by Fox, Logan
How was he supposed to process the shit he’d seen tonight? His mind reeled so hard he felt dizzy.
Finn’s head snapped around. He snarled at Owen, but the expression flickered away a moment later as if it had never been. Instead, Finn stared through a mask of Ronan’s blood, his eyes tracking across the room until they’d found Cora.
“Don’t!” Owen snapped, simultaneously lunging back and training the pistol’s sight on Finn’s chest.
He shouldn’t have bothered.
If there was one thing Bailey knew about Finn by now, it was how single minded the man was.
And, despite that knowledge, it was the most difficult thing he’d ever had to do — stepping away from Cora and leaving her exposed to Finn’s claws.
Her bonds snapped like dental floss caught between teeth. Finn scooped her from the bed, crushing her to him. She made a sound somewhere between pleasure and pain before collapsing into him, body shaking as she sobbed.
The room quietened.
Owen’s hand dropped to his side. There was a random spot of blood on one cheek. How the fuck it had gotten there was anyone’s guess, but as if he’d only felt it now for the first time, he lifted the back of his hand and smeared it absently over his face.
Watching as Finn tore Cora away and kissed her.
She didn’t seem to mind the blood. Didn’t seem to care that Finn must have tasted of death. She opened to him like a night flower in bloom, and he consumed her whole.
When their kiss broke off seconds later, no one in the room had moved, as if everyone was too terrified to draw attention to themselves.
Because what if the beast returned? What if it somehow decided you had transgressed in some way?
He never wanted to know that feeling.
38
Child of the Dark
Santa Muerte had been watching her for longer than she could remember. The death saint’s hollow eyes were on her. Boring through her. Demanding explanations.
Or, perhaps, another sacrifice.
La Flaca was greedy. La Flaca was entitled. You became the saint’s slave the instant she did you a favor.
No matter how small.
No matter how insignificant.
And Cora had asked La Flaca for much over the years.
Perhaps too much.
Had the saint feasted on Ronan King’s soul at least, or had that just piqued her appetite to new levels?
You owe me your life, child of the dark.
She had no doubt whose voice that was.
Then take it! she screamed in her head, not even knowing if that demand reached the saint.
Santa Muerte heard.
In time. But you will bring me others first.
Was the saint so lusting of dark souls she would never have her fill?
A banshee’s screech speared into her ear drums.
Who are you to speak of lust, darkling?
Cora’s eyes shot open, the echoes of Santa Muerte’s hissed curse rebounding in her mind.
It took precious seconds for her gaze to adjust. When it did, she scanned the room’s every shadow, hunting for hollow eyes and a perpetual grin that held no mirth.
But Santa Muerte was gone.
Cora’s eyes fixed on a shard of porcelain.
Her statue of the Lady of Shadows.
It had been broken. Shattered. Those pieces lay scattered over the floor.
But the skull was intact.
Intact… but cracked.
That same crack she’d seen in Javier’s dungeon what felt an eternity ago.
The world fell away, only to return brighter, harsher, more bitter than before.
Cora blinked, eyes narrowing against the light.
A wall enveloped her, confining her, protecting her. It crushed her bones and forced the last inch of air from her lungs.
But she welcomed it.
Let it crush her.
Let it starve her of life.
She didn’t want to feel anything ever again.
Because that had been her mistake, hadn’t it? Giving in to pleasure. To pain. Letting lust and love and hedonistic desire consume her.
Now she was spent. Broken and torn. No one could put her together again. No one would even know where to begin.
Except Finn.
He knew the shape of her.
He knew how her pieces fit together.
Which was why, when he kissed her, she kissed him back. It didn’t matter that his mouth was filled with blood. It didn’t matter that his body felt more like a beast’s than a man’s.
Nothing mattered.
Except him.
And she let him have her. She gave her broken self to his hunger. She fed him, one last time, and silently hoped he would devour her entirely.
At least, then, there would be no more pain.
No more pleasure…
But no more pain.
And no more souls to feed La Sombra’s forge.
39
Carnage
It should have been indecent, watching Finn and Cora like that. It should have made him as sick to his stomach as it had Bailey.
But Lars couldn’t stop watching.
Their enraged passion made his dick go hard, and his heart clench. His palms sweated, and he had no idea if it was from panic or terror or sheer lust.
Which was why, when Finn grabbed Cora into his arms, swinging her around and carrying her from the room as if he’d completely forgotten about everyone else, his legs followed without instruction from his brain.
Then he saw the man in the suit, gun still pointed in the vague direction of the bed. Kane, from the corner of his eye. The dead man on the floor. The dying man close by.
Carnage.
The room stank of it, filling his lungs.
Electrifying him.
Bailey appeared, moving obliquely so he wasn’t ever in the pistol’s sights. Although he doubted the man would have gotten off a clean shot, trembling as he was.
“Owen,” Bailey said.
Wait, he knew this fucker? Then again, he’d been inside Ronan King’s mansion. He’d obviously met this trio before.
Lars’s eyes moved of their own.
Fuck; no way King was getting an open casket.
“Owen!”
Lars’s gaze snapped back to Bailey, as if he’d been calling out his name instead.
Owen focused on Bailey’s face and reluctantly lowered his weapon.
“Take Will, take your boss, get the fuck out of here.”
A slow nod. Owen was tall, perhaps only an inch or two shorter than Lars, but right now the man’s shoulders were so stooped he looked on a height with Bailey. He moved stiffly as he crouched at Will’s side. The man groaned, blood splashing over his bottom lip as Owen pressed a hand to his chest.
“He’ll never make it like this.” Owen said, sounding a thousand miles away. “Got bandages?”
Bailey looked up, catching Lars’s eye. He gave a quick nod and hurried from Cora’s old room. The first aid kit was in the kitchen. He took an eternity to reach it, and a lifetime to come back. But in that time, only Kane had moved.
Owen stood a few feet from Bailey, but his gaze was fixed on Ronan’s destroyed body. He wore a glazed expression — no surprise — but seemed otherwise unaffected by what had happened.
Lars helped Owen bandage up his friend, then they got him up between them and dragged him to the door.
Kane moved as if to follow, but Bailey caught his arm.
“We have to talk.”
Ah, Christ, and he would miss it. He considered leaving Owen to take care of Will, but when they both almost didn’t make it down the staircase, he realized it would be impossible for Owen to make it anywhere on his own.
The sooner he helped Owen the fuck out of here, the better.
Will had passed out by the time they’d dragged his body to the poorly parked SUV standing by Swan Manor’s front entrance. Roses filled the air with their scent as if mocking the metallic ste
nch of blood he’d had to breathe the past half hour. Owen opened the door, helped Lars maneuver Will inside, and propped him up a little before closing it.
“And your boss?” Lars called out when Owen made for the driver’s side door.
The paused, eyes blank for a moment as if he’d completely forgotten about Ronan King. Then his mouth became a thin line. “He ain’t getting any deader,” he said. “I’ll come back for him.”
He watched the SUV pull away and then headed back inside. At the top of the stairs, he paused, glancing first one way, then the other.
Master bedroom — Cora and Finn, probably doing unspeakable things to each other.
Cora’s old bedroom — Kane and Bailey, probably saying unspeakable things to each other.
Lars shrugged and headed for the master bedroom.
He was a man of action, not words.
40
Dopamine
Bailey watched Will leave, strung up between Owen and Lars. Should he have tried to stop Owen leaving? Killed him and Will both? Seemed pointless now, with Ronan dead — so very, very fucking dead.
There were eyes on him. When he looked back, he found Kane watching.
For the longest time, he returned the man’s emotionless stare. And then he gave him a smile that was part pity, part rue.
Kane sneered at him.
“I know about your folks,” Bailey said.
“You fuckers ran a background check on me?” Kane’s mouth twisted with incredulity as he spat out the words.
Bailey crossed his arms over his chest, more to prevent him from punching Kane in the face than anything else.
“Think we’d let you near her without one?” Bailey let out a sour laugh. “Pays to be paranoid, you sick fuck.” He stabbed a finger at Kane. “How’d you ever close your closet with all those fucking skeletons in the way?”
Kane’s face solidified an instant before he burst out laughing. The change was so sudden, so unexpected, that Bailey took a step back.
“Jalisco cut their faces off,” Kane said, making absolutely no fucking sense. And that must have been writ large and square on his face because the man let out another bray of a laugh before getting himself under control. He swayed forward like a drunk, catching a hold of Bailey’s shoulder and leaning so close, Bailey saw where his iris met his pupil.
“They cut their fucking faces off.” Kane lifted a flat hand, covering his eyes as if he was playing peekaboo, and then slowly dragged his fingers down his face. “Off.”
Jalisco cut their faces off.
Bailey’s skin contracted as if it was suddenly two sizes too small.
“Your… parents?”
Kane gave him a too wide, too cheery smile. “Hung them from the landing.”
Jesus fucking Christ. Bailey pushed away, but Kane got a hold of the back of his neck and drew him back.
“Flayed them, too.” Kane’s mouth set in a slant, as if the retelling of the atrocity made him sick to his stomach and he was about to vomit up a lifetime’s worth of meals.
“And then left them for me to find.”
If he’d had anything left in his stomach, Bailey might have puked again. Instead, his mouth filled with bitter-warm saliva.
He could see it now… the madness in Kane’s eyes.
“You can… there’s help out there… we could—” He was rambling, but he couldn’t stop.
Taking a step back, he aimed blindly for the door. As long as he didn’t take his eyes off—
“No one can help him,” Kane said.
His voice was deeper. Rougher. Husky.
“I’m all he’s got.”
* * *
Cora whimpered under him when he thrust into her. She clung to him with hands and feet, burrowing her face into his neck as he fucked a body that reeked of blood and sweat and terror.
The terror, at least, was fading.
But the scratch over her stomach couldn’t scab over — her caramel skin was streaked with drying blood. Was that why Beast kept coming back? As hard as he tried shoving the animal into the furthest reaches of his mind, it found its way back.
Clawing her.
Biting her.
Mounting her like the animal it was.
Tears glittered in her lashes, but she didn’t struggle. Didn’t fight. She gave him everything he wanted, and more.
They were on the single settee that faced the balcony overlooking the swimming pool. It was night out there, but he’d thrown open the balcony doors so whatever air moved out there would cool him.
It hadn’t worked; although Cora shivered under him, he still boiled.
A hand fell on his shoulder. He bucked, urging another soft cry from Cora, and glanced over his shoulder.
Lars took a step back, face going a whiter shade of pale.
Time stalled. Cora’s breath hitched. And his beast whickered and whined as it slunk away.
Strange, that. He’d only ever known Cora to chase away his beast.
No… that wasn’t true, was it? Lars had done it before.
There, in the desert.
There, with all that sand and blood.
There… where he’d been nothing more than a broken man and a wounded dog.
Lars had made him forget. Had eased him back to life. He’d taken his hand and led him through midnight sand dunes, hunting for home. For comfort. For respite.
A large, blood stained hand reached for Lars, and Finn stuttered to a halt when he realized it was his. Dread anticipation crystallized like snow in the air.
No… it was snow.
Snow blew in through the open balcony. It landed on his hand. On Lars’s hair. It melted on the man’s cheeks and collarbones.
Lars took a slow step forward. He took a hold of Finn’s bloody hand and brought it hesitantly to his face.
Finn’s thumb stroked against his jaw. It marred the pale skin with a streak of red.
Cora’s blood.
Lars fumbled with his shirt, fingers shaking. A button popped off, the man too impatient to bother undoing the last one.
Finn’s hand slid behind his neck, to the warm, damp hair at the base of his neck.
He dragged him closer until their faces were an inch apart.
Snow came between them, but evaporated when it mingled with their heated breaths.
“I thought I’d lost you in there,” Lars murmured, cupping Finn’s face in his hands.
Warm hands. Slender hands. Caring hands.
“I never left,” Finn said.
“Like hell you didn’t.” Lars’s green eyes glowed for a moment. “Just remember one thing, motherfucker — I got you on speed dial. Ain’t nowhere you’re going that I can’t find you, you hear—?”
But Lars didn’t get to finish his sentence.
Finn dragged him the last inch, eviscerating his words with a ravenous mouth. Lars groaned. His body shook as if he was trying to take off the rest of his clothes.
He made it easier — with a hard tug, he yanked Lars’s pants down his straining cock. His boxers were next — there was a ripping sound as cotton gave way under his twisting fist.
Lars bucked forward, pressing his dick into Finn’s lower back. Beneath him, Cora let out a low moan as she squirmed.
Finn ducked his hips, finding her entrance with ease and forcing his way back inside her. Wet as she was, she was always so deliciously tight, as if her core clung to him with the same determination she did.
His breath tore out of him as he filled Cora, breaking his kiss with Lars. The man panted at him, both hands in Finn’s hair as he slowly drew his cock up and down Finn’s ass cheek.
Lars got a knee on the settee, putting his weight on Finn’s back as if he was ready to fuck him right then and there.
But they’d crush Cora under them, especially if Finn lost concentration.
He couldn’t do that. Couldn’t hurt her, couldn’t harm her.
Not ever.
He shoved Lars away so hard that the man struck the wall beside
the settee. If anything, the shock seemed to focus his intention. He surged back, jaw hard and cock in his hand as if he planned on pinning Finn down and fucking him whether or not he wanted it.
But when Lars came at him, Finn grabbed his shoulders and held him off. They struggled briefly, fiercely, before he shoved Lars off again.
This time, the man paused before attacking again. He leaned against the wall, tall and thin and hints of steely muscles everywhere as he stroked his cock and watched Finn with hooded eyes.
Finn turned back to Cora. He lifted her head from the settee and kissed her so gently her erratic breath fluttered against his mouth. Then he drew back, smoothed hair from her face with his hands, and thrust into her.
She moaned, writhed, became still.
“You’re mine, Cora,” he murmured, easing out of her. “You’ll always be mine.”
“Yes,” she said breathlessly, eyes fluttering as if she was finding it difficult to keep them open. “Always.”
“You fuck who I say you do.”
She nodded, pressing her mouth closed as if she’d start bawling if she were to try speaking. He drove her breath from her with his next thrust and stayed buried inside her.
“And never anyone else, ever again.”
Another hard nod. Tears sprang into her eyes, and she chewed on her lip.
“Don’t think I won’t punish you.” He stroked her face again, his eyes slipping to her mouth, her chin, her jaw. “I will. And you won’t like it.”
Her lips trembled. He drew out. Speared into her so hard that she let out a muffled cry.
“Never again, Cora.”
“Never again.” It was hardly even a whisper, but it would do.
Finn lifted her from the settee and carried her over to the bed.
He lay down and drew her on top of him. She came willingly, trying to kiss him through her tears, but he flipped her over instead, nuzzling her neck as he got his legs between hers and forced her to spread herself open.