Kael (All Saints #6)

Chapter 1

Kael

The heavy Florida humidity had turned into a thick, suffocating fog that had swallowed the city lights whole, leaving the roads nearly pitch black. Ominous. I was halfway back from the port after a deal, ready to be home, when my phone lit up on the passenger seat.

I reached over, fingers tracing the cracked glass, and flicked the screen open. Security alerts from the warehouse cameras pulsed across the display. I opened them.

Four feeds popped up.

Three figures slipped through the side loading door like they already knew the layout. I zoomed in. My chest tightened—a cold spike of adrenaline cutting straight through me.

Bria.

She hung back near the stacked crates, eyes wide, breathing fast. Even through the low-resolution feed I could see the fear on her face.

She didn’t want to be there. Her addiction was stronger than common sense, and she wasn’t alone.

Two skinny junkies with cheap guns were already moving down the main aisle, heading for the weapon crates.

She brought them here.

I hit a U-turn.

I let out a slow breath. That was on me. I’d taken her there once when I needed to meet Malachai. I knew what she was. She’d crossed me before.

I’d let her go too many times. Gotten too lenient.

Fifteen minutes later I was back.

I killed the headlights and turned off the main road, tires crunching over gravel as I rolled up to the back entrance. I drew my gun, screwed on the silencer, and slipped through the rear door. The city would swallow most of the sound, but I didn’t need any extra attention tonight.

Inside, the first junkie never got the chance to scream.

He was hunched over a cedar crate, crowbar jammed into the seam. I put two rounds through the back of his skull before he finished prying it open. His body dropped like wet meat. Blood sprayed across the plastic-wrapped rifles. The metallic tang of hot copper flooded the aisle.

The second one spun, eyes wide, and tried to raise his cheap Glock. Too slow.

I caught his wrist and twisted until the bone snapped like dry wood. His muffled shriek died in his throat. Before he could register the pain I drove my knife up under his ribs, twisting slowly, feeling the wet heat of his insides. The wet gurgling as his lungs filled was almost peaceful.

“Shhh,” I whispered. “It’s quicker if you stop fighting.”

He pissed himself before he died.

I wiped the blade on his shirt and looked toward the corner where Bria hid behind a stack of pallets.

I could smell her fear—that sweet, familiar panic.

“Come out, Bunny.”

My voice carried softly through the warehouse, bouncing off the corrugated steel.

No answer. Only her shallow breathing. I started walking, stepping over the bodies and the pooling blood.

“I know you’re there, baby. Saw you on the camera. Saw you bring these stupid motherfuckers into my warehouse.” I paused. “Why, Bria?”

A soft whimper. Then the scuff of sneakers on concrete.

She bolted.

Fast little thing—quick and easily frightened, like a rabbit. Her sneakers slapped hard as she sprinted for the side exit, arms pumping, hair flying. Desperate.

I was faster.

I caught her three feet from the door. One arm snaked around her waist, the other clamped over her mouth.

She screamed into my palm—muffled, raw, terrified—thrashing like a wild animal.

Nails raked down my forearm, drawing thin burning lines.

Her body bucked against mine, all soft curves and frantic strength.

I spun her and pinned her back against the cold metal wall, full weight pressing into her.

My thigh between hers. Chest to chest. Completely trapped.

The thrill of the chase and the catch made my pulse race.

My bloody hand cupped her face with a gentleness that didn’t match the violence still dripping from my fingers.

Blood from the junkies smeared across her cheek as I stroked her skin with my thumb, leaving a dark red streak down her jaw. Her wide hazel eyes were huge with terror, lashes wet, tears already spilling.

“I let you go so many times, Bria,” I murmured, forehead resting against hers, forcing her to breathe me in—gun oil, blood, the salt of my skin. “Took you home. Let you shower. Fed you. Cleaned you up when you were shaking and sick. And this is what you do?”

She tried to shake her head. More tears cut clean tracks through the grime and blood.

I stroked her cheek again, slower. “You really don’t believe I’ll kill you, do you?”

Her breathing hitched into sobs. She trembled so hard I felt it in my own bones. Her heart hammered against my chest like it wanted to claw its way out.

I slid my free hand into my pocket and pulled out the small cloth soaked in sedative. Always prepared. I’d known, deep down, it might come to this.

“Shhh. Breathe for me, baby.”

I pressed the cloth gently over her nose and mouth. Her eyes widened in fresh panic. She bucked harder, clawing at my wrist, small fingers weakening fast. I held her closer, rocking her slightly the way I had during the worst of her withdrawals months ago.

“That’s it,” I whispered against her temple, lips brushing her sweat-damp hair. “Close your eyes. I’ve got you.”

Her struggles slowed. Lashes fluttered. Her body went heavy and limp against me, trusting against her will.

I caught her before she could fall and scooped her up against my chest. Her head lolled onto my shoulder, cheek warm against my neck. I pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, tasting salt and fear.

“I’m going to help you again, Little Bunny,” I told her unconscious form as I carried her through the warehouse, stepping carefully over the bodies. “But this time, it won’t be for free.”

Outside, I settled her gently in the passenger seat of my truck, buckled her in, and tilted her head so she’d be comfortable. Then I drove.

The property was thirty minutes out, where the city gave way to mangroves and forgotten roads. An old estate I’d bought years ago—high walls, heavy security, cameras everywhere. No neighbors for miles.

I pulled through the gate. It closed behind me with a solid clang. I killed the engine and lifted Bria out.

Inside the house the lights were low and warm.

I carried her straight to the secure room on the second floor—the one I’d prepared weeks ago without fully admitting why.

Soft prison, I’d called it in my head. Queen bed with crisp white sheets and thick blankets.

Small attached bathroom with no windows.

Heavy door with a reinforced frame and electronic lock.

A single armchair by the barred window overlooking the mangroves.

Books on a shelf. No sharp objects. No way out.

I laid her on the bed carefully.

She looked so small there. Fragile. Her clothes were stained with other men’s blood.

I went to the bathroom, ran warm water, and came back with a soft cloth.

Gently I wiped the blood from her cheek, her jaw, her neck.

Cleaned her hands where she’d scratched me.

Brushed damp strands of hair from her face.

Changed her into soft gray sweatpants and a clean T-shirt from the drawer I’d stocked in her size.

She stirred once, a small whimper escaping, but didn’t wake.

I tucked the blanket around her, folding it neatly under her chin. My thumb traced her lower lip for a moment, memorizing the softness.

“This is your home now, Bunny,” I whispered. “Safe. Whether you want to be or not.”

I stood there a long time, watching her breathe.

Tomorrow, we begin.