Chapter 12
TWELVE
BOSTON
“Bring me prospects for the next hunt.” Soren’s voice is calm, almost bored. He wraps his knuckles, pulling it tight before looping it around his wrist again. The sound of the fabric stretching and snapping against his skin echoes faintly in the quiet locker room of the gym.
He doesn’t look up when he says it. He doesn’t have to.
I know the tone. Most of the time, Soren chooses the targets himself.
He’s meticulous about it, obsessive even.
He’ll spend days digging into a person’s life, tearing it apart piece by piece until he’s satisfied they deserve what’s coming to them.
My job usually comes after that.
I collect them. But sometimes the choosing falls to me. And when it does, things tend to move a lot faster, as I have more resources.
“We don’t hunt just anyone,” he reminds me as he balls his taped hand into a fist. His knuckles crack. “We hunt those who deserve it.”
Men who slipped through the cracks of a broken system and walked away like they’d done nothing wrong. We find those situations where the law failed, and we don’t make that same mistake.
That’s always been the rule.
It feeds something dark inside both of us.
But at least our darkness has a purpose.
“What’s been up with you lately? Have you heard any more about Bailey?” he asks, snapping me from my thoughts.
I shift in my seat. “They’re ruling it a heart attack.”
“And you aren’t pleased with this?” he questions as he bounces from one foot to the other.
“Something’s off,” I tell him, scratching my chin. I have my own thoughts on it, but I’m not ready to share them. I first need to understand whether it connects back to the Forsaken, because, above all, that’s what I will protect. “Not sure what it is, though.”
“You’ll figure it out.” He pats me on the shoulder and then turns to leave. Pausing at the door, he looks back and says my name.
I glance up at him.
“We need new members. Our numbers are dwindling.”
He’s right. We’ve had to kill a few of our own for their disobedience. You see, if you break the Forsaken’s rules, the penalty is death. And some members took that lightly. Little did they know it was very serious.
He nods and walks out the door, leaving me sitting on the bench.
Soren is a media mogul—the richest, and also possibly the deadliest, especially with his hands.
Not only does he run almost all the mainstream media in our town, he also likes participating in underground fighting to blow off steam.
However, he doesn’t do it as much since he married the reporter.
The ringing of my phone brings me out of my thoughts. When I answer, the officer on the other end of the line says, “She’s moving.”
What the fuck is with that woman? For the last week, I’ve kept a car outside her apartment so I can track all her moves.
I had to stop doing it myself. She was seeing it as too much of a game, and I was going to sleep every night with a fucking rock-hard cock thinking of her, and I shouldn’t be doing that considering I know she’s hiding something.
She says she’s a freelancer, but I have no idea what she actually does. She runs every morning like clockwork. The rest of the day, she either stays in or goes down to get groceries. But it’s almost ten at night.
Where is my little dynamite heading to this late?