Page 113 of From Hell

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LAINE

Lightening zaps behind my eyes as I crack my lids open. I wince and sit up, or try to, but I can’t, I’m strapped to some kind of table. Just moving my head to look makes me want to vomit.

Stars explode across my vision, making me moan, and then fade away as I focus on breathing and not retching.

“Shhh, I’ve got you.” His voice is hushed, brushed silk across my burning skin as he runs his hands over me.

My eyes flicker open, and I see him.

Jaxon unstraps me, a buckle at a time, and gathers me into his arms. His scent, like dry grass on a warm day, is reassuring, like resting in a summer meadow, coming home to a secret garden only you know exists.

I melt into him.

Too tired, too abused to do anything else.

Jaxon carries me out. I glance once over his shoulder and see the carnage in a snapshot that will haunt me forever: men dead left and right, bullet holes to their brains, and what’s left of Simmons’s corpse in bloody pieces, scattered on the floor.

“He’s dead,” I sigh it out loud like a release.

I’m aware that I sound relieved that Jaxon’s father is no longer breathing, and how rude that must be, but my brain isn’t functioning well after that asshole, Shepherd, hit me with his gun.

But I needn’t worry,

Jaxon’s eyes darken as they look at me. “Because I fucking killed him.”

I hardly ever hear Jaxon swear. It sounds rough on his tongue, a gentleman turned rogue, halfway between the Ripper and himself. I quite like it, but I don’t get to tell him that because when I close my eyes again, I fall into a dreamless state, my body giving into exhaustion.

When I wake up again, I’m at Cash’s place. I know because there are so many cracks on the ceiling that it looks like thousands of spiders have scrawled across it. It’s a wonder the roof hasn’t caved in.

I sit up.

Light-headedness spears my brain, so I stay still until it passes. When I finally get out of bed and wander into the kitchen, only Pres is there with a cup of coffee, reading the local paper. There’s no sign of Cash.

Or Jaxon.

A sense of dread creeps over me. “Where’s Cash?”

Pres sighs. “At the hospital. He’s fine, though. The bullet went straight through and missed anything vital. Tough bastard.” He indicates to the kettle. “Coffee?”

I nod at him and sit on one of the breakfast stools while he fixes me a cup. “What happened? Who brought me here?” Did I dream of Jaxon? Was it Presley who rescued me?

Pres raises a brow and slides the paper across the breakfast bar to me. The front page has a photo of Berners House going up in flames. The headline splashed across the front reads,Berners House Burns Down.And under it in smaller typeface,Seventeen burned to death in Berners House Hell.

“After you disappeared. Your boyfriend brought you here. Threatened to kill me unless I watched over you,” Pres grumbles as he slams my coffee down. “Who the fuck does he think he is? Fucking toffee-nosed git.”

I don’t know why my heart sinks or tears glaze my eyes. Or why I feel disappointed that he’s gone. Jaxon is the Ripper. He slashed my neck and left me to die. He sent me all those terrible, taunting letters.

And yet.

I am.

There’s something wrong with me, I’ve known for a while. But what I didn’t understand was how fucked up I was. I want things no sane person should want.

Presley grimaces. “Fucking prick, said to give you this.” He tosses an envelope at me.

It’s addressed to me in neat cursive. I tear it open. Inside are the files from the archive room I tried to get evidence of before, the names and dates of those who attended the frat party. Molly’s name is there, and so is mine. There are also pages and pages of detailed accounts of every Lucian ritual performed every decade, which they called the Harvest, going back over a hundred years to when the organization was formed, including the names of women and the organs taken from them. Nothing else.