Thirty-Four Ella #2
“No.” Justice doesn’t look at me. His tone leaves no room to even argue. “I want you out of here.”
I gag as I breathe in the coppery smell of Sylveria’s blood.
The soft strands of hair fanned around her face look delicate against the gore.
The wound in her head is merciless, a blackened circle that robbed her of everything in one instant.
She despised me. I never liked her. Still, seeing her sprawled and ruined sends a spear of nausea slicing through me.
Justice’s hand shoves at my arm, pulling me off balance. “Move.”
“I’m going with her,” Wesley blurts out.
“The fuck you are,” Justice snaps, fire in every word. His body angles forward, broad shoulders tense as a bowstring.
Outside, tires screech, rubber burning against wet pavement. Sirens wail closer now, red and blue lights strobing against the windows in dizzy bursts.
“Go!” Justice roars, the command cracking the air.
Guards scatter, voices low but urgent, hands on weapons.
The energy shifts into something sharp, electric, and on the verge of exploding.
“Somebody fucking find Kaz,” Justice barks, scanning the lobby.
“He should be here.” His voice vibrates with rage as he cuts toward the corridor.
Wynd answers without looking up. “The cameras are still down.”
The weight of the moment presses in—sirens screaming, rain hammering the glass, blood pooling across the white tile, and the body of Sylveria Rendale lying as proof that everything just changed.
I touch Justice’s arm. “That’s what the reception guy was telling you? That your cameras are down?”
“Yeah.” His mouth flattens. “Not good.”
Somebody knocks loudly on the outside door.
“Go.” Wynd grabs my arm, his grip firm, and we cut down the hallway and away from the lobby, toward a hidden elevator tucked around the corner. Guards shift aside to clear a path, radios crackling low as orders snap back and forth.
The steel panel blinks faintly when Wynd presses his palm against the scanner. The hum of machinery answers, low and mechanical. I eye the glowing panel. I need my biometrics added to this system. Just in case. Malice Media has too many secrets not to poke at.
Wesley shadows us. I shake my head at him, but he doesn’t fall back. The elevator doors slide open with a hiss, and we rush inside.
Wesley steps in behind me.
“I’m going to have to kill you,” Wynd mutters, steel in his voice.
“I’m making sure she’s safe,” Wesley growls back.
My eyes start to water and I sniff, fighting another sneeze. I need cough drops.
Wynd slams a button, and the doors close. The car drops fast, humming around us. His gun is out in one smooth motion, barrel lifting.
I raise both hands, palms open. “No. Don’t shoot him.”
“I don’t have a choice.” His eyes are hard and steady.
“Yes, you do.” My voice cracks sharp across the small space. “Seriously. Right now we need to get out of here before the police reach us. For some reason.” Why? I could’ve handled the police. “Though, shouldn’t I make a statement?”
Both men shake their heads, in perfect unison for one odd second.
“She’s your stepmother who stole your inheritance,” Wynd mutters. “Everybody knows that. We need to get you out of here until Justice figures out what happened.”
“Agreed,” Wesley says.
I hate leaving Justice with the cops. He runs hotter when I’m not beside him, and I swear he steadies when I speak. Maybe my voice can help him deal with his usual pain. The thought flickers through me, warm, then the elevator jolts to a stop.
The doors slide open into the hidden garage, cold concrete stretching under harsh fluorescent lights.
The air reeks of motor oil and burned rubber.
The floor is solid with no hint of the burned and collapsed tunnel beneath it.
Man, they’d repaired at least this part of the garage quickly.
A town car idles ahead, exhaust curling thick and acrid in the stale space, next to a quiet SUV.
I step out first with Wynd and Wesley close in at my sides.
Then the world explodes.
A body barrels from the shadows and slams into us with bone-cracking force.
My lungs empty in one shocked gasp as I’m thrown sideways.
Fists and elbows cut the air—thuds, cracks, wet grunts filling the garage.
The sound of flesh meeting flesh, the scuff of boots on concrete.
Someone’s elbow smashes my temple, white pain bursting through my skull, and I crash against the metal side of the SUV.
Gunfire pops, sharp and deafening in the enclosed space. Shouts ricochet, tangled with groans of pain.
Dizzy, I drop, the floor trembling beneath me as my vision swims. “Justice,” I whisper, the word torn and weak.
Another gunshot. Another grunt. Then hands—rough, unrelenting—clamp around me, dragging me up.
My head lolls, body too heavy, too slow.
I can’t see who has me. The grip tightens, hauling me like I weigh nothing.
The thought of Bronco slams into me. He’s massive, a truck in human form.
If it’s him, maybe it’s rescue. Or maybe not.
I fight for clarity, for breath. My limbs flail weakly against unyielding arms. A trunk door screeches open, metal on metal, and I’m heaved inside.
I slam against hard carpet, bouncing twice before collapsing flat. The air tastes of grease and rubber. A lid slams shut above me. Darkness swallows me whole. My fingers brush my temple to find swollen skin, no blood, but an already rising lump.
A sick twist tightens my chest as the truth settles in.
I’m in a trunk.
And I don’t know who put me here.