Page 92 of Freeing Denver

The Marksons are a stronghold family in Boston. Not small. Not to be fucked with.

“And?”

“They don’t know anything.”

I lift my chin. “You’re sure?”

He dips his hand into his pocket, pulling out a velvet bag. He tosses it in my direction, and I catch it, and from the feel, I already know what’s inside.

“Some gold ones in there if you need the extra dollars,” Ranger says as I examine the teeth of at least twenty people.

I retie the bag and drop it on the desk. “You wasted time, doing all this.”

He arches a brow. “Should I start burning people alive instead?”

“It’s quicker.”

Ranger shrugs and goes to the door. He pauses, tapping the doorframe.

“Nico lost her. You lost her.” He looks over his shoulder at me. “Funny. You said I tried to break her, but I’m also the only one who kept her safe. Maybe I’m the better husband.”

“You were never married,” I hit back. “She’s my wife, Ranger, not yours. I know who she is and what she wants—and it isn’t you.”

He doesn’t move, his breathing slow and steady. I’m glad I can’t see his face when he next speaks, because his voice is tortured. “We don’t know who she’ll be when we get her back.”

He leaves, and the rage builds, a bitter, dark, angry snake coiling up my body, like smoke sinking into my skin, a spark to gasoline that I can’t control. Can’t stop.

I’m standing. I’m walking. Someone talks to me as I leave the club, but their words don’t register. I’m outside, the alley cool. My home no longer feels like home. The rain is like glass poured over me, glimmering, pretty blades that tear at my skin and make me bleed. The sounds of the city are nails on my brain.

My shirt sticks to my skin.

Droplets run down my face.

And I can’t …

I can’t fucking do this.

I can’t control the monster clawing for freedom.

The need to do something, anything?—

“Give me your wallet.”

I blink, raindrops clinging to my lashes, and I face the hooded man behind me. He has a battered gun in his hand and is shifting from foot to foot. He prods the weapon in my direction, and there’s a flash of lightning followed closely by the rumble of thunder.

“Wallet, you stupid prick. The last person who wasted my time died two blocks from here. Are you gonna be next?”

“Shoot me.”

The streetlight reflects his eyes, and he frowns. “What?”

“Shoot. Me,” I say, stepping toward him.

His tongue darts out, wetting his bottom lip, and he cocks the gun. “I will.”

“Do it,” I say quietly, adrenaline pumping through my blood, thick and heavy and bitter.

His finger twitches on the trigger. My hand darts out, pointing the weapon down as the bullet fires into the ground. My other fist lands in his face, a sickening crack half muffled by the rain. He stumbles. I advance on him. I toss the gun aside, metal clattering against stone.