Page 143 of Severed Rivalry
I slide through the cover of the trees as quietly as I can, thankful for training at altitude and for healing, mostly at least, from the debacle with my father. I break my cover from them at a full-on run, tackling the guy who dares to think he could have my woman—my Angel—and, with a strength I never knew I had, I shove the palm of my hand into his nose. The angle must be in my favor because it doesn’t break, it must’ve impaled his brain. The fucker is dead.
I take no time to celebrate it, but grab Sariah, taking one look at her face and vowing revenge of the highest order.
Later.
Later I will fix this, but now…
A scream rends the air, and we both turn to see a man standing over Renée. The shiny glint of a knife is held aloft as he speaks some weird fucking incantation or prayer. In this place, there’s no distinction. No God would accept this.
The blood is what I see first.
Blood everywhere.
As screaming fills the night sky.
My heart hits my feet as numbness flows from my head, overtaking… everything.
43
raw brutal thing
Sariah
Hands touch me. I hate it.
No. No. No.
I flail and writhe, doing everything I can to make it so I’m not worth the effort. I scream. Regardless, I’m tossed over a shoulder, my ass high in the air for all to see as we move.
“Stop.” The voice is too calm.
I bite.
I punch.
I kick.
Like fuck is anyone dragging me away without me making it hell to do so. I will not be a victim again. I’m good not being a survivor. I’ll die to save my girl, sacrificing myself so she has a happy, free life.
I scream.
“Sariah, please.”
Something in my name has me freezing, but I don’t know why.
I bounce on the shoulder, my ribs screaming against a meaty bone, as my legs are pinned. Nothing fucking works.
We lower damn near to the ground, and I throw all my weight off my perch and onto my shoulder and hip, hitting the dirt floor in the entry cabin.
“Fuck you,” I yell, kicking and punching. Until something isthrown over me and I’m rolled like a burrito and carried, my arms and legs bound too tightly to use them.
It’s when I’m thrown over the shoulder again that I fear I’ll have to admit to defeat.
I won’t. Not while my girl is alive. I’ll never not be there for her.
“Renée,” I whisper, hoping against hope that the wind takes that strength to her.
“He has her.” The voice is gruff and familiar.
