Sin & Suffer

I roared, “Somehow what?!”

Ah, fuck, my head.

“There was an explosion—about thirty minutes ago—and the front gates blew wide open. Our backup wasn’t here by that point, so we couldn’t make a move, ya know? Didn’t have the firepower to secure the scene and catch the fuckwit who did this. So the three of us waited. I got Bas to hide in one of the trees to act as sniper and Coin to wait in ambush if the entire Dagger brotherhood spilled out to dish us some cold justice. But then, well … nothing happened.”

My legs wobbled. It was all I could do to stay upright. “What do you mean nothing happened?”

Matchsticks grabbed the back of his neck, rubbing away his discomfort. He looked guilty as sin. “We gave it ten minutes—to see if they’d come out bullets blazing. But when they didn’t, we inched forward to survey the scene. And found it completely empty.”

Mo shook his head, playing with the cocking action on his pistol. “Empty? Well how do you explain the vanishing act of over forty Daggers when you were right fucking there?”

My blood pressure rose. My skull threatened to crack at any moment.

Matchstick pointed to the clustered bikers. Their leather-jacketed torsos blocked whatever they were so fascinated with.

Was that smoke in the center?

They’re gathered around a damn bonfire?

Matchsticks motioned us closer to his brothers. We followed. My hands clenched around my gun.

Matchsticks said, “We’ve done a full recon. The compound is deserted. All the vehicles are gone. Documents have been shredded; houses locked up tight. We followed the tire marks to a back exit they’d made in the north perimeter.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose, stumbling a little over tree roots. “So, you’re saying Rubix and the rest of his fucking Club have pulled a runner and you didn’t catch them?”

This can’t be happening.

My temper morphed into something fire-breathing and mortally dangerous.

Matchsticks looked away, unable to keep eye contact. “She’s here, Prez.”

Every muscle instantly locked. My mind filled with horrible images. Blood. Torture. Pain.

If they touched her, I’ll do so much worse than kill them.

“They left her for you.” Matchsticks waved at the gaping entrance. “Just in there. We didn’t move her. Didn’t want to touch her, just in case …”

Mo shot forward, but I was faster.

Even with a goddamn concussion, I still outran them and shoved men out of my way. I bowled through their ranks, growling like a damn beast.

Brothers stepped aside, letting me charge through the gates of Dagger Rose and slam to a halt at the scene.

The second my feet hit Dagger ground, I suffered a fleeting feeling of homecoming.

Then it was gone, replaced with heavy hatred soaking into my bones.

This place.

This madness.

This was where evil began.

This is hell.

True to form, the scene before me was worse than I could’ve ever imagined.

Cleo!

My lungs stuck together as I took in the message my father had left. I wanted to collapse to my knees. I wanted to tear out my fucking heart.

Goddammit, Cleo.

She lay naked like a human sacrifice. Curled up on her side, her legs tucked into her chest, she looked like a fallen angel—a vision of purity damaged by so much wrong.

Lying on her right, her scars and burns were hidden, displaying the mosaic colors of ink on her left. My eyes trailed from the tip of her toes to her shoulders, taking in the vibrant tattoo and intricate clues etched into her skin.

I knew the design by heart, but most of it was obscured by …

I swallowed bile.

Blood.

Her porcelain pale skin was smeared in rusty red. Splashes on her arms and legs; huge puddles patterned her face, throat, and chest.

“Cleo!” I bellowed, ignoring the screech in my skull.

Was it her blood? She didn’t look alive. Her vibrant red hair fanned out in the churned dirt, matted and clumped with yet more awful rust.

I moved to go to her, rushing toward the excruciating heat. The rest of the scene came into view. I was so consumed with making sure she was alive, my broken mind had blocked out what surrounded her.

It was the past all over again.

The terror.

The helplessness.

Fire.

“Somebody get a fucking extinguisher!”

Mo darted past me. “On it!”

Why the fuck did no one get one before?

My father had wanted to send me a message.

He’d fucking succeeded.

My woman lay unconscious in a ring of blazing fire. Even though she was naked, she was dressed in the same orange flames that’d transformed her when she was barely fourteen. Flicking flames and licks of shadows danced over her like a spell or voodoo.

The circle of fire had been conjured by a seasoned pyrotechnic. The flames were high and black smoke filled my nose, caging her in and barricading us.

My knees locked against the sudden wave of ferocity and sickening horror.

“Why did no one move her, for fuck’s sake?”

The fire wasn’t hurting her. The flames danced more like friend than foe—protecting the girl already marked by their power. But I hated the orange glow on her skin. I hated the patterns they cast as if every second they sucked more of her soul into the underworld.

“Get me a mattress, a door—anything to make a pathway.” I was done waiting. I’d walk through the fire if I had to. I had to get her now.