CHAPTER TEN
RAVEN
Mangled bodies are scattered across the floor.
A pile of exposed flesh and boneless posture.
Shells of people whose faces were shredded from their heads.
I stand speechless in the doorway, staring at the lifeless arms tangled in angles I’ve never seen before.
I move forward, almost on autopilot, careful not to slip on the blood.
So much for sanitary. My gaze flicks to what sits in the center of the room.
The gurney under the makeshift surgical lamp, the woman lying on it, completely under, and breathing through a tube.
I scan her frame to see if she’s still alive, relaxing a little when her chest rises and falls.
Her face.
What is left of it.
My blood boils at the sight. The skin is peeled back and folded like pages with a precision that takes me longer than it should to process.
Not because I’m unfamiliar with the violence, I’ve been fluent in it since before I was old enough to understand the cost of it, but because of the specific quality of whatever the fuck this is.
The careful incisions… It reads less like brutality and more like craft.
The guys stand slackjawed at my side and I brush passed them to search for whoever the fuck is responsible for this.
My spine stiffens when I come face to face with a tall, lanky man wearing a white coat and a surgical cap.
He looks straight through me, moving around me like I am nothing more than furniture.
I spin on my heels, watching in silence as he proceeds to tend to the woman’s face. Or rip it apart, I’m not quite sure.
“Gentlemen,” he murmurs nonchalantly, his voice muffled by the mask covering half his face.
“You have one minute to tell me what the hell this is or I’ll blow your fucking brains out.
” I almost growl the words, gripping my gun a little tighter as I move to the opposite side of the gurney, aiming the barrel between his beady eyes.
“I won’t miss.” I grind my back molars, because I can’t kill him yet.
The woman is probably half dead, lying without a damn face whose life depends on the bastard.
The guys must think the same thing, because the white coat is still standing.
They cross the room without a word, Danny searching the area for others, while Billy closes in behind the doctor, aiming his gun at the back of the fucker’s skull.
The doctor doesn’t reply, hell he doesn’t even break a sweat.
These corrupt assholes are worse than we ever were if this doesn’t shake him.
The click of Billy’s gun draws the doc’s attention. One eyebrow arches as he calmly returns to the needle in his hand, methodically stitching the woman’s face back together, his hands not faltering once.
“Who are you?” Billy spits through gritted teeth, every muscle in his body coiled tight.
The woman strapped to the table is the only thing stopping him from pulling the trigger.
The man in the white coat doesn’t answer.
I watch as the needle slips through torn flesh, pulling ruined skin together one stitch at a time.
“Well?”
“A doctor,” he replies dryly, and I glance at Billy.
His jaw clenches, irritation rolling off him in waves, and my careful patience finally snaps.
Rounding the gurney in three strides, I fist a hand in the front of his scrubs and rip him away from the table.
He barely has time to register the movement before I slam him against the nearest wall, hard enough to rattle the shelves beside him.
Surgical instruments crash to the floor.
Metal clatters across the concrete, but he doesn’t look remotely concerned.
His surgical mask is long gone, and I finally get a good look at his face.
He’s older than I first thought. Mid-forties, maybe.
Fine lines fan from the corners of his eyes, deepened by years spent squinting beneath operating lights.
His nose has a slight bend to it, like it was broken once and never set quite right.
Dark stubble shadows his jaw, and I can’t wait till it’s covered in blood.
Maybe I should peel his fucking face off like he did to that woman.
“We asked you a fucking question.” The back of his head cracks against the wall, but instead of fear, all I find on his face is irritation.
“And I heard it.” I tighten my grip. His gaze flicks lazily between me, Billy, and the gun aimed at his chest, before his gaze shoots over my shoulder to the woman on the table.
“You people ask the wrong questions,” he says, almost amused by us.
“Try me.” His lips twitch, not quite a smile.
“Who I am is irrelevant.” I slam him into the wall again.
“Funny, I don’t remember asking for your fucking opinion.”
A grunt escapes him, but it’s not from pain.
“Now, now boys. Didn’t your mothers teach you manners?
” The comment hits a nerve I wasn’t aware was exposed.
Not because I’m insulted. But because it’s funny.
A laugh almost escapes me. My mother spent most of her life chasing her next fix.
The few lessons she’d managed to leave behind for my sister and me before dumping us on our deadbeat father sure as fuck hadn’t included manners.
The memory is gone as quick as it surfaced, and I shove the doctor into the wall again.
“Answer the fucking question.” He lets out a sigh, as though we’re nothing more than a pain in his ass, and I’m fresh out of fucking patience.
“I’m exactly what I said I am. A doctor.”
“Jesus fucking Christ.” The barrel of my gun leaves his chest and finds the center of his forehead. The asshole’s gaze follows the movement. “There we go,” he murmurs.
“You have five seconds before I redecorate this wall.” His lips twitch in amusement.
“A little dramatic, don’t you think?”
“Five.” The humor in his eyes dims. “Four.”
“You’re not going to shoot me, kid.”
“Three.” Something flickers across his features, but it isn’t quite fear. Whatever it is, I’m not playing fucking games, and I think the cunt is finally starting to understand that. “Two–”
“Alright!” The word explodes out of him, before silence falls across the room. I don’t ease the pressure of the barrel against his skin. As far as I’m concerned, his fate was sealed the moment we walked through that door, and he’s not leaving this room alive.
“Start talking.” He exhales slowly through his nose, his eyes fixed on the gun.
“My name is C-Cameron. It’s Cameron.”
Cameron.
The name hangs between us for all of half a second before Billy snorts.
“Well that was anticlimactic. I was hoping for something like Frankenstein or some shit.” I ignore Billy.
The barrel remains pressed firmly against Cameron’s forehead while blood from the cut on his temple creeps down the side of his face, tracing the edge of his jaw before disappearing beneath the collar of his coat.
“Wanna tell me what the fuck you’re doing down here, Doc?” His eyes drift around the room, lingering briefly on the bodies scattered across the floor before returning to me.
“You think this is about me?” The question earns a short laugh.
“Should I not?”
“I’m a surgeon.”
“You’re a butcher.” Something shifts behind his eyes.
Not guilt. Not fear. Offense. The realization puts me off.
Of all the reactions I’d expected from this asshole, wounded pride wasn’t one of them.
“A goddamn bottom feeder like the rest of them,” I growl, watching as his smile slowly morphs into disdain.
“You only see bodies,” Cameron mutters. I gesture around the room. Blood stains the floor in a pile of limbs and skin, enough evidence to fill a fucking cemetery.
“What the fuck else am I supposed to see?”
“You’re not looking hard enough, kid.” Behind me, something metallic crashes to the ground, followed by Billy rushing around in a fit of rage.
Drawers slam open. Equipment rattles, but I don’t bother looking.
For the first time since entering this room, Cameron sounds irritated, and irritation turns into impatience, and impatient men give answers.
“You people always think you’re hunting a person,” he says quietly.
“A name. A face. A man sitting at the top.” The words are like a needle scraping against my mind.
Every Royal we’ve dragged into the light has fed us some variation of the same bullshit.
Another name. Another layer. Another person standing between us and the truth.
“The thing about kings is everyone assumes the kingdom dies with them.” Blood drips from his temple and splashes onto the concrete between us.
“People die. But ideas don’t.” I stare at him for a beat because I hate how much sense that makes.
We’ve killed people. Destroyed operations.
Burned everything we could find. Yet somehow The Royal survives. Different faces. Same fucking disease.
“Fuck! Raven, the girl!” A violent crash of a metal tray hits the floor. Instruments scatter across the concrete, but I barely register it. My attention remains fixed on Cameron.
“Everyone called her a queen,” he says, and my brow furrows.
“Who the fuck are you talking about?” A faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
“She hated that.”
“Who hated that?” His eyes lock onto mine, and for the first time since entering this room, I get the distinct feeling that he’s no longer talking around the truth. The fucking Royal and their goddamn oaths.
“Because queens inherit, and kings take.” The monitor behind me skips and shrieks.
“Raven!” Billy’s urgent voice cuts through the room, but I ignore him. Not because I don’t care about the woman. Because after years of chasing ghosts and bodies, it’s almost like this so-called butcher is about to give me something fucking real.
“Who are you protecting?” I demand, my voice leaving no room for defiance. His smile fades, as if finally realizing who calls the fucking shots here.