Page 8 of Revenge Saints

Damn it, Ethan.

“Are you okay?” Aspen whispers. I glance down, and she’s looking up at me; she’s peeling back the layers I don’t let anyone touch.

“I am,” I say, trying to show control, but her brows pull together, and damn it, I know she doesn’t believe me.

I offer her a smile anyway, a hollow one, a mask over the storm ripping through me.

She leans in closer, her breath warm against my skin, her fingers sliding behind my neck. “My heart hurts too,” she whispers, and those four words wreck me more than bullets ever could.

Fuck.

Bryn, Ethan, and Dante. Our home, burning behind my eyes.

Bryn…

I was a bastard to her.

“I’m sorry,” I murmur, the words crumbling as they leave me.

Aspen doesn’t answer. She just pulls me to her slow, her lipsbrushing mine like a whisper, like she’s trying to stitch me back together with nothing but softness and breath.

Her kiss is gentle, hesitant. Like she’s afraid, but all I can think about is destruction.

About Roman.

Aboutblood.

And still, I kiss her back, desperate, like she’s the only thing anchoring me to whatever’s left of my sanity, and then a whistle cuts through the trees like a blade.

I snap up, heart slamming, instincts roaring to the surface. I stride behind the nearest tree, set Aspen down with a protective grip, my back already tense.

Her eyes are wide, scanning the shadows, fear flickers there and it twists something dark and violent in my chest.

“What is it?” She murmurs, barely a breath.

I glance at the other side of the path. Max is there, gun up, aimed to the left, eyes locked in. Ryker’s two trees ahead, low to the ground, half-covered by a thick bush, just a shadow in the dirt.

I shake my head once. We can’t shoot. Not yet. We don’t know how many are out there. And we’re low on bullets. Once those are gone, we’ll be fighting with bare hands and blades.

The two bastards who went after Aspen only had one gun between them and four bullets. We took it, yeah, but what if this is a bigger group? That’s not going to cut it.

They both nod, understanding without a word.

I turn to Aspen. “Don’t make a sound.” Her hands tremble, andI see it, the fear, the adrenaline. I reach behind me and pull out my knife, pressing it into her palm. “Stab and twist.”

She nods, jaw tight, knuckles white around the handle.

Aspen might blush when I say filthy things in her ear, but this? This is her fire. She might not know much about pleasure yet, but pain, survival? She knows how to dig in her heels and fight like hell.

Three figures emerge from the trees.

One of them is holding a rifle.

Ourrifle.

Motherfucker.

The other two don’t seem armed, probably knives, maybe nothing at all. We can take them. We will take them. The fewer men Roman has, the easier it’ll be to get Dante back.