Page 92 of Their Broken Legend

Maybe, I'll fight back.

Maybe, I'll tell Clay sooner.

With my arm relaxed and still, the humming from the gun is more notable than the sensation on my wrist. My new tattoo is right below my ‘monsters are made’ tattoo.

Monsters are made.

That's me.

Max.

Bron.

Even Dad.

Especially Clay.

Fucking made monsters.

And now... I'm a rabbit. Because if Kaya is a damn rabbit, then what else would I be?

My phone suddenly vibrates in my jeans pocket, so I shift slightly without moving my right arm. Retrieving my phone, my heart pulses to see if it’s from her.

Red mists my eyes when I see another name—Charles Young—completely forgot that I have his number. Grabbed it when we were both training at the same gym. Shared a set of keys. Years ago, before either of us were champions.

I curl my lips into a snarl, swiping with my thumb to read the message. The gun hums away. Carving me a rabbit. My jaw aches as I read his message, laced with suspicious intent. Obvious, too.

Charles Young:

You want to know what my brother does with those photos of Anderson’s little girl, Butcher? Check your Tor. Get yourself a Girl.X

What the fuck is he trying to pull?

Why would he out his brother?

CHAPTERTWENTY-SEVEN

kaya

The tensionas we enter the lobby intensifies and heats my skin. My legs shake. I wipe at beads of sweat gathering along my forehead. My discomfort is stifling, set further ablaze by the presence of Kenno and Chloe, who trail me slowly.

Chloe is panning the area, searching for a faceless man, while Kenno is hunched forward, fisted hands disappearing into his denim pockets, hoodie pulled down over his tight brow. People know him. They knowus.

I’m a Lovit daughter.

“I can’t believe this,” he mutters to himself, a hushed anthem that has become our soundtrack today.

Chloe doesn’t talk. I’m okay with the quiet. I welcome the state, unable to form words anyway, unwilling to dissect this night anymore, just wanting it over with so I can go back to Xander. Crawl into bed with him and disappear into his scent.

My stomach twists, but I fight to quell the warning. Looking around, I see ManXY in every set of eyes. Is that him—the man with the briefcase, my imagination plummeting into the contents—toys and torture implements?

Is that him—with the woman.

Maybe she wants a turn, too.

I swallow the lump in my throat. The hotel is obnoxiously lavish, a crystal and gold chandelier throwing warm colours and light against the interior—it’s not working-class accommodation. Kenno would be more inconspicuous in a suit than with his strategically cloaked black hoodie tugged down.

I approach the reception, where a man in a silver vest smiles at me over the top of a fifteen-foot-long metallic copper counter. He sees wealth immediately; the interest flaring within his eyes says as much. It must be in my soul because it sure as hell isn’t in my wallet.

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