Page 21 of Unleashed
Anthony drops to his knees beside me. “Oh fuck. Everly, you’re bleeding. Jesus.”
His arms go around me as I slump forward, barely upright. “It hurts.” My stomach clenches again, another blinding jolt making me cry out. And I don’t understand. “What’s happening?”
I hear Anthony’s panicked voice, yelling for an ambulance, but the sound starts to fade, like I’m underwater. And beneath the agony—beneath the terror—something tells me this is more than pain. It’s loss.
And it’s already too late.
Chapter 7
ISAIA
The cross sits in the middle of the table like it has a goddamn seat at the meeting.
Nobody touches it.
Nobody breathes too loud.
And for once, not even Caelian has something to say. Until he does.
“Well,” he says, tilting back in his chair, arms crossed. “I don’t know about you guys, but I vote we pretend that’s a decorative letter opener and call it a day.”
Maximo doesn’t look up. “You done?”
“Nope,” Caelian says, “but I’m pacing myself.”
Alexius stands at the head of the table, hands braced on the wood, eyes locked on the bloodstained piece of wood like it might start talking. “This is all Micah.”
“Dead men don’t crawl out of graves and start hobby killing again,” Caelian says, dropping into the leather armchair with asigh. “Unless we’re going full biblical, in which case, I vote we all stock up on crucifixes and holy water.”
Nicoli leans in slightly, quiet and calculating. “We buried Micah. No one ever found him. No cops. No press. Not even a fucking whisper.”
“Yeah,” Caelian mutters, “because we’re really good at secrets. And shovels.”
I speak for the first time since sitting down, voice low and sharp. “Then explain how someone recreated his exact murder style.”
Maximo flips through the images on his phone, his expression solid, like he’s not looking at first-class mutilation. “They didn’t just recreate it. They studied it.”
“That cross.” Alexius nods toward it. “The carving. The scripture. The way the victim was posed. It’s too specific. Too familiar.”
“Don’t forget the stitched lips.” Nicoli raises a brow.
“Textbook Micah,” Maximo confirms. “Same stitches. Same eye mutilation. Cross between the legs.”
“Rings like a fucking fire alarm,” Caelian says, sitting up. “But let me play devil’s advocate. And I do meandevil.What if it has nothing to do with us? It could be an angry lover, wrong pill combo, kinky sex game gone to hell.”
I glare across the table. “You think a guy who gets off on eye-gouging and scripture-stitchingjust happenedto pick Micah’s playbook out of the murder buffet?”
“I said devil’s advocate.” Caelian shrugs. “Notdevil’s idiot.”
Nicoli finally sits, back straight. “We made sure no one knew what Micah did. Not really. Not the full scope. The body count,the rituals, the reasons—every bit of it was cleaned up and buried.”
“Literally,” Caelian adds. “Ten feet under a church, right next to our moral compass and a priest with a coke habit.”
Alexius cuts him a look. “You done?”
“Emotionally? Never.” Caelian grins. “But sure, let’s continue.”
I lean forward, fingers steepled. “So, then, what are we saying? Someone found Micah’s manifesto or something?”
