Page 8 of Dead Devil's Playground
The first lunges and swings wide, sloppy. But I saw his move from a mile away. I dance aside, giggling, and open him from hip to hip. He crumples. Another comes screaming, knife aimed at my ribs, but I’m already moving. I meet him steel-to-steel, sparks flying, and twist, burying my second blade in his throat. He gurgles, spraying red. “Shhh,” I whisper, pressing a finger to my lips as he falls, “don’t ruin the moment.”
Three down. I wipe blood from my lip, eyes bright. Two left.
The next stumbles, fear in his eyes. Oh, Ilovethat look. He tries to retreat but I kick his legs out and he hits the concrete hard. “Where you going, huh? We werejustgetting to the fun part.” Before he can squeal, I straddle him, burying my blade in his chest, twisting until his body stills.
That just leaves the leader. Oh, he’s shaking now, but desperate dogs bite hardest. And I want him alive.
He charges, desperate, a roar on his lips. I move to slip past, but he’s better than I gave him credit for. He slams me hard against the bricks. My knives clatter to the ground, and cold steel presses into my throat.
“I’ll cut you open,” he hisses, spittle hitting my cheek, “and fuck what’s left. Shove their knives in you one by one so they can join in from hell.”
I laugh. Blood trickles down my neck from his blade, and I laugh in his face, sharp and jagged. “God, you’re creative. I almost like you.”
And then—bang.
The shot rattles the alley, warm spray splattering across me. His eyes go wide, his mouth opening in a silentohbefore he crumples, knife dragging shallowly across my throat on the way down.
The leader’s corpse is still twitching when Hudson storms into view, all broad shoulders and black fury. The alley is a slaughterhouse—bodies leaking red into dirty puddles, steel gleaming where it dropped, smoke still curling from his gun. And he looks like the executioner.
His eyes lock on me, and it’s like being pinned by a thunderhead. Dark, electric, full of the kind of rage that makes men kneel. And his focus is solely on me. I tilt my head, grin splitting across my face, blood dripping down my neck.
“Aw,” I rasp, voice ragged but amused, “you ruined my fun.”
Hudson doesn’t smile. Doesn’t even blink. He advances, gun still raised, each step a promise of violence. “Fun?” His voice is molten iron, low and sharp. “You call this fun?”
I giggle, high and breathless, stepping over the twitching body at my feet. “I waswinning.” I sweep an arm wide, theatrically presenting the carnage. “Four down, one to squeal, and you—” I jab a bloodied finger at him—“you stole my encore.”
The barrel of his gun dips as he closes the last steps between us. His free hand snaps out, fingers clamping around my arm hard enough to bruise. He jerks me forward, chest to chest, his face carved from stone and storm.
“You think this is a game?” he snarls, voice rough with barely restrained rage. “You think bleeding yourself out in alleys makes you untouchable?” His eyes flick to the thin line of blood still seeping down my throat, and for a second, the storm flickers into something else. Fear. Frustration. Then it’s rage again, sharper. “You could’ve been dead before I got here.”
I laugh in his face, sharp and feral, blood spattering his cheek. “But I’mnot.” I tilt my head back, lips curling wickedly. “And admit it—you love watching me dance with death. Makes your cock twitch, doesn’t it?”
His jaw ticks, hard enough to crack teeth. “Get in the car,” he growls, dragging me out of the alleyway and toward the waiting SUV.
I stumble once, laughing through it.
One of his men waits near the SUV, stone-faced, and Hudson doesn’t hesitate—digging into my pocket for the bike key and tossing it to him like I’m a misbehaving child caught stealing candy.
I watch the man mount the stolen motorcycle, and it roars to life. “Hey!” I protest, my voice pitching high with mock outrage. “That’s mine!”
Hudson whirls on me, jerking the SUV door open. His face is carved from fury. “Get. In.”
For a beat, I almost laugh in his face again. Almost push him. But there’s a line in his voice, one even I’m not stupid enough to cross right now. So I slide into the back seat, smirk curling back onto my lips as the cut on my neck throbs.
“You’re mad because I had fun without you,” I purr, stretching out across the leather like I own it. “Next time, Hudson, I’ll save you a dance.”
The door slams, hard enough to rattle the whole SUV.
Hudson slides into the driver’s seat like a storm barely contained, slamming his own door. The engine growls when he turns the key, the sound a perfect match for the tension vibrating off him. He peels out, tires screaming against asphalt, and the silence that follows is heavy—thick enough to choke on.
His hands strangle the wheel, veins standing out across his forearms. His profile is cut in hard lines, jaw locked, eyes forward like if he looks at me too long, he might break something. Maybe me. Maybe himself.
The city blurs past until suddenly he jerks the SUV onto the shoulder, tires biting pavement with a sharp screech. We’re outside a drugstore. The sunlight bouncing off the windows is blinding, obnoxious, ordinary. The kind of place people come for toothpaste and aspirin. Meanwhile, Hudson looks like he came here to bury a body.
I reach for the door handle. He’s there before I can blink, yanking it open. “Stay.” The word is a knife, sharp enough to skin me where I sit.
My hackles rise. I let out a sharp bark, feral and biting.
