Epilogue #2
Inside the car, Georgia lifts her head and looks dazed but is likely okay. The Porsche isn’t burning or likely to. I double-check that before I drop to lie sprawled in the flattened crop of what looks to be wheat. Acting dazed is wise.
I don’t know how many hostiles there are.
I debate whether to advise Alden then decide no one could be stupid enough to organize for his own Porsche to be ambushed.
“Get down!” I tell him. “Pretend to be injured. Do not fucking move.”
To my shock, he obeys—drops to the ground and stays still and quiet.
Three men push through the hedgerow, armed with pistols only. Three.
I can take them. They’re not even spreading out to dissipate any potential fire from us.
Who are they after? Georgia?
God above knows why but I feel a proprietary interest in her, in her ass, too. Have done so since that first day. Held back because, well, she is damaged.
I stay low and let out a deliberate groan. Shooting too early gives them time to duck and get low, if any are missed.
Closer, closer… I eye them through the sprigs of grass near my nose. My fingers curl on the gun where I have managed to lie it flat and concealed but pointing their way. One finger caresses the trigger.
Georgia. I think of her to occupy the time as they slow their approach…
she seemed such a small, overwhelmed thing back in Australia, and all the way over here in the plane.
Then she fucking pulled a blade on this guy and cut him?
Must have stolen it from the doctor…and what therapist has scalpels, for fuck’s sake?
The bastards have stopped walking. Come on. Just a little further.
That aggressive act of hers has triggered my dominant gene or something. My spanking gene? I stop myself from laughing and smile instead. She’s been hiding her true nature.
I could be wrong there, but I aim to sit her down and ask her, nicely, all the whys and hows about her situation in that torture dungeon.
Come on, guys. Another step, please. One. Fucking. Step.
The sights are lined up.
And if I’m right about her being secretive? That possibility stirs me. Maybe I sensed something in her from the start. My fantasies kick in. I’ll start slow, get the truth from her, introduce her to some of the CNC Fraternity quirks and see what she makes of kink, and—
All three of them move forward.
I squeeze off the first shot. Crack. I hit him square in the chest, and when he crumples, I move swiftly from left to right, adjusting my aim. Crack, crack. Then I fire three more to be sure, because if I’m wrong, if I haven’t hit where I think I have, they will fire back.
Silence rules the field when I stand, apart from the ticking of the car, the cries of birds, and a few swear words from Alden.
“All of them?” he asks incredulously, rocking up onto hands and knees.
I say nothing as I cautiously move forward to check.
Corpse one, corpse two, and the third is still breathing, sprawled on his back, staring at sky.
This is not the place or time for morals and empathy. I fire a shot into his head then push through the hedgerow. I retrieve the spikes and a bag they left, note their car where it is partly concealed further along the road, but no other men.
Then I jog back to the Porsche where the man is helping Georgia out and onto a safe spot a few yards from the wreckage.
She’s conscious and ambulatory, with only a small amount of blood on her forehead.
Her pretty red curls hang low over her eyes, but she’s looking up at me, through the curls, like maybe she’s studying me while I’m studying her back.
My curiosity is engaged.
“Where are we going now?” I ask him, holstering my gun, and trying to ignore my hardening dick. Of all the times for arousal, this is not one of them.
“To Hell, maybe? Those are my brother’s men.”
The CNC Fraternity continues with Georgia’s story in To Be Red: Tbr <— Find the book on
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Read onward for an excerpt from To Be Red: Tbr
Everyone died on that yacht, except for me.
I was trapped in that evil house, assaulted, chained to a wall, and filmed, and although I’m finally rescued, I am betrayed.
The fraternity declares me too dangerous to release. I’m gifted to Rafael, my ex-bodyguard and man with the most sinful eyes. Running from him awakens bad options, for he brings in Lazlo to join him in taming me, bedding me.
Hold my throat, pin me against a wall, make me drop to my knees... I discover Lazlo’s mouth is good for more than talking.
When they’re tasked with finding whoever arranged the slaughter on that yacht, I join the investigation. Can I finally make someone pay for what happened to me?
Those killers we’re tracking are also watching us…
Surviving this will take luck, two wildly controlling men, and for me to resurrect my courage.
Chapter One
Georgia
The air bag has puffed high and blotted out the sunlight.
I press it down, batting at it, blinking away something leaking into my eyes.
The scream of the engine dies to a low whine then ceases.
The car stops rocking and banging about, leaving only a few creaks.
Beyond the cracks in the glass, the shattered windscreen, the twists and dents in the hood, a grassy field lies blanketed by mist. A bird flits by, zipping from right to left.
Nothing moves out there, though the sounds of the crash seem to be bouncing about in my head. A wisp of smoke curls up from somewhere on the car.
Alden reaches in and starts helping me untangle myself. “Come on. You need to get out.”
I grunt and try to shift. Because of fire, I suppose.
After shrugging off the seat belt and smacking some more at the stupid, deflating air bag to get it to behave, I worm through the passenger door then into the open, walk a few steps and collapse.
Alden is talking, asking if I’m okay, I think.
He has his hand on my shoulder, but I can barely hear him past the ringing.
I wave him off. He gives me a last eyeroll and a shrug, then returns to where Rafael squats near a corpse, patting him down.
He pulls a wallet from a pocket, then a phone.
When Alden does the same at the next body—squats and examines him—he retrieves a gun. He aims it low and crooked as if about to shoot the ground, or the man. I feel like I should say something but…he wouldn’t?
“Hey!” Rafael is a moment late for there’s the sharp sound of a gunshot. The corpse jumps.
Alden shrugs, grins. “The fucker killed my car.”
“Give me that.” He takes the gun away from my dumbass ex-lover.
A distant noise from the direction of the road draws their attention.
I sit with my head in my hands, staring at them through my splayed fingers, as they go back through the hedge. On the way here, I watched the route. I know where I am. I know where I can go to hide. I just need some fucking luck, for once, please.
Time to get up.
Once I’m upright, I survey the muted chaos. My squeaky panting is a reminder of how close I came to being badly hurt. Hand on heart, I take some long deep breaths.
Smoke rises from the hissing engine bay and the punctured tires of the Porsche. I swipe tangled hair off my forehead and wetness cools fingers.
Blood. Blood trails down them from my fingertips. I open my hand to find my palm is red. It’s only blood.
Everyone has some.
Guess I whacked my head on something when we crashed.
I’m lucky. I could be dead. The bodies of the men Rafael shot add macabre wisps of steam to the mist. I tug my jacket closer, then meticulously do up one button with shaky fingers. It’s cold enough for blood to turn to mist.
The living men? They’re on the other side of the hedgerow the car ploughed into when we slid off the road. One voice sounds annoyed.
“These assholes have fucked up my day!”
Who is th… Oh.
Alden. My brain remembers to remember.
He’s still going on about it. I smirk at the asshole behavior. Typical of him. I touch my throbbing forehead, wincing as I scrape the abrasion. I jerked forward and cut myself. It’s nothing major. I’ve had far worse, like at the—
The House.
A grinning Shawn and Zasha surface from my memories, advancing on me, silently, with chains and a giant spear. Step, step, step. I swallow.
Anger cracks in and through me, a hot crowbar wedged hard into my ribcage. Shame and horror and terror are all mixed together. I cover my mouth, try to remember to breathe and feel the solid ground under my feet.
Fuck them. They’re dead too.
Today is a walk in the park, a stroll in a carnival. Today is fun times compared to them. I find I’m curling my lip, sneering cruelly. I saw them both die.
Nothing could be as bad as what they did to me.
Live life in the here and the now.
I recheck my surrounds. A zigzag of white roofs peaks above the treetops, hinting at a large manor house a mile or so ahead.
Gingerly, I take a few strides. My black gym shoes seem to find every hollow under the grass, but I keep my balance.
As I pass a corpse with a bloody head, I squint and come to a halt, considering my options. Spitting seems pointless. He’s dead. So I kick him instead. The physical, solid thud of my boot sinking into his flesh is so fucking satisfying in a way that spitting could never accomplish.
These men are connected, somehow, to what was done to me. Yet that last night of my normal existence, the night of the party on the yacht a month ago? That is a muddle of dislocated memories.
This body is the symbol of all my enemies, of all those who wanted me defiled and killed.
So I spit anyway. I land a spray on his still face and I move on.
The Porsche-carved gap in the hedgerow calls to me. After glancing back at the car, I step partway through to peer around the edges of what is left of the tattered vegetation, and as I do so, I remember my plan. I remember what I wanted to do once I arrived in London.
Escape.