“Move these fucking cars out of the way or I’ll blow the little bitch’s head off right here and now.”

“Nah, I don’t think so,” Callum whispers, his voice carrying in the silent tension that stretches through the woods, broken up only by the slight ticking and cooling of the vehicles and the ragged pants of our breathing as we climb out behind the Camaro, using the car as a blockade.

My creepy nightmare boy is somehow perched on the trunk of the car. He moves like a shadow, knocking the gun away from my sister’s head just in time to send Maxwell’s first shot wild. Callum grapples with the man as a scream breaks from my throat.

“Run!” I shout, and Heather’s little body twitches like it’s been plugged into an electrical outlet. She takes off for the woods as gunfire rings out from the direction of the Eldorado and Oscar uses an assault rifle he got from the trunk to take careful, calculated shots at the men emerging from the cars. Their own weapons are raised and ready to use; they don’t hesitate to fire back.

We’re about to have an old-fashioned shoot-out.

My eyes follow Heather as she starts for the trees, but my greatest fears are almost immediately realized when Ophelia grabs her arm. Instead of yanking her back to the car, Ophelia continues into the woods, my sister dragging along behind her.

I almost take off after them, but Victor stops me with a hand clamped onto my upper arm. His eyes meet mine, and I hear the very distinct ring of an order in his next words. My king is telling me what to do, my god, the leader of Havoc who has no problem sharing his throne or his boys with me.

“Do not leave this Camaro unless it’s on fire, do you understand me?” He shakes me once when I don’t answer right away, torn between listening to him and taking off after my sister. It’s dangerous though, to run that bit of green between the cover of the car and the trees. I’m good, but Victor is better; we both know it. He has the greatest chance of getting out of here without being gunned down. “Bernadette.”

“I hear you,” I choke out, even though it kills me, even though it makes me feel like I’m coming apart at the seams. Victor leans down to look into my eyes, searing this order into my brain like a brand. “Do. Not. Leave. For any reason. If things go south, you climb into the driver’s seat and you book it the fuck out of here. Promise me.”

I grind my teeth together, but all I can manage is a nod. Victor shoves his gun into my hand, like he’s damn near positive he won’t need it. Since I already have one, I take the magazine out, slip it into my blazer pocket, and toss Vic’s weapon on the ground by the Camaro’s rear tire—just in case. But at least I’ve got some more ammo on me now.

“Trust me to get your sister back,” Vic tells me, standing back up, his face darkening as he turns toward the woods. I swear, as he goes, I can see it: the darkness of his temper unraveling like a sea of thorny black roses, spilling out of him to dig their roots into the ground. After a few steps, Victor begins to run.

My breath catches as I watch him go, terrified that I’m going to see my soul mate gunned down while attempting to save the little sister that I love more than anything. He crosses the open, grass-covered space between the end of the Camaro and the start of the woods, just barely ducking into the shadows before bullets rain in his direction.

Turning back to the situation at hand, I scoot over to where Hael is kneeling beside the front tire. He reloads his weapon with ammo that he pulls from his pocket, turning and taking aim over the hood at our enemies.

Including Maxwell Barrasso who, unfortunately, is still alive, there are seven members of the GMP to contend with—four bodyguards, two drivers, and one mob boss. The sound of sirens in the distance alerts us to the presence of the VGTF. Even now, they could be encountering Maxwell’s waiting motorcade.

“You ready, Blackbird?” Hael asks, and I nod, taking aim with my own weapon and preparing for what’s likely to be a bloody and ugly standoff. There are seven of them; five of us. Victor is after Ophelia and Heather, but I know better than to doubt my husband’s skills, the ones he keeps so carefully guarded that I sometimes forget that he is the most dangerous member of Havoc. Not Oscar. Not even Callum. No, it’s Vic motherfucking Channing.

Hands down.

Victor Channing

I creep through the trees, listening for the distant crush of leaves or the snapping of a twig. Ophelia might be able to crawl through the woods on her belly like the snake she is, but Heather is little and makes more than one mistake as the two of them wind through the trees.

“Victor!” Ophelia calls out, finally picking up on the idea that someone’s been following her. And, of course, she just assumes that person is me. Smart. “Get your ass out here or I swear to god, I will take your whore’s sister down with me.”

Even as she threatens me, Ophelia acknowledges that she won’t make it out of these woods alive if she kills Heather. She knows it, and that’s why I’m not concerned when I step out of the trees and into her view.

The ground is mossy and rolling, filling the empty spaces between the trees. Ferns dot the landscape, heavy and dripping with dew as I step between them and pause near a fallen log covered in clusters of brown mushrooms.

It’s all very idyllic, a beautiful place to die.

It’s far nicer than anything Ophelia Mars deserves.

You let them touch me, I think as I stare at her from across the glen and the sunlight drops faint but noticeable kisses on the crowns of our heads. The light reveals all the beautiful shines and highlights of natural variation in Ophelia’s oil-black hair. You let those men ruin me. Sometimes, you watched.

Inside of me, a dark ember burns at my core, one that I’ve banked and smothered and quieted so many times that I’ve lost count. Hold that temper back, Victor, save it. Wield it like a weapon. I’ve said those words to myself so many times. So many, many times. I’ve warned Bernadette and I’ve warned Oscar; I’ve warned Hael and I’ve warned Aaron. I’ve even warned Callum.

Yet, none of them have done what I’ve done, carefully cultivated and tended to that rage until it’s like the nuclear core of a planet, dense and hot and full of seething, primal rage.

“I’m going to kill you today, Mother,” I tell Ophelia because, of all things, I’ve always tried to be a polite monster. The egg donor puts her gun to the little girl’s head, but she doesn’t pull the trigger. She’s as aware as I am that if she does, there is absolutely zero hope for her. I will shed the skin of my human form and I will chase her through these woods like the animal she thinks I am, the animal that she crafted, the boy twisted into a monster of pain and violence.

Carefully, slowly, I start down the moss-covered slope in front of me.

“Back off, Victor,” Ophelia snaps, her beautiful lash extensions catching the light, holding onto drops of sunshine like the dew clings to the waving fronds of the ferns. I smile at her, my teeth as white and perfect as hers, gained through genetics and careful breeding instead of dentistry and orthodontics. “This is your last chance.”

“Did you ever love me?” I query, feeling my muscles throb and pulse with rage. “I mean, for even one, single second?”