The Hangman guys said nothing; they wouldn’t know what Jerrod was talking about, and Jerrod wouldn’t want them to. But Jerrod wanted him to know.
“Who should I start with?” Jerrod asked over the thrumming music. “I know. I have an idea.”
Thorne’s blood raced. No!
“Hangman always goes for the dessert first,” Jerrod said. “You know that, Thorne.”
Jerrod neared the little group. He’d go for Benny.
The whole world went bright with alarm. He couldn’t let Jerrod reach Benny. He needed to do something, but he was locked around the post. He could slide to the floor and possibly reach the gun in his boot, but that would be maybe a minute of distraction, if he could even get off a clean shot, handcuffed as he was. He needed a long diversion. Something that would hold them.
It was like an out-of-body experience, watching Jerrod approach Benny.
And then something snapped.
And the feeling came over him, the same as he’d had then. In the desert. Of himself not bound by anything. Open to everything.
And he remembered what the scorpions taught him. To let the hell and horror of it flow through him.
He slid to the floor with a yell. He flattened his bad hand along one of the column’s flat planes, raised a steel-soled boot, and smashed it. Pain shot through him but he did it again, and again, pulverizing the hand, screaming. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the men looking at him in horror.
The pain seared through him, but also this streak of perfect awareness. They didn’t believe he could or would destroy his own hand to get free. They didn’t know he’d done it before.
He felt them watch in fascination, guns drawn. They were warriors, too. They needed to see, to have this example of how far a man would go. Even the men in the far corners shifted and watched, drifting near, confident he could do nothing, even if he did get free. Six men with guns surrounded him.
Seven. Eight. They all came out to watch, drawn by the spectacle, with the horror of his self-destruction reflecting in their eyes.
He pummeled his own hand with the steel-bottomed boot. Even over the music, you could hear it when his knuckle grate broke. He nearly passed out from the pain. He cried out instead. No doubt he was scaring his boy, but it couldn’t be helped.
He’d lose blood, maybe a lot of it, but Hangman was on the hook now, and he was pulling them in like so many fish at the end of so many lines. He could feel the quality of their attention through those lines. He could feel their psyches. His every movement bound them to him more tightly. Even Jerrod was transfixed, watching with the bland intensity he usually reserved for roulette victims.
Thorne kept on, fueled by something he’d never felt before. This was a new kind of power—it wasn’t about non-attachment at all; it was about connection—to people, to life. To love.
He smashed on, pulverizing his own hand, feeling the soldiers’ inability to look away—it was a primal thing, needing to watch something horrific to its conclusion. They’d seen him fight wild, but they had no idea he could do this. They had no idea what he was capable of.
They didn’t know.
He’d been raised by motherfucking scorpions.
Thorne bashed away, thanking the scorpions, thanking the heavy boots, thanking death and blood and fear and love. The sound of the crow came through and he went at it harder.
He felt when the place was breached, taking care not to look. The music covered it.
His team had gone with the flow. Instead of opening fire, they were back there, dark shapes pulling his son across to safety, along with Richard and Kara. Thorne saw it all; it was as if he had eyes on every side of him.
His kid was safe behind the hulking carcasses of the machines.
He felt his power mount. In one fluid motion, he yanked his destroyed hand clear of the cuff and stood, spinning behind the post. In one swift movement, he had the boots off and the gun in his good hand.
He came out firing; his bullets found their targets like magic: one, two, three down. Soldiers dove here and there. When he’d emptied Rio’s Glock, he still went at them. Bare feet had always been his place of power—now with those boots off, it was like flying, like riding upon a wave of physics itself. He destroyed one soldier with a kick to the face, cracked another with a knee to the throat. Shots came at him, but none hit him. It was as if time had slowed, as if he could feel everybody in the place: every breath, every movement. He was an empty vessel, filled with the universe itself. Time slowed, and his arms and legs flashed like lightning.
The other Associates joined him now, fought with him back to back. It was as if he’d been fighting with them forever. Bullets flew. Bodies fell.
When the chaos cleared, only one enemy was left—Jerrod, lying on the floor, holding his gut.
Thorne stalked to him. He spotted Jerrod’s roulette revolver a few feet from the man’s hand. He tossed Rio’s Glock and scooped it up. Fedor was at the far door, disarming the explosives.
Thorne aimed at Jerrod’s head, becoming conscious of the pain in his bad hand. He pulled his hand to his chest, as if that would stop the pain, the bleeding. God, it didn’t even look like a hand anymore. He’d never be able to use it again. “Let’s play.”
“Crazy motherfucker,” Jerrod spit out blood.
He heard the kid whimper.
“Don’t let Benny see,” he grated. He couldn’t shoot the man in front of his boy. The boy needed to be raised right. Movement out of the corner of his eye told him they’d hidden the boy away.
He advanced on Jerrod.
“I didn’t do it,” Jerrod grated. “I didn’t kill her.”
He felt the calm presence of Rio on his left side. Miguel was on his right.
“You helped,” he said.
A shaft of light appeared from the side as the door opened. Nadia came limping in with her cane alongside one of the other Associates. “Where is he?”
“Behind those machines.” He jerked his head. “Safe.”
She slowed. “Thorne,” she said as he aimed the revolver at Jerrod, who shielded his face like a coward. “You’re going to kill him?” she whispered.
“Yeah.” He’d kill him—for his sister. For everyone he’d murdered, and for Miguel, too. Because they were allies, he and Miguel. “I’m a brute and a thug, baby.” He said it with lightness in his heart. She took him in—bloody, mangled hand and all—and the love in her eyes blew him away.
She saw all of him, and she loved him. She always had.
“Do it,” she whispered.
He squeezed the trigger once.
Click.
Jerrod scrambled backward.
Rio stepped up and planted a boot on Jerrod’s chest, holding him in place. Thorne shot again. Again.
Bang.
A red hole appeared in Jerrod’s forehead just above his bewildered eyes, which slowly turned dull.
Thorne threw the piece aside. He and Nadia headed across the warehouse to where Kara held Benny.
“Your hand,” Nadia said.
He felt dizzy—from the pain, the blood loss, or maybe both. He grabbed a discarded jacket off the floor and wadded it around his hand. It hurt to have anything against it, but he didn’t want to scare Benny even more. Benny called to Nadia as soon as he saw her.
“Mama’s here, Benny,” she said, taking him into her arms. “Mama’s here.” She held him tight.
“You’re okay, kid,” Thorne said, catching Benny’s eyes over her shoulder. But Benny was looking at something else—the lifeless form of one of the Hangman soldiers.
Shit. All the destruction, all the hell he’d seen.
“Punk,” Benny said.
A snort from the corner. Richard stood, face all bloody. “Yeah, they’re punks.”
Benny smiled.
It was then that he knew that the kid would be okay. He knew that the human spirit was wildly resilient. People came back from dark things.
“Yeah,” Thorne said. “He’s a punk
.”
One month later
Nadia parked in the dark garage and hauled the groceries out of the backseat, propping one bag in each arm. She shut the door with her foot.
It had been a long day. They’d had a late supper. She was tired and distracted. Maybe that’s why she didn’t see the figure leaning against the wall in the shadowy corner of the garage.
Until it was too late.
Until her hands were too full to do anything.
He pushed up from the wall and came to her.
Her breath caught in her throat. “God, Thorne!” she said. “What are you doing?”
He said nothing, just advanced on her in that straight-line way he had.
And he was wearing the glasses.
Her belly tightened. “Seriously, Thorne. There’s ice cream in here.”
He kept coming.
She closed her eyes. “Ice cream, Thorne.”
Her heart raced as she felt the hard, cool mass of his cast press firmly against her breastbone. He pushed her back against the side of the car and kissed her. She felt his fingers slide down under the waistband of her jeans.
“Let me get rid of these bags,” she whispered huskily.
“Maybe I like you like this. Maybe I’ll make you hold onto them.”
“I’ll drop them,” she protested.
“I don’t care.” He cupped her sex and she ground into him.
She opened her eyes and smiled, loving him like crazy, wanting him like crazy. “You’re a brute and a lowlife who doesn’t care about ice cream,” she whispered.
“That’s right,” he said, kissing her neck, going at her jeans snaps. “I’m the lowlife who’s going to fuck you and make you scream my name while that ice cream melts.”
The ice cream would melt, but nothing was as sweet as this game, so unexpected. They’d reclaimed it in the past weeks. It was back to being about seeing each other. About wanting each other like a fever. About love.
She wanted to touch him—his body was calling her.
He rubbed his whiskers against her cheek and she thought about just dropping the groceries. But there were glass jars in there. Furiously he unbuttoned her jeans and shoved them down. She wriggled them off and kicked out of them. Okay, he was just a little out of control.
He pressed a finger between her legs, sliding around in the wet heat.
He was relentless. A lot out of control.
She hissed as he invaded her. “I’ll drop them if I come, baby.”
He grunted, and then he took the bags and put them down. Because he was a brute, but he was also a father. A husband-to-be.
He came back to her with redoubled force and grabbed her ass, pulling her to him. She fit herself against the rough contours of his jeans, right against the steely hardness of his cock, and pushed her hand into his soft hair, so like Benny’s; they were connected in so many ways now.
“More,” he grated. He pressed in harder, and she rode up on him a bit.
But of course, it wasn’t enough for Thorne. He grabbed her ass and picked her up, setting her on the car hood, definitely not an approved use of his terribly injured hand.
With his other hand, he unbuttoned his own jeans, freeing his cock. She grabbed it, stroking him.
“I need to be in you,” he panted.
“Be in me, then. Fuck me.” With her other hand, she grasped the back of his head. “I love you,” she whispered into his ear.
He put his forehead to her chest, breath wild and ragged. “I love you, too, Nadia.”
As she held him to her, she had the illusion that she could feel his heart beating at the point where their foreheads touched.
He pushed at her thigh with his bad hand, forcing her legs apart, another unapproved use that was mind-numbingly hot. She loved him touching her with that hand, even in a cast. He positioned himself at her entrance.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Thorne, yes,” she said as he penetrated her slowly, enjoying the way he filled her. He pumped into her, devouring her.
“God, Nadia,” he grated.
She bit his shoulder as he fucked her, loving him with everything she had—him with all his bravery and love in those brutish lowlife glasses. She sometimes couldn’t believe he was hers.
He’d told her one time that she always changed when she was about to come—he said it showed itself in her breath and her face, like something primal rising up in her. When she felt an orgasm spiraling up in her, she looked up at him and found him watching her.
“Fuck, yeah,” he said, jerking his cock into her, deeper and harder until her world split into shards of ecstasy.
The ice cream was completely melted.
She tossed it, feeling weird about doing that in front of Yana and Marta because they’d had so little for so long.
But the two of them were sitting at the kitchen island absorbed in whatever was on the laptop. It was something with the Centre—that’s what they called the home for women they were setting up. At first it would be a place for the women who had been imprisoned by Victor, and later, the Quartet, but eventually they’d take in others, too. Somebody from Thorne’s undercover organization had anonymously bought the mansion and donated it to Yana’s and Marta’s cause, along with all kinds of startup funds.
Nadia loved how passionate her mother and her aunt were about the project with the Centre; it brought out such gritty fierceness and determination in the two of them.
With the money from the sale, she had been able to pay Richard for his help. Kara used her half to buy a fabulous condo—just a three-block walk from the house Nadia and Thorne had bought. They’d be moving there in a few weeks.
When she finished putting the groceries away, she went to look over Yana’s shoulder. They were studying renovation blueprints. Many more rooms had to be carved out. After living together like cattle for so long, Marta and Yana insisted that every woman have a room to herself. And they loved the idea of the safe room and the crazy security and a fierce, protective dog like Rufus around. It felt like justice, taking what Victor had built and turning it around to help people he’d harmed.
Her mother and Marta had a lot to work through, and the therapist said it would be worse before it got better, but they were a family now. Nadia felt so nourished by their presence, she sometimes didn’t know who was helping who.
She put her hand on Yana’s shoulder.
Yana set her hand on top of Nadia’s.
Nadia shivered—good shivers—at how normal it felt. Her mom and aunt in the kitchen after dinner. The everyday activity of putting away the groceries. Thorne upstairs reading to their son.
She hated that Thorne was still in Hangman—running it now with his friend Miguel, but Thorne had such loyalty to that undercover group of his, and to keeping his word on things. Slowly, the Quartet gangs were being dismantled. There’d been arrests high up in government that he seemed to know about before they happened.
She kissed her mother and Marta goodnight and headed up.
She recognized the book that Thorne and Benny were reading the second she hit the upstairs hall, just from the motor sounds Thorne made.
She went in the room and slid onto the bed on the other side of Benny, kissing his head. She smiled over at Thorne, who met her eyes with a kind of twinkle.
A family.
It was so normal, but also like a miracle. Benny protested at the interruption, and Thorne got back to it. A tractor. A car. Rumble rumble.
Benny never got sick of Thorne’s sound effects, or of reading books with him or playing out in the yard with him. Benny snuggled between them when the book was over, tracing the scorpions on Thorne’s arm. He loved to find them in the vines.
“Bonsters,” he whispered.
“Good monsters,” she said, catching Thorne’s eye over Benny’s head.
Benny squealed and snuggled in tighter. He liked the idea of good monsters.
They all did.
~ THE END ~
Thank you for reading In
to the Shadows. I hope you enjoyed your time with Thorne and Nadia and the rest of the gang.
I made this book lendable wherever I could, so please feel free to share it with your personal friends, and I love when people leave reviews where they bought the book, good or bad, even if it’s just a few lines. It’s a huge help to me and it helps other readers find books that fit their tastes, too. But most of all, a massive thank you for reading!
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Acknowledgements
I have some of the most brilliant, generous critique partners and editorial minds on my side; my author pals and helpers always make my books way better than anything I could produce alone, and I think that’s especially true with this one. Joanna Chambers brought incredible care and insight to every corner of this book—especially the themes and tricky relationship dynamics; Katie Reus added her amazing instinct for heroes, heroines, and the emotional ebb and flow; my husband Mark came through with awesome story arc and Bruce Lee knowledge; and Jeffe Kennedy put her eagle eye on characterization and making things add up. A huge thank you also to developmental editor extraordinaire, Deb Nemeth, who helped me make things right and crank the tension and goodness and so, so much more; Carrie Smoot did the beautiful proofreading and light copyedit; Bookbeautiful created this incredible cover. And Amber Lin did a massively helpful late read. Thank you to all of you!!
About Carolyn Crane
Carolyn Crane is a RITA-nominated author of romantic suspense, urban fantasy, and other tales of romance and adventure. She also writes erotic romance about bank robbers and other criminals as NYT bestselling Annika Martin. She makes her home in Minneapolis with her husband and two cats.
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