Chapter 36
B efore we even set foot on the compound, I know something is wrong. Call it a gut feeling. The radio silence from Peter, Cole, and Abigail says it all. And as we pull through the unguarded gates, the chaos confirms it.
Men are gathered in clusters everywhere. Despite the late hour, the streets are lined with people looking frantic as hell, yet not one of them thought to call me or Alex.
“What the fuck is going on?!” Alex snaps, like I have the answer. Fuck, I wish I did. As soon as we step out of the car, a hush falls over the crowd. All eyes are on us.
Double fuck. When do you ever see a group of men unanimously fall silent?
“Someone want to explain what the fuck is going on and why I wasn’t informed?” I growl into the heavy silence. No one speaks, so I pull out my gun, fire a shot into the sky, and roar, “Do not make me repeat myself. What the fuck is going on, and where the hell is my wife?!”
“Sir, there was an attack. Your wife is… okay, but her guard—”
Before the soldier can finish, I’m sprinting into the house, my heart pounding in my ears. The sight in the living room stops me dead. Abigail sits on the floor, clutching Cole’s lifeless body. Her knuckles are white, her once-white shirt soaked in blood.
She’s anything but “okay.”
In no world should my wife be sitting in a pool of blood, pale as a ghost, clutching a dead body, with a goddamn wound bleeding through her side while those fuckers outside act like it’s business as usual.
“What the hell happened? Who did this to you?” I rasp, dropping to my knees in front of her. My hands tremble as I gently lift her shirt to inspect her wound.
“He shot me. Then he killed Cole.” Her voice wavers as she continues, “He was barely nineteen, Logan. He had his whole life ahead of him. He wouldn’t have even been here if it weren’t for me.”
Her shoulders sag under the weight of misplaced blame.
“It’s not your fault,” I say firmly, inspecting the injury. “Looks like it’s just a flesh wound, but Alex needs to check it out while I deal with the piece of shit who did this.”
Her vacant eyes meet mine, and the words that follow hit me like a freight train.
“I want his blood, Logan. It was Peter. I want his blood, and I want him dead for what he’s done—for what he’s destroyed.”
If my wife wants someone dead, then someone is going to die.
The realization that my own uncle dared to harm Abigail makes rage bubble up inside me to a level I didn’t know existed. The sooner my hands are wrapped around his throat, the better.
“Alex,” I bark, “take care of her. I’m trusting you with her life.” It’s not even a question. He’s the only one here I trust. While Alex handles Abigail, I’ll deal with Peter.
Locking the two of them in the house, I pull out my phone. The men gathered outside are restless, but they can fucking wait. Peter is my top priority. On the off chance he doesn’t know Abigail recognized him, I try calling him. If I can lure him into my trap, it’ll be faster to deliver the blood Abigail demands.
“Peter? Where are you? Shit’s blown up here, and I need your help,” I say, layering my voice with feigned urgency.
“Logan? What’s going on?” He sounds confused, almost convincing, but I trust Abigail more than him. I trust what she saw more than this liar’s voice.
“There was an attack. Where the hell were you? Aren’t you supposed to be keeping an eye on things?”
“I had to run out to set up that shipment for Belfast. I’m on my way back now. Where are you?” His calm tone makes my blood boil. He has no idea the storm that’s waiting for him.
“In the cellar. We’ve got the culprit, but I need your help dealing with him,” I lie smoothly. With promises to hurry, he hangs up. His promises mean nothing, but I don’t let on. Instead, I turn to the men outside.
“When Peter arrives, escort him to the cellar,” I order, before heading down to prepare.
The cellar is an underground torture chamber, soundproof and inescapable. Once you’re down here, there’s no leaving. I should know. I spent most of my childhood trying to escape this place. It was my father’s favourite place to punish me as a kid. Now, it’s about to serve a much better purpose.
I strip off my shirt and lay out my tools. There’s no point in ruining perfectly good clothes with his traitorous blood. The clatter of footsteps alerts me to his arrival. Peter descends the stairs first, his face paling when he realises I’m alone. He tries to bolt, but James and Alistair block the exit, shoulder to shoulder, like a wall of muscle.
“You know, a lot of things are starting to make sense now,” I say, stalking towards him.
“Logan, son, what’s going on? Where’s the culprit? I want to give him a piece of my mind,” he stammers, sweat beading on his forehead. He’s seconds from pissing himself.
“Well, that’s the thing. He’s standing right in front of me.”
In one swift move, I lunge and lock him in a headlock. Dragging him to the medical table, I strap him down and grab a pair of scissors. Cutting off his clothes, I swap the scissors for a knife and start carving a rat into his stomach. He howls in pain, blood dripping everywhere.
“I didn’t mean to hurt him! It’s all a misunderstanding,” he pleads, tears streaming down his face.
“Oh, just like the misunderstanding where you lied about not knowing you have two sisters?” I snarl, driving the knife into his shoulder and twisting it. He screams, the sound music to my ears.
“I made a promise! What was I supposed to do?” he cries.
“Not fucking lie, for starters!” I spit, pulling the knife free only to stab it into his other shoulder.
“If I was you, I’d start talking,” James says from his position by the stairs.
Peter starts to ramble, his words desperate. “Listen, you don’t even know the girl. I’m your blood!”
“My blood? You attacked my wife—my fucking wife , who I love—and now you’re trying to lecture me about family? Some fucking blood you are!” I roar, slamming the knife into his stomach.
“It was all Angus! He wanted to set up the auctions, and the men wouldn’t leave me alone. I thought if you were distracted with Abigail, you wouldn’t notice!” he sputters, his voice trembling.
“And your second sister?” I ask, my voice low.
“That bitch can rot in hell. That whore should’ve honoured her word,” he snarls.
I’ve heard enough.
With a snarl, I pull the knife free and stab him one final time. Then, without hesitation, I empty my gun into his head. Blood splatters across me, and I revel in it.
Abigail wanted blood. She sure as hell got it.