Queen of the Damned, Part One (Savage Stalkers #3)

Chapter 1 - Briella

Briella

THEY DON’T JUST HURT HIM. THEY DESTROY HIM.

Citizen Soldier Playlist

“Who I Am”

“Thank You For Hating Me”

Inever thought I’d be the girl running through a dark forest on Halloween night while being chased by an unhinged lunatic. But here I am.

The worst part? The lunatic is my ex. And…my former captor, my handler.

Run. Run. Run.

The word pounds in my skull like a desperate drumbeat matching the rapid thud of my footsteps as I run on muddy ground.

Towering redwoods loom around me, their massive trunks stretching high into the night.

I’ve run far from the Halloween-themed amusement trail.

The moment I saw him, my heart shook before lunging inside my chest, trying to hide.

Moonlight barely filters through the dense canopy, casting shadows over the fallen leaves and damp earth. I smell pine and moss with bonfire smoke in the distance. How far have I run? It feels like five miles now.

My pretty, gauzy dress, meant for the festival, not for running, snags on a thorn bush, and I wrench the fabric with a trembling hand. It rips, exposing a strip of my thigh to the cold bite of the autumn wind.

“Briella.”

A voice. His voice. Joah.

I press my back against a thick tree and cover my mouth, muffling my gasps. I hear him about a hundred yards away.

The voice slides through the trees, soft, coaxing, deadly. I’m frozen, like a rabbit caught in a snare, muscles locked in terror. My stomach clenches. My nails dig into my cheeks.

“You know you can’t run forever, sweetheart.” Closer now. The crunching of his footsteps resonates in my chest. “You know where you belong.”

My body fights itself. My mind screams for me to move, my fear pinning me down. I can’t go back.

A twig snaps. Close. He’s too close.

I bolt.

“I see you, sweetheart!”

I don’t look back.

I stumble forward, nearly falling from the twisted roots like skeletal fingers from the ground.

The wind howls through the branches, drowning out everything but the pounding of my heart and the relentless footsteps chasing me.

My breath saws in and out of my lungs, ragged, burning.

The damp, loamy scent of the trees drifts all around me.

But I still smell Easthaven.

Antiseptic and old paper. Blood and holy water. The prayers, the needles, the hands that held me down as they tried to ‘fix’ me. The electric shocks if I fought back. The nights Joah came into my room when I was wearing a straitjacket and couldn’t fight at all.

I begged for death, for silence, for anything but more of the same.

I remember the walls. The color of old bones, yellowed with time and decay. I used to press my ear to the cracks in the brick wall, swearing I could hear the voices of ghosts, the ones who came before me, the ones who never got out.

All around me, there is an eerie, unnatural silence.

Branches claw at my arms, my bare legs. The shadows and the trees watch me as I flee. My lungs ache. My throat is raw. But I don’t stop. I can’t.

And then—

I hit something. Someone.

A solid, unmoving wall of muscle. My head snaps back, my breath exploding from my lungs in a choked cry. I stumble, hands flailing, and the moment I look up—

I’m not alone.

Five men.

I catch my breath and regain my balance, staring up at them.

Their faces are masked, skulls grinning down at me from beneath the shadows of the trees. They stand in a loose semicircle like a formation, their bodies relaxed, but their presence is a noose tightening around my throat. Predators. Watching. Waiting.

On my left, the one with soft red curls slicked to one side flexes his muscles—giving off a raw, wild masculinity—then tilts his head, his white mask gleaming under the moon. His lips stretch into a grin beneath the bone-white mask. Watching me. Savoring my fear.

“Well, well,” he drawls in a faint accent, Irish or Scottish, hands slipping into the suspenders hooked over his crisp blue collared shirt. “Looks like we caught ourselves a lost little lass.”

Scottish.

My pulse hammers. My body trembles, every muscle coiled tight.

The man in the middle, the one closest to me, the one I bumped into, steps forward—taller, his dark ponytail draped over one shoulder. He wears a crisp gray suit, absurdly pristine for the middle of these godforsaken woods. His dark green eyes flick over me, slow, assessing. Calculating.

“You shouldn’t be here, little one,” he murmurs, quiet and dangerous. “You’re on our land.”

“And we don’t take kindly to trespassers,” the bulky, tattooed one in the back says. The one dressed in a large black hoodie that can’t hide all his bulging muscles.

A shudder wracks through me. I open my mouth—to beg, to reason, to scream—but before I can speak, a new sound slices through the air.

“There you are!”

My stomach lurches. Ice floods my veins. Oh God. No.

“So glad you found my fiancée,” my ex says smoothly, stepping into the moonlight with his usual smug, self-satisfied smirk. “Thank you for keeping her safe.”

A choked sob claws up my throat. I lurch back, shaking my head violently. “I’m not his fiancée,” I gasp, my voice raw, desperate. “He’s lying! He’s—he’s trying to take me somewhere—somewhere horrible! I won’t go!”

His hand snaps out, gripping my wrist hard. A cold sweat breaks out over my skin. “She’s sick,” he says, flashing the men an easy, practiced smile. “She doesn’t know what she’s saying. I’m just trying to take her home.”

Something shifts in the green-eyed man’s expression. Something sharp and knowing.

The masked black man on my right is the tallest. I’d wager 6’5 or 6’6.

He’s strong and muscular like the others, but with an effortless elegance.

His crisp, unbuttoned white shirt draws attention to his cheekbones, sharp as diamonds.

Stroking his jaw, he watches me tremble and muses, “Interesting situation.” His voice is deep, measured.

His gaze flicks to the suited man. “What do you think, Raph?”

The redhead practically vibrates beside him, barely containing his excitement. “Oh, come on, Raphael,” he groans, raising his hands with clenched fingers like he’s imitating strangulation. “It’s Halloween fucking night.”

The bulkier man standing in the back—the tattooed giant with wispy dark hair—just glowers, watching me with scorn.

The last one on my far left seems younger than the rest. In this red plaid shirt and axe resting over his shoulder, he reminds me of a lumberjack, bulging with muscle. Not as much as the tattooed guy, but I still choke on a breath when he lifts his axe, twirling it playfully. “Could be fun.”

My stomach drops.

My ex grips me tighter. Hard enough to bruise. “Come on, Briella,” he hisses. “Enough games.”

I fight. I thrash, wrenching back, and when that doesn’t work? I bite. My teeth sink into his wrist. He howls.

“Fucking bitch!” He rears back, fist lifting.

A hand clamps around his arm.

I turn and gaze up at the leader, the one with the dark ponytail.

Then, I hear it. A sharp, wet snap. My ex screams.

This man…with the deep green eyes did it. He doesn’t blink as my ex crumples, his arm bending at a grotesque angle. Raphael, surrounded by shadows, beyond the mask, doesn’t flinch. He just watches, detached, as the redhead lunges forward with a delighted snarl. “Fuck yeah!”

And then—

They don’t just hurt him. They destroy him.

The second I try to bolt, the black man seizes my arm and pulls me to him, my back hitting the solid wall of muscle of his chest. He’s more than a head taller than I am, and I am average.

“Not so fast, Babydoll. You won’t want to miss this,” he says in a deep, velvety voice. Yeah, I guess I am a baby doll compared to him. I’ll call him Cheekbones for now.

My heart stalls in my chest as he cups my chin, forcing my eyes on my ex.

The redhead uses his fists. Swinging, beating, breaking. I should slam my eyes shut, but I’m more fixated on his face, the wild rage in his eyes, and the sadistic grin as he makes a bloody and bruised mess of Joah, fracturing his jaw and nose.

And then…the red plaid guy, Lumberjack, swings the axe.

A flash of metal. A wet, meaty thud. My ex’s hand hits the dirt.

Blood gushes from his wrist where the very bone sticks out.

Unholy, blood-curdling sounds leave his throat.

And it takes all my willpower not to retch.

The acid splashes in my throat, but I swallow it.

He shrieks, his blood a dark stain against the damp leaves.

“Not bad, Seth,” Red croons to Lumberjack. “You might even get lucky tonight.” He winks at him, and I get a glimpse of something more in their eyes. A hunger that goes deeper than violence.

Lumberjack man hums under his breath and twirls his axe. Like he’s enjoying it. “Not so bad yourself, Rory.”

“May I commend you on your redecorating of his face,” Cheekbones croons silkily, still holding me.

“Why, thank you, Jude,” Rory takes an exaggerated bow, careless of the blood splattered on his face and clothes and his cracked and bleeding knuckles.

“Still messy as usual,” Jude says mockingly. “What do you think, Vincent?” he says to the big Tats guy.

I shiver when he looks at me with a daggered gaze

“Why ye asking him?” Rory rolls his eyes, cutting through the tension. “The man communicates exclusively in grunts and rude gestures.”

Tats, aka Vincent, flips him two middle fingers.

And Raphael, the leader among them? Arms straight at his side, he waits, watching. Silent and unshaken. So still, he reminds me of a statue.

Joah is a shuddering, bleeding, whimpering mess on the ground.

“Raphael,” Jude says, gesturing to him, his torso slabbed and surging heat through my back.

Eyes growing wider and wider, I hold my breath and stare at Raphael. The shadows deepen around his eyes, his jaw set, lips pressed into a tight seam.

Then, he slowly steps forward, holding a glinting, silver dagger. He brings it down, one clean thrust, straight to the heart.

My ex shudders, the last breath leaving his lips. Raphael watches him go still. Chills rack me as he tilts his chin, green eyes looking up to the sky. He hisses softly, as if…he’s unleashing something, some beast inside him.

Finally, he turns to me, trapping me in his gaze. “Now,” he murmurs. “What shall we do with this one?”

My body locks up, my nerves twisted so tight, they’re ready to break. “L-Letting me go would be the sensible thing,” I stammer. “I-I won’t say anything. I promise. I haven’t seen your faces.”

I just want to get back to my cottage, my garden, my greenhouse. All the plants depending on me.

Red grins, Rory, advancing to me, not hesitating to cup my chin with his bloody hand. “Oh, Raphael. Come on. It’s my birthday.” He licks his lips, and I nearly shrivel.

Raphael’s gaze drags over me, deciding. My heart hangs upon his word. He doesn’t move a muscle as he assesses me with sharp eyes.

Then, finally, he nods. “Bring her,” he says. “To the cabin.”

And just like that, my heart sinks into a panting mess on the ground.

I know. I’m never getting out of this. But I won’t go down without a fight.