Page 101 of Rampage

Something like relief flashes across his features—relief that I understand, that I don't condemn him for what must happen. He leans forward, capturing my lips in a kiss that's both tender and possessive, a promise and a farewell.

"I'll be back before dark," he murmurs against my mouth. "And when I return, this will be over. All of it."

I nod, my fingers tracing the strong line of his jaw. "I'll be waiting."

With one last lingering kiss, he rises from the bed, his movements fluid and predatory. At the door, he pauses, looking back at me with such fierce devotion it steals my breath.

"I love you," he says, the words carrying the weight of everything unsaid.

"I love you too," I reply, watching as he slips through the door, closing it quietly behind him.

Then I listen to his footsteps retreating down the hallway, heavy and purposeful.

seventeen

Reid

I force myself to walk away from the room, each step heavier than the last. My body physically aches, wanting to return to her side, to crawl back into that bed and keep her safe in my arms. The image of her bruised face, the cut along her collarbone, the finger marks on her throat, they burn through my mind with searing clarity.

But there's something I need to do first. Something that can't wait.

The clubhouse is quiet this early, most members still sleeping off last night's vigil. Lane waits at the bottom of the stairs, his expression grim.

"She okay?" he asks, voice low.

"She will be," I answer, the words more promise than statement.

He nods, understanding the unspoken message. "Everything's ready."

We descend to the basement in silence, our footsteps echoing on the concrete steps. The air grows cooler, damper, as we reach the lower level. This space, hidden beneath the clubhouse, has served many purposes over the years—storage, emergency shelter, interrogation room.

Today, it's a court of justice.

Walter Dawson sits strapped to a metal chair in the center of the room, his head lolling forward. Blood has dried in crusty rivulets down his face from where I destroyed his eyes the night before. His breathing is labored, wheezing through broken ribs.

Mason and Christopher stand guard, their expressions hard as granite. They step aside as I approach, a silent changing of the watch.

The camera man is leaning against the wall, his chest barely moving. Greyson is standing next to him, his knuckles bleeding freely down his fingers.

I arch an eyebrow at Greyson who grins. "I had fun waiting for you. We have his confession on tape."

I don’t even care about this fucker, my eyes are on Walter. “Just end him,” I tell Greyson. He pulls out his gun and without flinching, plants a bullet into his head.

The room is eerily silent after the gunshot rings through the large room.

“Nothing better than ridding the world of fucking scum.” Greyson pushes the camera man over until he is face down on the concrete.

Lane splits the distance between us and shakes his head at Greyson, amused by him. "We'll be upstairs," Lane murmurs, clapping a hand on my shoulder. "Take your time."

The heavy door closes behind them with a metallic thud, leaving me alone with Frank's brother. Walter stirs at the sound, his ruined face lifting in my direction.

"Who's there?" he rasps, panic edging his voice. "What time is it?"

I don't answer immediately, taking my time circling him like a predator assessing wounded prey. On a table nearby, various tools lie arranged with methodical precision—pliers, blowtorch, knives of varying sizes, a car battery with jumper cables. My father's contribution, no doubt.

"Good morning, Walter," I finally say, keeping my voice conversational. "Sleep well?"

He flinches at the sound of my voice, straining against his restraints. "You can't do this," he babbles, desperation making his words tumble over each other. "I have rights. The police?—"