Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Navin
“He’s driving recklessly,” Sylas says through the hands-free unit in my truck. “You won’t have to deal with him at all if he drives off a cliff.”
My jaw is tight. I don’t really like the idea of Mitchel driving off a cliff. I’d rather face him first, so he knows he fucked with the wrong people. I want him to piss himself before he dies. Asshole.
“How far away is he?” Quinn asks from next to me.
“About ten minutes out.”
“Good.” I’ve already arrived at the spot we assume Mitchel is headed for. My truck is parked, lights killed, engine off. Silence and darkness. The sun is descending.
I’m actually surprised Mitchel took off so quickly, falling for our trap and heading up the mountain so late in the day.
This is exactly what we suspected he would do when he found the package containing Brea’s bloodied jeans and tank top.
It’s not rational. Why drive to the spot where he left her for dead?
What good will that do him? She’s obviously not going to be here.
But it’s the only lead he has. He’s probably hoping to find her bones or scalp or something to verify she’s dead.
He’s certainly freaking the fuck out, wondering who would find her clothes and put them on his porch.
Good. I want him to be freaking the fuck out. He deserves it. I bet he’s grumbling to himself in his car, which is making him drive erratically. That and the drugs in his system.
These mountains are not forgiving. The roads are winding, and there are steep drops in many spots. If anyone were to drive off the edge, they would not survive.
“He’s tagged me,” Sylas says. “I had to turn my lights on. It’s getting dark, and it would look suspicious if I didn’t. Now he’s driving faster. I have serious doubts that you’ll need to confront him at all at this rate.”
“Got a text,” Ronan says from the back seat. “His house has been wiped clean. He even left the bloody clothes.”
I nod. That’s good. I wouldn’t want the authorities to find my girl’s clothes in Mitchel’s car when they discover him. My goal is to have erased any evidence he ever met Brea so she’s free and clear of this mess. With no motive, it will appear poor Mitchel had an accident.
I see the lights flickering around a few minutes before Mitchel parks his car not too far from where I’ve hidden my truck. My brothers and I are outside before Mitchel kills the engine.
Lucky for us, we see perfectly in the dark. We’re instantly aware that he jumps out of his car swinging a gun. It’s not surprising. He won’t end up holding it for long.
His concern is that he was followed, and he has to be about to shit himself as he stomps toward the truck that pulls up behind him. Sylas.
Mitchel lifts his gun in the air, prepared to shoot, but he never gets a chance. Quinn clocks the gun with a rock from his slingshot, knocking it so hard that it would take Mitchel a very long time to find it in the dark.
“What the fuck!” Mitchel screams as he spins around, trying to keep an eye on Sylas while looking behind him to find out who relieved him of his weapon.
Quinn, Ronan, and I approach casually while Sylas joins us.
“Who the fuck are you?” Mitchel shouts, backing up.
Sylas tosses a bag from several yards away. It lands directly in front of Mitchel.
Mitchel glances down. “What’s going on? What the fuck is that?”
“Strip, asshole,” I say calmly. “Down to your briefs.”
Mitchel doesn’t move. “What the fuck? Are you insane?” He doesn’t seem as high as he probably is. His adrenaline is burning off his recent snort.
“Now,” I say, my voice louder and firmer.
Another rock wizzes by me. It strikes Mitchel in the cheek, grazing him enough to draw blood. It was intentional. Quinn is fucking excellent with a slingshot. He doesn’t miss. If he grazed Mitchel’s cheek, that was what he meant to do.
“Fuck,” Mitchel yells as he grabs his face.
“Take your fucking clothes off, asshole,” I say. “The next rock is going to hit you in the eye. I hear that’s pretty painful.”
“Is this about that bitch Brea?”
Ah, so he dares to use my mate’s name.
Another rock hits Mitchel right between the eyes.
“Jesus Christ,” the asshole bellows, rubbing his head. It has to fucking smart. A knot is already forming.
“No questions, dickwad. You have ten seconds to strip.”
Mitchel holds up both hands. “Okay, okay. I don’t know why the fuck you need me to get naked. If you want to fuck, you could have just asked.”
My jaw clenches. What a piece of work.
Mitchel is trembling so badly it takes him forever to get his clothes off. “This what you want?” he asks, jiggling his junk with one hand. He’s either not hard or his dick is tiny. Either way, I don’t give a fuck. None of us wants to fuck this asshole.
“Open the bag, you fuck,” I order.
Mitchel glances around, trying to see us. It’s too dark for him to make out more than our silhouettes.
Quinn pegs him again, this time hitting one of his nipples.
“Motherfucker!” Mitchel screams, grabbing his bloody tit. Quinn hit him hard. Really hard. Blood is dripping down Mitchel’s chest.
“If I have to keep repeating myself, you’re going to be covered with bruises in a minute,” I tell him.
The dick reaches for the duffle bag, unzips it, and pulls out his own clothes.
“That’s a good boy,” I tell him sarcastically. “Apparently you can follow directions. Put those on.”
“What is this? These are my own clothes.”
“Yep.”
He hesitates.
Quinn hits his top lip next. Blood spurts from his mouth as if he’s been punched by a very large opponent.
“Mother fucking fuck!” Mitchel swipes at his lip with the back of his arm before scrambling to get dressed in the clothes Sylas snagged from his own home. Hiking clothes, including hiking boots.
“What the fuck do you want from me?” Mitchel whines as he ties his boots. “You like your men to look like they came out of the forest or something?”
For some reason, this asshole is fixated on the fact that one of us—or all of us—intend to fuck him. What a joke. Maybe he’s not even into women.
“Get your car keys out of your jeans,” I order. “Put them in your pocket. Strap the camelback on, too.”
“Are we going for a fucking hike?” Mitchel asks. “What sort of kinky shit are you boys into?” He snags his jeans, finds the keys, and moves them to his hiking pants.
“Good boy,” I repeat, hoping it irritates him. Hell, if my words make him horny, fine. I don’t care. He’s fucked either way. If a dude dies while he has a hard-on, will his dead body still have a woody when he’s found?
I shake the unnecessary question from my head. “Turn around. Start walking.”
Mitchel hesitates again. Quinn aims the next rock at the guy’s junk. Even through the pants and his boxers, all the air leaves Mitchel’s lungs as he buckles forward. He’s in so much pain that he drops to his knees, holding his dick.
Blood runs down his face from the spot between his eyes, his cheek, and his lip. The front of his shirt has a bloody spot where his nipple is shredded. It’s a fine sight.
“Get the fuck up, motherfucker, and start walking,” I growl.
Mitchel shakes his head. “I don’t think so.” His voice is high-pitched. “I don’t like whatever you’re planning. It’s dangerous out here. There are cliffs. I can’t see fuck.”
This is when I leap into the air, shifting while I’m flying toward him, so that I land in front of this piece of shit on all fours. I roar so loudly that Mitchel pisses himself, his urine dripping down between his fingers where he’s still gripping his junk.
When I roar again, padding closer to him, he releases his dick and scrambles backward, crab style.
“Get up, you waste of human breath,” Ronan commands. “Get the fuck on your feet and start walking.”
I keep coming at him. I can smell his fear. It’s much stronger now that I’ve shifted.
“You’re one of them? A fucking lion shifter? Do you know how much trouble you’re going to be in when I tell the police you antagonized me? You folks are only tolerated in the mountains as long as you don’t bother anyone. One wrong move, and you’re out of here.”
I come closer, so close that I can lean in and bare my teeth inches from his face. My saliva drips down my fangs and lands on his thighs. I roar again, causing him to cover his ears. That’s how loud I am.
Quinn hits him two times in succession, once on his ear and once on the back of the hand covering his junk.
Mitchel stops fighting and scrambles to his feet. He holds his ear now. His face is a mess. It’s about to get so much worse that even an autopsy won’t show evidence that he was stoned several times before his untimely demise.
“Start walking,” Sylas orders.
I continue forward. My lion is much larger than this asshole. I’m scaring the hell out of him just by existing. He’s obviously never encountered a lion shifter up close. Not surprising. Most people haven’t. We don’t tend to shift in front of humans for no cause.
Sylas is on one side of me; Ronan and Quinn are on the other. We’re crowding Mitchel, forcing him to move deeper into the woods.
I know this territory blindfolded. We’re not that far from our current logging site. It’s perfect.
Mitchel is sniffling as he walks gingerly forward, climbing over rocks and felled trees. Every few seconds, he swipes at his cheeks. He’s crying. He should be.
When we get where I want him, I leap a few feet closer so my snout reaches over his shoulder. I roar again.
“Run!” Ronan shouts.
Mitchel obeys, jogging forward for about five steps, and then he’s gone. Right over the edge of a cliff. His screams can be heard for a few seconds before they are silenced by his death.
It couldn’t have happened to a nicer person.
I shift back and turn toward my brothers. “Thank you.”
“No need to thank us,” Sylas says as we return to the vehicles. “None of us want scum like him living in town. Any one of our future mates may have just been spared his cruelty.”
When we return to the scumbag’s clothes, Quinn gathers them and stuffs them in the duffle. “I’ll burn this.”
I nod and head toward the truck. I just want to get back to Brea.