Page 60 of Pack of Crooks

“I’m okay. You guys saved me.”

“We—”

“No,” I snap. “This isn’t your fault.”

“We don’t have time for this.” Maddox holds his arms out in front of himself, and we all glance at the splashes of blood glistening on his gloves and outfit. He was too close. “Kill, take care of Hazel. I need to get cleaned up.” He curls his fingers into fists at his sides. We all watch him storm away.

“Is he okay?”

“He has a thing about being covered in blood,” Ezra explains as he exhales. He hands Kill my purse. “Take her home. I’ll handle the security footage.”

With that, he leaves too.

“We should go,” Kill says, cupping my arm and leading me away from the station. We cut through an alley, out of sight of cameras. “Ezra will get the security footage, but I don’t want him to miss anything,” he explains, drawing me toward the back entrance of a restaurant. Kill leads me through it with all the confidence in the world, ignoring the shouting staff, brushing by the manager, and guiding us toward the entrance. The staff doesn’t make a scene in front of their diners, and once we’re out on the sidewalk, Kill keeps a fast pace until the shouts of the manager die in the night air behind us.

He takes the long way to my building, and when familiar ones come into view, I wrinkle my brow, remembering every morning I’ve woken up to their scent in my apartment. “How did you guys figure out where I live?”

“We know everything, pretty thief,” he says, stopping before the door to my building. “Let us in.”

Trepidation slithers through my veins. Pure instinct. So far, this pack has killed two people. It was so easy for them.But they did it for me. Swallowing, and trusting the relationship I’ve been developing with the pack, I enter the code for the building.

We take the stairs to my floor, Kill’s presence is assuring. My mind is too focused on us being closed inside my apartment to process what happened in the subway station.

All I know is I don’t feel as much remorse as I should.

He crowds my back as I slide the key into the lock. I glance over my shoulder, eyes wide and questioning, but he’s impossible to read. “Thanks for walking me home.”

He nods.

I open the door, and he follows me inside. My heart thuds as I spin around to watch him close us inside the darkened apartment. He’s here. With me. And we’re alone.

The streetlight filtering through the living room window bathes us in gold, highlighting the devastatingly beautiful lines of Kill’s face. My chest thrashes as he takes a step toward me. There should be alarms going off inside my head, but the last thing I want to do is run from him. The tips of our shoes brush and he stops, gazing down at me and because of our height difference, I have to crane my neck to hold his gaze.

What is he thinking?

On a whim, I reach out, fingers brushing along his cheek. He grabs my wrists and stops me. My breath trembles out of me.

“My pretty thief,” he murmurs. Releasing my hands, he steps away. A twisted part of me mourns the loss of his warmth as my hands fall to my sides.

This man is dangerous. The whole pack is. They’ve been in the apartment. They’ve been stalking me.

“What are you thinking?”

Ignoring my question, his head tilts, spotting something and he goes to the counter. My throat goes dry when he picks up the eviction notice. Rushing forward, I rip it out of his hands and fling it behind me.

Embarrassment fuels a rebuke. “Your pack sure does seem to enjoy making themselves at home inmyapartment.”

Kill doesn’t bother responding to that. Why would he? This pack’s intentions are clear. “We should check your legs.”

As if the mere mention of them reminded my body that it’s injured, the scrapes burn hot. Angry and irritated. “They’re fine.” I walk around him, turn on the light over the sink, and grab a rag to get it wet.

Kill’s approach has my chest fluttering, and my eyebrows slam together in confusion. I haven’t felt this giddy nervous around an alpha in a long time. Of course, the murder happy pack is the one I decide to crush on.

I wring the water out of the rag and turn, putting one hand on my back and trying to see the worst of the damage. Both legs are covered in shallow, jagged red lines, agitated scrapes from where my skin skidded across the concrete. A few trickles of blood have made their way down to my knees. Kill takes the rag from my hand.

“I can do it,” I tell him.

He simply glances at me before placing his hand on my hip and guiding me to the side of the sink. “Bend over.”