Page 112 of Claimed By the Psychos

"Soon." I catch her hand, stilling the frantic motion. "We need to get to the collection area first. Carlisle's waiting."

Her hazel eyes find mine, and there's that spark of violence that makes my breath short. "Any sign of our mysterious client?"

"No." The word comes out bitter. Weeks of investigation, following money trails that lead nowhere, and we're no closer to identifying who wants the Psychos dead. "Not yet, unfortunately. But if nothing else, tonight's going to yield a whole lot of dead creeps."

"Silver lining," she agrees, but there's disappointment there. She wants answers as much as I do. Wants to know who's been pulling our strings, who sent that kill squad after us in the woods.

The collection area is down another hallway, past doors I don't want to think about what's behind. The whole place reeks of expensive perfume trying to cover the stench of misery, like putting silk sheets on a torture rack. My hand hovers near the gun concealed under my jacket, fingers itching for the trigger.

"Where the fuck is Carlisle?" Juniper mutters, fondling the delicate bracelet on her wrist that's actually a garotte wire in disguise. "He should've been here already."

She's right. Carlisle's many things, and one of them is punctual. Especially when it comes to operations. The fact that he's late makes every instinct I've honed over years of staying alive start screaming.

"Felix." Juniper's hand finds my arm, nails digging in through the fabric. "Something's wrong."

Before I can respond, there's commotion from somewhere deeper in the building. Shouting, the sound of something heavy hitting a wall, then eerie silence that's somehow worse than the noise.

"Stay here," I tell her, already pulling my gun. "Lock the door behind me."

"Like hell?—"

"Juniper." I catch her face between my hands, forcing her to look at me. "Please. Just this once, do what I ask. I'll be right back."

She searches my face for a long moment, then nods. "Two minutes. Then I'm coming after you."

I kiss her hard, tasting fear underlying her usual sweetness. Then I'm moving, slipping out the door and into the hallway with my gun raised.

The first thing I see is blood.

It's spreading across the industrial carpet in a dark pool, seeping from under a guard who's very clearly dead. His throat's been opened up clean, the kind of cut that drops someone before they can even scream. Professional work, but not Carlisle's style. Carlisle likes his kills artistic, memorable. This is coldly efficient. Passionless.

I move past the body, every nerve on high alert. There should be more guards. There should be alphas from the auction. There should be Carlisle and Bane and the others. But the hallway's empty except for the copper smell of blood and that creeping silence that means something's gone catastrophically wrong.

No sign of the Psychos. No comm chatter in my earpiece—when did it go dead? The auction should still be happening, but I can't hear anything from the main floor. It's like the whole building's holding its breath.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

I need to get back to Juniper. Need to get her out of here before whatever's happening spreads to?—

The door won't open. She actually listened. But when I give our secret knock to let her know to let me in, there's nothing.

I turn the handle, push, pull, slam my shoulder against it. More nothing. It's not just locked, it feels barricaded, like someone's wedged something against it from the inside.

"Juniper!" I pound on the door hard enough to split my knuckles. "Open up! We need to go!"

Silence.

"JUNIPER!" The panic in my voice would embarrass me if I had room for anything but terror. She was just there. I left her a minute ago, maybe less. She couldn't have?—

"What's wrong?"

Carlisle's voice makes me spin, gun raised before I recognize him. He looks perfectly put together as always, not a hair out of place.

"The door won't open," I tell him, already backing up to get a running start. "Juniper's in there but she's not answering."

"Move."

He doesn't wait for me to comply, just raises his leg and kicks with the kind of force that shouldn't come from someone in a designer suit. The door splinters but doesn't break. I join him, both of us slamming into it together, and finally the wood gives way with a crack like bones breaking.