible sounds as they scraped across the dirt in frantic, panicked reflexes. Hands pawed at the chains, then at Christopher, but he ignored them as he pulled the chains incrementally tighter, knowingjusthow much pressure to exert.
“You’ll watch the demons come for you, and you’ll welcome them if only to escape the horror of my face. If only to flee from the knowledge that it wasI,thesuperiormonster, who ended you.”
Millie had never seen the throes of death this close before. No matter how evil the man had been, it was hard to watch him die, but she forced herself to. She wanted this. Wanted to experience this, knowing it would change her forever. It was the only way she’d not look for Dorshaw in the shadows. That she’d not see him down every alley, waiting for him to pounce. If she watched him die, she could let him go.
And so she did. Attached to the chain that killed him, she watched him struggle his last, and finally understood how one could take pleasure in the taking of a life.
When it was done, Christopher let the body drop to the dirt.
He wouldn’t look at her. Didn’t touch her.
“Christopher?”
While he searched for a key, other men spilled into the room like a foulmouthed river of peril, filling up the small chamber until she could no longer see the gate.
Their exclamations of pleasure and surprise at finding her alive were at once endearing and overwhelming. When she felt the first manacle fall away, she made a small noise of relief, and Christopher crowded her against the stone wall to unlock her other wrist.
His closeness was like a balm. He was a pillar of hard, warm muscle that directly contrasted with the cold stone at her back. Once free, she melted into him. His arms enfolded her and they stood like that in silence. In absolute stillness. Words escaped them both, but every sentiment passed between them with such intensity, to try and vocalize them would have cheapened the depth of their consolation.
The room fell quiet, as one by one, each of the men stood witness to something they’d never thought would transpire, and that they wouldn’t soon forget.
Christopher Argent, the largest, coldest, deadliest assassin any of them had ever heard of, swept a half-naked Millie LeCour off her feet, and held her to him and said not a word as he carried her out of the London underground and out into the night.
