Chapter 2 #3
“Yeah, I know you. Heard about the stunning and perfect Brexley Kovacs for years now.” He smirked at me.
“Look at you now. Pathetic piece of fae-loving trash.” He snarled at me.
“Your fae friends shot my buddy. Think you need to be punished for it.” Kristof’s shoulders rolled, hostility perfumed off him in waves, affecting the three around him like a drug.
“Though we all did get promoted and treated as heroes for protecting the market.” He waved around to the group, and I realized all of them had been at the market that night.
“Now we get to watch puncik get wet every day.”
Knowing Istvan as I did, he wouldn’t promote any of these lazy shit-dicks because of the market. They were being used as test subjects, knowing or unknowing. To Markos, they were discardable. Easily humored with a pat on the back while he was the one fucking them over.
“Strip!” Kristof yanked his baton from his belt. “And face us while doing it.” His eyes ran down my figure, the men around him stirring and making wild, shrill sounds.
Men in groups fueled by testosterone could be terrifying enough in situations, but the way they looked at me, the way they moved, their energy bouncing off each other, building, raked terror down into my bones.
They weren’t right, as if the pills were creating a chemical imbalance or something in the fae essence was turning them feral.
Unhinged.
“Now!” Kristof ordered, already rubbing at his crotch.
I peered down at the blood, dirt, and charred streaks smeared across my wet gray uniform. Flecks of ashes from my uncle’s burnt skin stuck to my top like confetti of death.
“Fucking, spoiled bitch! When I order you, you do as I say.” Kristof swung his baton, stomping for me.
Tonight, I stabbed a comrade in the chest with a hairpin, watching her suffocate on her own blood, oxygen leaking out like a balloon.
Knocked out one of my best friends to keep him alive, almost died at the hands of another.
And then witnessed my uncle being burned alive before shooting him in the head.
The remains of him are still on me, on all of them, staining deeper than the fabric.
Now, these little boys were trying to take what was left of me.
Water dripping off my lashes, I lifted my onyx eyes to Kristof. The lava roiling deep in my gut bubbled and spat. I could feel nothing inside me but hate, rage, revenge, and empty darkness which could never be filled. They could do nothing to me. I was already too far gone.
And when you have nothing inside, other lives become insignificant.
The four came at me, their frenzy feeding off their arrogance and ego. Not one of them believed, even after seeing me kill, I could possibly take them down.
Men never understood a woman’s strength, the carnage which would paint the world when she broke. I had no more fucks to give. No more fear, pain, or grief.
Once again, my brain stepped out of my body, my ingrained training taking over, striking out first. A loud crack clapped off the tile walls as my fist struck Kristof’s nose. My mind centered to such a point nothing existed outside of my movements, each one exact and lethal.
I didn’t want to walk the shadows of death. I wanted to be it.
The Grey.
Cold. Meticulous. Precise.
Kick. Punch. Hit.
Swing. Duck. Strike.
They ripped at my clothes, struck at my face, my body, their shrieks and howls of anger growing louder, bouncing off the tile.
One of them grabbed at my breasts, his hand trying to slide down my pants.
The fire inside roared with a vehemence.
I tasted their blood which sprayed over my face, felt their skin split across my knuckles, heard the crunch of bones, and watched each one crumble to the floor. The sharp smell of blood and bleach stung my nostrils, my breath heaving loudly in my ears.
Staring blankly at the four men sprawled across the bathroom, red liquid trickled past my bare feet, trailing to the drain. They were alive—though they wouldn’t be getting up for a while.
I wanted them dead, to feel their lives expire, their pulses weakening against my palm.
“Kovacs?” I heard my name, trying to tug me back to myself. I didn’t want to go. I wanted to stay where I was. Where there was no emotion. No conscious. No pain.
Let the darkness consume me.
“Brexley . . .” The power of my name curled and wound through me. His dominance forced my head to lift, my gaze landing on him.
The Legend. The Wolf.
Like the first time he found me in the bathroom at Halálház, Warwick stood inside the doorway, bloody and bruised, his knuckles cut open, looking as if he had fought his way to get to me.
The string of unconscious or dead soldiers trailed a path to us, and it was only a matter of time before they came for us.
His aqua irises penetrated my barriers. Thick and corded, he dripped with feral virility. His power and strength dominated the room, soaking up the air, peeling away my skin and bones, finding the tiny bit of my soul still left inside.
His shoulders rolled back, his focus on me, ready for battle.
Except this wasn’t a battle of fists.
I saved his life, dragged him from the abyss, forced him to breathe, taste life, and see color.
He came for payback.