Page 45 of Dead Devil's Playground
"We've got work to do," I say finally, turning away from the water. "And someone is going to pay."
Chapter 18
Kai
Thewarehousefeelslikea sauna with the metallic tang of blood hanging heavy in the air. I lean against the wall, watching Ry work with a precision that's both terrifying and beautiful. The look in her eyes is wild, unhinged in a way I haven't seen since Dead Devil's Night two years ago.
Our captive whimpers as she circles him, her knife dancing between her fingers. She's been at this for hours now, methodically taking him apart piece by small piece. His face is barely recognizable beneath the blood and swelling, his shirt in tatters, skin a canvas of her rage.
"One more time," she says, her voice deceptively soft. "Who hired you?"
"I told you," he sobs, words slurring through broken teeth. "Just a guy. Called himself Bren Cade. Paid cash. I never saw his face."
Ry sighs, as if disappointed in a child who keeps making the same mistake. Then she presses the tip of her blade against hiseyelid, just enough pressure to dimple the skin without breaking it.
"I don't believe you," she whispers.
I shift my weight, adjusting myself discreetly. I really shouldn't be rock hard watching her like this, but fuck if her crazy doesn't turn me on. Always has. The way she moves when she's like this—all deadly grace and controlled fury—makes my blood burn.
Rev catches my eye from across the room, the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. He knows exactly what I'm feeling. He's probably in the same state.
"Please," the man begs, blood bubbling from his lips. "I swear I don't know anything else."
I didn't realize how close Ry had gotten to the puppy in such a short time, but watching her now, it makes perfect sense. She saw something of herself in him—that same desperate need to belong, to matter. Now he's gone, and she's channeling all that grief into the man strapped to the chair before her.
"I think," she says, pressing just a fraction harder until a bead of blood wells up beneath her blade, "that you're holding out on me."
The man screams, the sound bouncing off concrete walls as Ry makes another precise cut along his collarbone. Not deep enough to kill, just enough to maximize pain. The manic energy just below her surface threatens to break through with every slice.
Camden stands by the door, his face carefully neutral, but I catch him flinching every time the captive screams. He's been watching for hours, probably wondering when one of us will step in and stop her. Earlier, he actually asked Rev if he was going to control her. Rev just gave him a bland look and asked, "Why would I?"
The memory almost makes me laugh. Camden has seriously underestimated our girl if he thinks we'd ever try to leash her fury. We've learned long ago that Ry is at her most magnificent when she's unleashed.
Our captive jerks against his restraints, a strangled sob escaping him."Please," he begs, "I don't know anything else. I swear to god."
"God isn't here," Ry whispers, leaning in close. "Just me."
I glance at the clock on the wall and shudder. It's past midnight—officially Dead Devil's Night. Before we took over tonight would be the night when all the monsters come out to play, when the city descends into its annual chaos of violence and mayhem. The night that made us what we are.
"We're running out of time," I say, loud enough for Ry to hear.
She doesn't acknowledge me, too focused on her prey. We've been at this since we brought him back from the docks, and while he's given up some information, I'm not convinced it's enough to matter. Whoever is targeting us is smart—too smart to leave an obvious trail. They've built layers to safeguard themselves. This guy we're torturing likely doesn't know anything beyond the man who hired him. But what bothers me most is how our attackers knew all the ins and outs of our operation. The security protocols, the shipment schedules, the weak points in our defenses. That kind of information only comes from the inside.
If I had to guess, the guy who hired this poor bastard won't know more than whoever hired him, and so forth up the chain. But I guess we have to start somewhere, right?
But Ry isn't thinking clearly. She's running on rage and grief, determined to make someone pay for Oliver's death. I understand. I do. But I'm also worried about what happens when she burns through that rage and has nothing left.
Hudson left a while ago to personally hunt down the guy our captive gave up during Ry's "interrogation." She insisted it be him or me or Rev who went, but there was no way in hell Rev and I were going to leave her like this. Not when she's balanced on the knife-edge of control.
The captive screams again as Ry makes another precise cut, and I see Camden flinch once more. Hudson really needs to reevaluate who he has as his second.
"Please," our captive gasps, blood bubbling from his split lip. "I've told you everything I know. I gave you the only name I know and the warehouse on Fifteenth where we were supposed to deliver what we stole."
Ry steps back, wiping the blade clean on a rag as she considers his words. "And who would you have delivered it to?"
"I don't know!" he wails. "I swear to god, I don't know!"
"But you've heard things," she presses, her voice dangerously soft. "Rumors. Whispers. Tell me what people are saying."
