and walls greet them with vacant indifference. The astringent smells of keeping the dead in stasis assault their nostrils as they walk through the morgue.
They reach the mortuary chambers. Cold squares of unrelenting steel glare back like flat eyes of accusation.
Thorn's seen a ton of dead people. Never gets stale. He smiles at his inside joke.
The expression fades as he and Juliette draw nearer to the chambers of the French dead.
The morgue attendant blows a gigantic neon-green gum bubble, sucking it back into his mouth with a snap. “Here they are. Have fun, kids.”
Tag hooks his fingers in his belt and rolls his shoulders. When the attendant is out of sight, Tag opens the first chamber.
Big Guy looks worse for wear. His contusions before his death stand out like burst crimson orchids underneath his artificially pale skin.
Thorn hears Juliette’s throat click as she swallows. “Shepard is very deliberate in his abuse. Especially of males.”
Thorn doesn't ask why his abuse of males would be different than for females.
He gets it. Profoundly. Now it's his turn to swallow back his disgust. His memories.
“Rolling knuckle punches were his favorite.”
“Sounds pretty effective,” Tag says quietly, eyeballing the mess of the guy's skin.
Thorn moves his eyes over the pattern of bruising on the big French dude. Like petals of a flower dipped in blood.
“Very,” Juliette whispers. “It will not break bones but inflicts the highest degree of injury.” She shivers.
Thorn's face whips to hers. “Did he hurt you like this?”
Juliette doesn't return his stare, swiping at her eye. “Once.”
“Why?” Thorn growls.
Tag's uneasy gaze ping-pongs between them.
Finally, that impenetrable gaze meets his. “So that Roi would not.”
Thorn holds Juliette as she cries, and his eyes meet Tag's above her head.
Fucking Shepard is flexing his mob muscle.
I don't give any fucks that he “gave” Juliette her freedom with the divorce. That supposedly he hoped that made up for her being his prize mule.
How about the innocence he fucked away from her? Or the hundred pounds of coke in her vagina that she accumulatively ran for him—or the fucking criminals she screwed into doing what Roi wanted?
Nah. Thorn could kill him and not lose sleep.
Not a minute.
“We're on it,” Tag says.
What he means is Shepard just went to high priority.
Because he's taken another lamb. Thorn doesn't have to hear from Dietrich to know that the strand of blond hair didn't belong to these two in the coolers.
A dude like Shepard feels lonely without his flock. Figured it was just a matter of time before he went back to doing what he knew best.
Leading victims to slaughter.
EIGHT
Shepard
I am a fool. I know this.
That introspective moment of clarity does not alter my course of action. Taking Marissa is symptomatic of what I'm forced to do. La famille will find me. They will still want their cherry. I am merely delaying the inevitable.
“Where are we going?”
I spare a glance at the exotic creature I've stolen. Her blond hair hides her well. I know without touching it, the strands would feel like kinked silk.
Marissa Augustine glares back at me.
I focus on the road once more. “I have made you angry.”
I turn back in time to see her scowl. “I'm just angry on principle.” She blows a loose strand of hair out of her face in a frustrated exhale. “Yesterday I was dragging ass because I was tired from my shift as a waitress. Then a classmate from college”—she whips the tendril of hair out of her eyes, narrowing that dark gray gaze at me—“turns out to be some mob dude. Sent to take me for the organization.”
I blink slowly—cannot argue her points. “True.”
“How did you happen to be there?” she asks.
My fingers grip the wheel tighter. “ La famille has made a bid to romance me back into their fold.” My laugh is abrupt, tight.
Marissa snorts, facing forward in a huff and crossing her arms.
They reach the mortuary chambers. Cold squares of unrelenting steel glare back like flat eyes of accusation.
Thorn's seen a ton of dead people. Never gets stale. He smiles at his inside joke.
The expression fades as he and Juliette draw nearer to the chambers of the French dead.
The morgue attendant blows a gigantic neon-green gum bubble, sucking it back into his mouth with a snap. “Here they are. Have fun, kids.”
Tag hooks his fingers in his belt and rolls his shoulders. When the attendant is out of sight, Tag opens the first chamber.
Big Guy looks worse for wear. His contusions before his death stand out like burst crimson orchids underneath his artificially pale skin.
Thorn hears Juliette’s throat click as she swallows. “Shepard is very deliberate in his abuse. Especially of males.”
Thorn doesn't ask why his abuse of males would be different than for females.
He gets it. Profoundly. Now it's his turn to swallow back his disgust. His memories.
“Rolling knuckle punches were his favorite.”
“Sounds pretty effective,” Tag says quietly, eyeballing the mess of the guy's skin.
Thorn moves his eyes over the pattern of bruising on the big French dude. Like petals of a flower dipped in blood.
“Very,” Juliette whispers. “It will not break bones but inflicts the highest degree of injury.” She shivers.
Thorn's face whips to hers. “Did he hurt you like this?”
Juliette doesn't return his stare, swiping at her eye. “Once.”
“Why?” Thorn growls.
Tag's uneasy gaze ping-pongs between them.
Finally, that impenetrable gaze meets his. “So that Roi would not.”
Thorn holds Juliette as she cries, and his eyes meet Tag's above her head.
Fucking Shepard is flexing his mob muscle.
I don't give any fucks that he “gave” Juliette her freedom with the divorce. That supposedly he hoped that made up for her being his prize mule.
How about the innocence he fucked away from her? Or the hundred pounds of coke in her vagina that she accumulatively ran for him—or the fucking criminals she screwed into doing what Roi wanted?
Nah. Thorn could kill him and not lose sleep.
Not a minute.
“We're on it,” Tag says.
What he means is Shepard just went to high priority.
Because he's taken another lamb. Thorn doesn't have to hear from Dietrich to know that the strand of blond hair didn't belong to these two in the coolers.
A dude like Shepard feels lonely without his flock. Figured it was just a matter of time before he went back to doing what he knew best.
Leading victims to slaughter.
EIGHT
Shepard
I am a fool. I know this.
That introspective moment of clarity does not alter my course of action. Taking Marissa is symptomatic of what I'm forced to do. La famille will find me. They will still want their cherry. I am merely delaying the inevitable.
“Where are we going?”
I spare a glance at the exotic creature I've stolen. Her blond hair hides her well. I know without touching it, the strands would feel like kinked silk.
Marissa Augustine glares back at me.
I focus on the road once more. “I have made you angry.”
I turn back in time to see her scowl. “I'm just angry on principle.” She blows a loose strand of hair out of her face in a frustrated exhale. “Yesterday I was dragging ass because I was tired from my shift as a waitress. Then a classmate from college”—she whips the tendril of hair out of her eyes, narrowing that dark gray gaze at me—“turns out to be some mob dude. Sent to take me for the organization.”
I blink slowly—cannot argue her points. “True.”
“How did you happen to be there?” she asks.
My fingers grip the wheel tighter. “ La famille has made a bid to romance me back into their fold.” My laugh is abrupt, tight.
Marissa snorts, facing forward in a huff and crossing her arms.
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