Page 46 of Birthright (Sinners of New Orleans #4)

FORTY-FIVE

Sam

I grip the steering wheel so tight my knuckles turn white, pushing the SUV to its limits as we race through the outskirts of New Orleans.

John sits beside me, methodically checking his weapon, his face set in grim determination.

Naz, Donnie, and four more of my most trusted men follow in cars behind us, a small army ready for war.

"Not again," I mutter, the words barely audible over the engine's roar and the blood pounding in my ears.

Memories flood back with brutal clarity — being ten years old, trembling in terror, the smell of damp wood and mildew filling my nostrils, my mother's blood pooling on the rotting floor of that shack in the swamp.

The same godforsaken swamp we're heading to now, twenty years later, but feeling exactly the same.

"We'll get her, Sam," John says, but his voice sounds distant, like he's speaking from underwater. His reassurance does nothing to calm me.

I see my mother's face, her eyes wide with fear as she jumped in front of me, using her body as a shield. I hear the deafening gunshot, feel the warm spray of her blood across my face and hands. The memory is so vivid, I can almost taste the copper in the air.

"I can't lose her too." The words escape before I can stop them, raw and vulnerable in a way I rarely allow myself to be.

The road narrows as we approach the Bayou, civilization giving way to wilderness.

Cypress trees loom overhead like ancient sentinels, Spanish moss hanging like funeral shrouds in the humid night air.

The headlights cut through the oppressive darkness, illuminating the twisted path to the old hunting grounds where the Serpents have always taken their victims, where they've always executed their enemies.

I park a quarter mile out, killing the lights.

We move silently through the undergrowth, the mud sucking at our boots with every step, as if the swamp itself is trying to hold us back.

Through the tangle of trees, I spot it, the same weathered shack where my mother died, where Kade has now taken Olivia. My chest tightens at the sight.

Two guards pace outside, rifles slung over their shoulders, cigarettes glowing in the darkness.

Three more men are visible through the grimy windows, their shadows moving against the dim light inside.

Gun drawn, I signal to John with practiced precision.

We've done this a hundred times before, but never with stakes this high.

The first shots break the silence like thunder. One guard drops before he can reach for his weapon, a dark stain spreading across his chest. The other manages to fire aimlessly into the trees before John takes him down with two shots to the center mass.

Shouts erupt from inside the shack, panicked and angry. I rush forward as bullets splinter the trees around me, showering bark and wood chips. One grazes my arm, tearing through fabric and flesh. I barely feel it, adrenaline masking the pain.

"Cover me!" I yell, breaking from the tree line into the exposed clearing.

I take down a Serpent who emerges from the side door, his chest erupting in red as my bullets find their mark. Another appears in the window with an assault rifle, his face contorted with rage. Donnie's shot drops him before he can fire, his body slumping against the windowsill.

My men fan out with military precision, engaging the Serpents pouring from the building like rats from a sinking ship. I keep moving, driven by a singular purpose that burns hotter than any bullet wound.

Not this time. Not again. History will not repeat itself.

I reach the porch, kicking in the door with enough force to tear it from its hinges, gun raised and ready.

Blood pounds in my ears like war drums. Sweat stings my eyes, blurring my vision.

The same floorboards where my mother bled out creak beneath my feet, a haunting reminder of everything I've lost.

The sole of my black boot hits the door with a thud, and the wood cracks, splintering enough that one more kick does it in. Fire races through my veins, anger fueling me as I aim my gun, ready to kill anyone who’s touched my girl on sight.

But the smell hits me first, metallic and sharp. Blood.

My heart stops.

"Olivia!" My arms find her, wrapping around her body. As soon as I have her, her legs go limp, but I hold her up, letting her crumple against my body as a sob rips from her chest.

She's alive, her hands and clothes soaked crimson, her eyes dazed with shock, but she's alive. Axel lies on the floor, blood pooling beneath him, spreading across the worn floor.

Just like that night. Just like Mom.

The room spins, memories colliding with reality. I'm ten years old again. In this very same shack, watching my mother's blood spread across the floor while my father stormed in, too late to save her, but in time to kill the man who took her from us.

Except Olivia isn't dead. She's trembling violently, her breaths coming in short, ragged gasps.

History didn't repeat itself.

"Sam," she whispers, her voice barely audible. "I killed him. I had to. He was going to?—"

"Shh," I whisper. "It's okay. I know, baby. I know." I pull her against me, cradling her head. "You're safe now. I've got you." Her skin is clammy, her pulse racing under my fingertips. There's a gash on her temple, blood matting her hair, and bruises forming on her wrists and neck.

John appears in the doorway, weapon drawn. His eyes widen at the scene.

"We need to get her to the hospital," I order without looking up. "She's hurt."

Olivia's fingers clutch my shirt, leaving bloody handprints. "Roman," she chokes out. "He killed Roman. I couldn't?—"

"Shh. Don't talk." I stroke her hair, careful to avoid her injuries. "It's okay. Everything's gonna be okay."

Her body shudders against mine. I scan the room, taking in the ropes on the floor, the overturned chair. She freed herself. She fought back. Pride swells in my chest alongside the rage and grief.

But I was too late.

I cradle Olivia against my chest as John helps us into the back seat of the SUV. Her blood soaks through my shirt, warm and sticky against my skin. The smell of it fills my nostrils, choking me with memories.

"Drive," I bark at Donnie. "Fast, but smooth. She's hurt."

Olivia's eyes flutter, struggling to stay open. Her breathing is shallow and uneven.

"Stay with me," I whisper, pressing my lips to her forehead. "Just stay with me, baby."

The city lights blur outside the window as we race toward the hospital. I haven't felt this helpless since I was ten years old watching my mother die.

This is my fault. All of it.

I brought her into this mess. I kept her when I should have let her go. I put her in danger because I was selfish, because I wanted her, because for once in my miserable life, I thought I could have something good.

And look what it got her.

I stroke her hair, careful to avoid the gash on her temple. "I'm sorry," I whisper, though she can't hear me. "I'm so fucking sorry."

The weight of her unconscious body against mine feels like judgment. Like punishment.

I can't do this to her anymore. I can't keep putting her in danger just because I'm too weak to let her go. She deserves better than this life — better than me.

When she wakes up, when she's safe and healed, I'll have to do what I should have done from the beginning.

I'll have to let her go.