“I had to learn to fight to protect myself, and I was pretty good at it. I found my way into some fight clubs, got my ass beat to hell a bunch, until one day a man asked me if I’d like to do some work for him. Now, as I’m sure you can imagine, there are many people looking to take advantage of young men and women, and I was wary to begin with. Until he explained the job.
“He wanted me to kill someone for him. Sounds easy, right? He said that he saw a darkness in me and thought I was the kind of kid who could easily lose his soul. He offered me an obscene amount of money to do that job.
“So I took it. No kid who’s lived on the street his whole life in between abusive households is going to say no to fifty grand, no matter what they have to do to get that money.
“The guy I was hired to kill was a piece of shit. A child molester who had been getting away with it for decades. He deserved to die, but my employer didn’t want it done quickly. He wanted me to drag it out.
“So I did. I stalked my target, taunted him, drove him insane over weeks. By the end, he was too scared to leave his house, and it wasn’t until he couldn’t eat or sleep without feeling like someone was going to kill him that I finally did.
“And thus, the Hunter was born. A professional stalker and hitman who was hired to kill some of the worst people to ever inhabit this planet.”
I cross to the table of goodies Killian has laid out for me, my fingers dancing over the implements of torture I’ve missed so much.
“Sadly, I didn’t get a chance to drive you two crazy, even if it would have been fun as hell.”
“You still could,” Killian interjects. “Leave them here with the promise of torture, the table of toys taunting them. Barely giving them enough sustenance to let them live. Maybe even starve them to the point they consider turning on each other. Could be fun.”
I chuckle. “And this is why I brought Killian on as an apprentice, of sorts. He was born to hunt the same way I was. But alas, we got busy, built our empire, and had to stop taking contracts.”
I turn back to them, a power drill in one hand, a pair of pliers in the other.
Their eyes widen comically, and I chuckle as I step toward them, bringing the drill to life and sending terror through both men.
“But I’ll let you in on a little secret, seeing as you’ll both leave here in pieces and won’t be able to tell anyone.” I lean toward them and whisper, “We didn’t retire until we trained our replacements.”
I don’t give them a chance to respond before I bring the drill head to Lucas’s left knee and smirk at the fear that crosses his face.
The moment the drill springs to life, slicing easily through his skin and bone, his screams fill the chamber, and I can’t help thinking how much I’ve missed this.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
EMBER
“Max, no.” I sigh, dropping my head against the plush chair of the bridal salon. “I’m not trying that thing on.”
He groans and slides the slinky white fabric back onto its rack. “You’re being so difficult.”
“I already picked my dress. It’s been ordered. It’s on its way. Why do I need another one?”
“Another two,” he corrects me as he flicks through another rack, not bothering to look back at me. This is the third time this week we’ve had this conversation, and I’m starting to wonder what the fuck I was thinking, giving him free rein to plan the wedding.
It’s only been two weeks since they rescued me. My bruises have barely faded, but here I am in my fourth bridal dress store of the week.
He’s driving me insane.
“You know it’s easier if you just agree with him,” Darius tells me from the chair beside me, where he’s sipping a glass of champagne.
I roll my eyes. “Max, please. I just want a simple wedding. I want to walk down the aisle in the dress I already chose, and then I want to go on my honeymoon, where I’ve been promised a lot of filthy sex. I don’t need three dresses.”
Darius snorts out a laugh beside me, and Max finally looks at me, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Okay, how about we compromise on two? The dress you chose and a short one for the reception? Makes it easier to dance?”
“I don’t dance,” I say, but a flicker of a memory comes to life in my mind of the night I met Orion. Of walking into that dark room and telling him that I couldn’t dance for shit, and I can’t help but smile at the thought.
He sighs and types something into his phone. “Dance lessons added to the list.”
I groan and drink what’s left in my own champagne glass.
Why did I agree to all of this again?
