Chapter Thirty-Three
XADEN
The lock on my cell door is old. Sturdy, but old. Which means it has weaknesses.
I've been working on it for the past hour, using a piece of metal I pried from the bed frame, manipulating the mechanism with patience I didn't know I had.
I ease it open, listening for guards.
Distant footsteps, but nobody's nearby, I slip out and move to Cas's cell.
“X?” His voice comes through. “That you?”
“Yeah. Stand back.”
I work his lock faster now that I know the technique. When his door opens, Cas hobbles out on his crutches, the cast on his leg making him awkward and slow.
“Can you move?” I ask.
“Good enough,” he grunts. “What’s the plan?”
“Get the fuck out of here. Then go after my fairy.”
We make our way down the corridor, Cas struggling but managing. We're almost to the ground floor when the building shakes.
An explosion.
Then another.
Then rapid gunfire follows.
“Finally,” I mutter, and Cas grins despite the pain.
“Thought they'd never get here.”
Through a window, I see muzzle flashes in the darkness.
A lot of them.
We reach the stairwell and descend toward the chaos.
The sounds of fighting grow louder—gunfire, shouting, screaming, dying.
Beautiful.
We burst onto the ground floor and it's a war zone.
Bodies everywhere. Federal agents down, bleeding out, some still twitching. I didn’t realize how many of the fuckers were stationed here until now. It looks like Fiona was more prepared than I thought.
And cutting through them like avenging angels are three distinct groups.
My men, fighting with the brutal efficiency I trained into them.
The Denver Kings, heavily armed, showing no mercy.
And a third group wearing masks, the Filthy Few.
Leading the Denver Kings contingent is Carnage De Santis. And beside him, moving like death incarnate, is the infamous Butcher.
Alex Denver.
Tall, broad-shouldered, moving with the kind of lethal grace that comes from decades of violence. He's got a blade in each hand, and as I watch, he drives one into an agent's throat while simultaneously opening another's femoral artery with the second blade.
Efficient. Beautiful. Perfect.
“Devlin!” Carnage spots us and cuts down two agents moving to flank him. “Move your fucking ass!”
An agent appears from a side corridor, weapon raised.
I don't think.
Instinct takes over.
I grab him by the throat and slam him against the wall so hard his skull cracks against concrete.
He's dazed, eyes unfocused, blood leaking from his ears.
I pull the knife from his tactical belt.
“Wrong day to come to work,” I tell him.
Then I drive the blade into his gut.
Slowly.
Watching his eyes widen as he feels the steel pierce through skin, muscle and organs.
I twist, opening him up, and his screams are music to my ears.
Better than any fucking symphony.
Another agent rushes me from behind.
Amateur.
I spin, catching his arm, breaking it at the elbow.
The bone punches through skin—a compound fracture, jagged and white against red.
He's screaming, stumbling back.
I drive my knee into his face.
Teeth explode. His nose caves in. Blood sprays in an arc that's almost artistic. He drops and I'm on him immediately, straddling his chest.
“How many of you did Fiona send?” I ask conversationally, the knife at his throat.
He's choking on blood and broken teeth, unable to answer.
“Doesn't matter,” I decide. “You're all going to die anyway.”
I position the knife at the corner of his mouth.
“But first, I'm taking a souvenir.”
I cut.
Slowly, carefully, carving along his lips.
The blade is sharp—clinical-grade—and it slices through flesh like butter. He's trying to scream but the sound is wet, garbled and so fucking beautiful.
Blood pours over my hands, warm and slick.
This is the second best feeling in the fucking world!
I peel the lips away from his face in two neat pieces, examining my work.
Perfect.
I tuck them into my pocket carefully.
For my treasure jar. My precious jar has been neglected and needs some new lips inside her.
He's still alive, still conscious, staring up at me with his lipless mouth gaping obscenely.
“Don't worry,” I tell him. “You'll bleed out in about two minutes. Faster if you panic.”
I stand and shoot him a wink then leave him there, drowning in his own blood.
“Fuck, I missed this,” Cas says behind me, and when I look back, he's got a gun, taken from one of the dead agents and he's limping forward on his crutch, firing with his free hand.
Each shot is precise. Professional.
Headshots, mostly.
Clean kills.
Boring.
“Where's the fun in that?” I ask.
“Different strokes,” he says with a grin, then puts a bullet between another agent's eyes. “I like efficiency. You like art.”
“Damn right.” It’s easy to fall back into our old ways, I push the negative thoughts aside and choose to think about them later.
Three agents come at us from the left corridor, coordinated, tactical.
I meet them head-on.
The first one's throat opens under my blade. Carotid spray paints the wall. It's the most perfect shade of red.
The second manages to get a shot off—misses, hitting the ceiling—before I'm inside his guard, blade punching through his eye socket into his brain. The sound almost has me groaning.
He drops like a puppet with cut strings.
The third tries to run.
I'm faster.
Grabbing him from behind, my arm around his throat, knife at his face.
“You know what I hate about your cunt-flap of a boss?” I ask, dragging the blade along his cheek, not cutting yet, just pressure. “She thinks she can threaten what's mine. Thinks she can take me off the board.”
I press harder and the blade breaks skin.
“She's wrong. Dead fucking wrong, I’m not a piece on the board, I am the fucking board!”
I carve his lips away while he's still struggling, still trying to scream.
Another set for my collection.
When I drop him, he's convulsing, going into shock.
I walk away without a second glance.
“Xaden!” Andrade appears, blood-spattered, grinning like a madman. “Boss, we need to move to the garage—”
“Where's Toren?” I demand, wiping my blade on a dead agent's uniform.
“We don't know,” he admits, and my good mood evaporates. “She's gone from the house. We think Masen took her—”
Something inside me shifts.
The playful cruelty becomes something colder.
Sharper.
More dangerous.
“Then we're done here,” I say. “Every cunt dies. No prisoners.”
“Copy that, boss.”
I move through the facility like a force of nature. Every agent in my path meets their end, I shift into becoming their Reaper. Their souls are mine to claim and deliver to Lucifer himself.
Some quick—throat slashes, heart punctures.
Some slow—gutted, left to bleed out while they scream.
All of them lose their fucking lips.
Every. Single. One.
Their deaths don’t sate the force of my hunger, they aren’t the ones whose blood I want soaking me. It’s their cockroach of a boss, the gutless bitch who was nowhere to be seen.
By the time we reach the parking garage, my pockets are heavy with trophies.
Red coats my hands all the way to my elbows.
My clothes are soaked through with blood.
And I feel nothing.
Just cold, empty focus.
Alex Denver appears beside me as we reach the vehicles.
Up close, he's even more impressive, early-thirties maybe, scarred, eyes that have seen everything and been impressed by nothing.
“Devlin,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “Your reputation undersells you.”
“Likewise, Butcher.”
He grins, a predator recognizing another predator. We exchange a look, something like respect passing between us. We may be on opposite sides of this war after this moment but we can both recognize the set of skills the other possesses.
“We need to move,” Carnage calls out. “Toren's at the mansion. But there's a fire.”
The words cut through everything.
Fire.
Toren.
I'm moving before I've made the conscious decision, climbing into the lead SUV.
Cas slides in beside me, still carrying the gun he took, his crutch thrown in the back.
“Drive,” I order the fucker behind the wheel. “Now.”
The convoy peels out, leaving the facility and its forty-three dead behind.
I sit in the back, covered in blood, lips in my pockets, and something's building in my chest.
Not fear.
Not yet.
Just... anticipation.
The need to get to her.
The drive takes fifteen minutes that feel like hours.
When the mansion comes into view, fully engulfed in flames, that thing in my chest explodes.
“No,” I breathe.
The SUV isn't even fully stopped before I'm out, running toward the inferno. People are shouting—firefighters, someone—but I don't hear them.
I just see the flames.
Smell the smoke.
I just know that Toren is in there. I can feel it with every fucking fiber of my being.
“Sir! You can't—” A firefighter tries to grab me.
I shove him so hard he crashes into the fire truck behind him.
“Tink!” I roar at the burning building.
“Boss!” Ken catches up, trying to grab my arm. “You can't go in there—”
“Fucking watch me.”
I grab the hose from the side of the house, soaking myself head to toe until I’m completely drenched. I see a breathing thing laying on the grass, then put in on.
Then I run straight into hell not caring about anything aside from getting to her.
Getting to my fairy.
The heat is unbearable, worse than anything I've ever felt.
My skin blisters. My lungs scream.
But I don't stop.
Can't stop.
I crawl through burning hallways, following instinct and memory and something else. That connection I've always had with her. That rubber band that’s always pulling me toward her.
The kitchen is ahead.
I burst through the door and smoke pours over me.
Through the haze, I see her.
Sitting against the cabinet.
Arms wrapped around her stomach.
Head lolled to the side.
Not moving.
Masen's body beside her, head caved in, blood pooled around him in a massive dark stain.
“No,” I whisper.
Then louder: “No, Tink!”
I crawl to her, hands shaking—actually shaking.
“Tink. Toren, open your eyes, baby.”
Nothing.
I grab her shoulders, shaking her.
“Wake up. Wake the fuck up!”
Her head rolls limply.
No. No, no, no—