Chapter Twenty-Three
More Blood
LIAM O’CONNOR
At the rehearsal dinner, I find myself a distant observer, propped against the wall in the shadows of the steak house dining room. The colossal table in the center serves as a corral, penned in by a herd of caterers moving with the grace of well-trained cutting horses.
But in the midst of this choreographed dance of caterers and crystal flutes, all I can taste is bitter loss.
Aiden and Gen sit with their backs to me. They are so close and yet unreachable.
Across from them, Oliver, the true predator of this grand scene, observes everything with an icy gaze. Typically, his expression doesn’t hint at an emotion, but tonight he’s as stirred up as a disturbed rattler, and he’s not hiding it. His anger bristles in the static air of the room.
What did I miss?
My gaze sweeps over the room again, searching for the slightest rustle in the undergrowth. As an enforcer and guard, it’s my job to see through the orchestrated chaos and noise.
The way one caterer’s forehead is glistening even though the room is air-conditioned. The way another’s hand trembles. The way they all move almost normally but hesitate with each step, as if climbing through barbed wire.
Eleanor sits at her son’s right hand, every bit the picture of poise and polish. Yet her eyes occasionally mist over, and the corners of her mouth tug downward when she thinks no one is looking. Both Meredith and Rachel are seated at Gen’s left, their heads close together, lips moving, but I can hear their hushed whispers.
Across the table, Emma sits solemnly, and next to Oliver Gallagher is youngest son Finn. His fingers drum anxiously on the tabletop, while his father shifts restlessly in his chair, both avoiding direct eye contact with the other.
They really don’t like each other.
Dave Gallagher and his wife sit on Oliver’s other side.
A caterer passes by right in front of me with an entire chafing dish of lobster macaroni and cheese.
Then it hits me—a whiff of danger nearly buried in the scent of the ordinary. My nostrils flare, singling out the lethal scent. Water hemlock. The little sprigs of white flowers are sprinkled across the top of the dish along with a variety of other green herbs. It’s not something most would recognize. I only know the scent because my brothers and I grew up friends with the witches in the court. We spent so much time with Alice, Lila’s daughter. Lila spent countless hours drilling us on potions and poultices. She said it was useful information and everyone should learn it.
Apparently she was right.
My heart buckles, adrenaline pumping like wild river rapids through my veins. I surge forward, zeroing in on Gen as she raises her fork to her lips.
The world sharpens to a single point of focus. I reach for her hand, my voice erupting with a stark warning that shatters the veneer of the extremely uncomfortable dinner conversation.
Water hemlock can kill a human from skin contact alone. Eating it? I don’t even want to imagine what that might look like, wolf or not.
“Don’t eat anything!”
The room freezes. The tinkling of silverware on fine china halts. A champagne flute shatters on the floor.
Everyone is silent for a half a second. Then like the thunderous rumble of an avalanche, pandemonium breaks loose.
“Why not?” Oliver roars, leaping to his feet, his eyes narrowing on his untouched plate. I’m surprised at the look of genuine shock on his face.
I point to the innocent-looking garnish on the macaroni and cheese in front of Gen. “Hemlock,” I say, the word a sharp stab in the room’s uneasy murmurings. “The food is poisoned.”
“That’s insane!” the chef shouts, rising from behind the buffet table to the left. His face flushes red, matching his tie, his spit flying with the force of his outrage. “How dare you accuse me of something like that? My reputation, my livelihood, rests on this business, and your baseless rumors will ruin me.”
His anger is genuine, as real as the disbelief painting his features. But the staff...the staff is a different story. They tremble like aspen leaves in a summer storm. I smell their fear and guilt seeping into the air.
Oliver smells it too. His eyes flicker with recognition.
A soft, terrified voice breaks the rising tension, whispering words that sound more like a confession than an apology. “I’m so sorry, he said he’d kill us,” a woman says. She’s small, her body folded against the floor like a crumpled napkin.
A harsh hiss cuts through the air from somewhere across the room. “Shut up!”
The room tenses as Darcy saunters in, waving a pistol in the air. Then, without warning, he fires, the deafening shot echoing through the room.
Instinct and adrenaline surge together, my wolf propelling me toward the one life I can’t bear to lose—Gen. I wrench her from her chair, wheeling her away from Darcy’s deadly aim, and use my body as a shield against the rising panic in the room.
Another gunshot rips through the air, deafening, final, and the dull thud of a body hitting the ground follows.
The room plunges into a stunned silence.
Daring a glance, my heart constricts with pity as I lock onto the sightless eyes of the female server, the life snuffed out of her as quickly as her confession had filled the room. Gen trembles in my arms but doesn’t move. I hold her tighter, wishing there was a way to hide her completely.
Darcy’s voice bellows through the chaos. “You cost me everything, you bastard!” Another shot. Another flesh-meets-bullet thud. But no one falls.
Gen is frozen in my arms, while Aiden crouches right beside me, his mother tucked safely in his grasp.
But Darcy isn’t aiming at us. Not yet. He’s killing the catering staff.
“If you had been more of a man, you wouldn’t have let me take it.” Oliver’s words are acidic, his barbs intended to wound, incite. “Take his gun and hold him.” He gives the order and I hear several of his enforcers move toward the gunman.
Two more shots punctuate the air, but Oliver’s men keep walking.
Darcy is a fool.
Any advantage he might have had at the beginning is lost. The element of surprise has long since faded and wolves are much better at being predators than prey.
There’s a scuffle. Then the telltale clatter of metal on stone marking the fall of the firearm from Darcy’s hand. My muscles, rigid with tension, give a minute slackening, while Gen remains motionless in my hold.
“They’ve got him,” Aiden whispers at my side.
My arms tighten around Gen and my wolf rumbles deep in my chest before I can stop myself. Fuck. He won’t miss that. I turn my head slowly, meeting Aiden’s gaze.
He stares at me and then at the way Gen is curled into my body.
“Are they going to kill him?” I ask, praying the realization and hurt I see in his eyes isn’t true. He can’t say anything. He wouldn’t dare reveal our secret to Oliver. He wouldn’t put us in that danger, but I know he feels betrayed.
“Oliver is going to kill all of them and you need to do nothing. That’s an order.” His voice darkens, anger and pain lacing each syllable. He’s holding back, but the words still hit like a punch.
My body locks up, reacting to the weight of his demand. Gen wilts against me, letting out a small, breathless gasp.
“These people. They don’t—” My protest dies under Aiden’s icy stare. He gives his head a sharp shake. No. The brush of his alpha magick strikes my mind. It’s a stern reprimand, a leash snapping my wolf into line.
“I will not lose anyone in our pack to Oliver’s whim.”
I turn my head enough to see Oliver strip out of his clothes and transform into a giant white wolf. Several men hold Darcy, on his knees, his arms bent cruelly behind him.
Gasps from the caterers fill the room.
Oliver’s family and pack don’t move. Every wolf in the room is still, each anticipating the inevitable carnage.
With a violent lunge, Oliver descends upon Darcy, his animal form a blur of savage grace and lethal power. A guttural snarl fills the room, a terrifying crescendo of impending death.
My stomach twists, acid bile clawing up my throat as the gruesome cruelty unfolds.
I hang on to Gen.
Bury my nose in her hair to block out the bitter metallic smell of Darcy’s blood. I think of Gen’s laugh to distract myself from the terrified screams of a dying man.
Then, silence. But it’s a treacherous quiet.
The humans huddled in the room fail to comprehend the imminent danger. To Oliver, they are simply loose ends.
A muffled sob slips through the room, punctuating the silence.
Aiden and I move simultaneously, backing into a corner, hugging and shielding the women from the coming horror. Many others have moved from the table as well, quietly joining us.
My gaze swivels back to Oliver. He shifts back into his human form, nonchalantly wipes his bloody mouth with a napkin, then pulls on his slacks. The corners of his mouth twitch upward into a sinister smile. He’s in his element, a predator poised and eager.
He waves his hand over the quivering human figures in black and white. “Kill them all.” His order is curt, ruthless, and without emotion.
A dark chill races up my spine.
Chaos reigns again. Screams, raw and gut-wrenching, fill the room, until they are brutally snuffed out one by one. We should be helping. Protecting them. Doing something. He’s killing innocents.
Aiden meets my gaze and gives me a slight nod. A repeat of the previous order—stand down.
It’s a bitter pill to swallow, but I obey and follow him to stand to the side of the room and watch in disgusted silence along with everyone else who had been sitting at the table. No one moves against Oliver and his men.
Aiden reaches for Gen and I hesitate to obey, my wolf unwilling to give up control of our mate.
Aiden growls low and I reluctantly release her, watching him tuck her against his chest before Oliver or Dave starts paying attention to what I so fucking stupidly revealed to my alpha—my cousin, a man I consider as a brother.
The absence of her warmth sends ripples of unease through my wolf, setting my nerves alight in a wildfire of heightened tension. There’s no way to soothe the raw wound left in her wake.
We stand there, submerged in the ebb and flow of a ticking clock. The minutes crawl into an hour, every passing second a grain of sand, burying us deeper in this purgatory of silence.
The entrance of Ash Hollow’s sheriff, flanked by two grim-faced deputies, does nothing to alleviate the oppressive atmosphere. They’re wolves. And they’re obviously on the Gallagher payroll.
The sheriff exchanges curt words with Oliver and Dave, his face impassive. He gestures to his subordinates, and they spring into action, dispatching orders to start removing the bodies.
Like it’s nothing more than an everyday chore.
What. The. Actual. Fuck.
They really do own this town.
All the bodies are systematically processed with cold, mechanical efficiency, each one sealed into black morgue bags and carted away by the indifferent arm of Ash Hollow’s law enforcement.
Not a single wolf says a word, the silence stretching over the grotesque scene.
After the last body has been removed, Oliver takes a long drink from his wineglass before launching it at the wall. The splintering crash is the only outward display of his fury I’ve seen—aside from his savage execution of Darcy.
“Well, we have a wedding to prepare for tomorrow. Aiden, I expect you and yours to keep my daughter safe, as promised. Though I think the threat to her life has been eliminated for now.”
Aiden speaks plainly. “Yes, sir.”
“Very good, I’ll see you at the wedding in the morning.” Then he leaves the bloodstained dining room. His guards initiate damage control, their voices murmuring into phones and their bodies positioned strategically at the doors to deter any uninvited guests. They know their role. They’ve played it before. That much is obvious.
“I’ll take Gen back to Rachel’s apartment. She’s staying with her for the night. Find a good place to watch over her from outside. Do not touch her again. Is that clear?” Aiden’s voice is hard and emotionless.
Fucking hell. What have I done?
I manage a nod, my voice barely scraping past the hard knot in my throat. “Yes, alpha.”