Page 116

“Back the fuck off him,” Caroline warned. “Or I’ll put a bullet through your fucking brain. If not for him, then for me. Don’t think I forgot about what you did to me last year.”
Sheer rage filled every atom of my body at the hidden weight of those words. But this was her poetic justice moment.
The Wolverine curled his lip, blood pouring from the hole in his forearm. “Traitor with a pussy. Never thought you’d spread your legs for a Devil with a second-rate cock. You think you’re one of them now? You’ll always be Bates’s little bitch. Bates created you. And no matter what cut you ride with now, you’ll die wearing his brand.”
The only hint of emotion Caroline showed was a clenched jaw, but I could tell she wanted to touch her Wolverine tattoo.
But she was unmoving. “You used to own me. Not anymore.”
Then Caroline pulled the trigger.
Blood sprayed all over her face. She barely fucking blinked. Didn’t even wipe it away. Just turned and offered Mason a hand.
“That proof enough for you, High Roller?” she asked.
Mason was definitely out of his mind with pain, but the look in his eyes was fully present. I held my breath. Was this enough to convince him that Caroline had finally ditched her Wolverine past?
“Yeah,” Mason growled, taking her hand. “I’d say so.”
I realized all the action had stopped. No one was fighting anymore. They were either passed out, dead, or just standing, watching.
I didn’t know why yet. I just bolted over to help Caroline haul Mason to his feet. I patted his good shoulder lightly. “You always this ugly, or is that new?”
Mason snorted, fighting a smirk. “Fuck off, man.”
I almost laughed—then Bates roared in fury.
Caroline took off.
Shit.
I followed her closely behind until she skidded to a stop in front of the office.
Bates and Jackson had gone at it like beasts. They were drenched in blood like they bathed in it, covered in bruises and cuts. Their bodies were this fucking close to giving out. The whole office looked like a slaughterhouse.
We missed why Bates yelled, but I was ready to yell next.
“That whole time,” I roared at my president, “you were boxing him instead of killing him?!”
“Caroline,” Bates rasped, looking away from Jackson to plead with his daughter. “Help me, baby girl. Help your daddy.”
That’s my name for her, you fucking dickbag.
I swear Caroline could have morphed into some vengeance goddess right then and there. But she was so fucking calm about it, walking to the door, wrenching it open with a few kicks to finish off what looked like an earlier attempt to shoulder it open.
“Care, no,” I hissed incredulously. Why the fuck was she?—
“Of course, Daddy,” she said, sickly sweet.
Walter Bates was clearly delirious because he believed her. He sagged with relief, shoving past Jackson, who let this all happen with hawk-eyed focus.
Bates flung his arms around Caroline, who patted his back, expressionless. Everyone alive and conscious in the warehouse had stopped to stare, fights forgotten.
“My sweet girl,” Bates wheezed, squeezing her tight like it was a long-awaited reunion, “always has my back.”
Whatever Caroline’s plan was, it was dashed to pieces when Bates snatched the gun from her pocket and held it to her head, the begging old man gone in an instant—back into the raging bastard.
I lurched forward. “No!”