Page 42 of Misery

"Orders from Runes."

He doesn't like it but doesn't argue. Knows better than to question the president.

Elfe and I head downstairs, mount my bike, and then we’re off.

The ride to the warehouse district is tense. Twenty minutes of pure hell.

Elfe's pressed against my back like she's trying to meld into me.

Her arms around my waist are tight enough to bruise. Good. Let her mark me. Let her hold on like I'm the only solid thing in a world gone sideways.

She knows something's wrong.

She has to feel it in how rigid I'm holding myself.

Every muscle locked. Ready for an attack that could come from anywhere.

My shoulders are concrete, spine steel.

Nothing like the relaxed ride to Panacea last night when we were just running from texts.

This is different. Heavier.

Bodies with messages. Someonekillingfor her. I’m the only bastard who should be killing for her.

The words keep spinning in my head—'For the little artist.'

Who the fuck knows to call her that? Los Coyotes, sure, but this is someone hunting them.

Someone on our side. Maybe. Or is it one of them?

Every red light makes me want to run it. Too exposed. Too many windows. Too many angles, someone could take a shot.

But I force myself to wait. Can't draw attention. Can't look like we're running scared, even though my every instinct screams to get her behind walls. Behind steel. Behind me.

Her breath is warm through my cut. Quick little pants that tell me she's fighting panic.

Fighting hard and winning, but barely.

Her thighs squeeze the bike, knees pressed tight against mine.

I can feel her heartbeat against my back. Too fast. Hummingbird quick.

"Almost there," I tell her at a light, turning my head slightly.

She nods against my shoulder blade. Doesn't speak. Maybe she can't.

The warehouse district at night is a different beast than during the day.

Shadows are everywhere. Empty loading docks that could hide armies. Windows like dead eyes watching us pass.

A perfect killing ground if someone wanted to make a statement.

But the only statement being made tonight is inside that warehouse.

Three bodies arranged for her. Gift wrapped in death.

The bike's engine echoes off brick and concrete, announcing us to the rest of the brothers.