Page 26 of Monsters Carve Thrones

Watching. Waiting.

Still, for tonight, I let it go. Let the whiskey settle in my veins. Let myself enjoy the glow of Adela’s smile as she toasted to our future with her best friend. I’d keep it safe. I’d protect her peace with blood and fire if I had to.

***

I left them laughing. Slipped out sometime between their third bottle and a story about someone from Sinclair shitting themselves on a retreat. Adela didn’t even notice. That was the point.

Kieran was waiting outside, engine idling, eyes straight ahead. I slid into the backseat, the door clicking shut.

“Warehouse off the Belt,” he said. “He brought backup.”

“Good,” I murmured. “Let him think it’ll help.”

We drove in silence. My hands flexed in my lap, already itching for blood. The knife at my hip wasn’t just ceremonial. It was tradition. Old steel and cold justice.

The target’s name was Elías Navarro. Mexican cartel muscle who thought Moreau’s death was a fucking opportunity. He’d tried to poach a deal from one of my ports last week. Killed a dockhand who worked for me for six years. Left his body with a knife in his eye socket and a message carved in his chest.

Tonight was my response.

My boots hit the concrete of the warehouse, and every head turned. Five men. One me. Perfect odds. “Elías,” I greeted, voice calm.

He was big. Scar above his lip, gold chain thick enough to choke a horse. “Rafe fucking Vaughan,” he spat. “Come to talk business?”

“Come to end it.” I moved fast. Always did.

The first man reached for his gun–mistake. I shot him through the knee and let him scream. Second guy, a twitchylittle shit, tried to run. I stabbed him in the kidney on the way out. The third managed to land a punch, splitting my lip. I broke his neck for the trouble.

That left Elías.

He tried to run. They always do, the arrogant ones.

I caught him near the loading dock and slammed him against the wall. The knife in my hand felt like fucking home. He started begging in Spanish, calling me cabrón, basura, demonio. I just smiled.

“Moreau was sloppy,” I said. “I’m not.”

Then I sank my blade into his throat, watching with delight as he gurgled, drowning in his own blood. When it was done, I lit a match and watched the warehouse go up in flames behind me.

Back in the car, my shirt stuck to my ribs, soaked in blood that wasn’t mine. My lip throbbed. My hand burned. But my mind was calm.

One less loose end.

***

I slipped the door open with a quiet ease. I was definitely someone who knew how to come home after violence without waking my girl. The mansion was dark, and the kitchen lamp’s soft amber glow poured over the hardwood floors. I locked the door behind me and stepped out of my boots, the dried blood on my shirt crusting like war paint.

And then my eyes locked on blonde hair.

Laura.

Sprawled out across our giant sectional, one arm thrown over her eyes, mouth parted, an empty wine glass on the floor beside her. She was snoring, softly. I huffed a laugh through my nose.

“Christ,” I muttered, stepping around her.

I crept up the stairs, eager to shower and wash this shit off me. Adela was curled on her side, back to me, bare shoulder peeking out from under the blanket. One arm stretched across my pillow like she’d reached for me in her sleep.

My throat tightened in a way it shouldn’t have. I padded into the bathroom, peeling my bloodied shirt off, then the rest. The shower was quick but hot enough to sting. I watched the pink swirl of blood spiral down the drain, scrubbing until there was nothing left but heat and the steady thrum of my pulse returning to normal.

When I returned to the bedroom, she’d shifted, brow furrowed like she sensed the absence in her sleep. I slid beneath the covers, the scent of her shampoo chasing away the gasoline and rot in my mind.