Page 100 of The Collector

"You don't understand the terms," Stoker said. "You never did. You thought you were buying a body."

Pierre's hand twitched toward his belt. Stoker didn't flinch.

"You're sloppy," Stoker continued. "You talk too much. You touch too soon. And you don't know how to follow instructions."

Pierre's voice cracked. "You said she was mine. I did everything you asked. Kept up my end of the deal. So, I'll ask again Why are you here?"

Stoker smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.

"So I did," he said. "But I lied."

The gun came up fast—no flourish, no warning. A soft thump split the air as the first shot hit Pierre square in the chest. Two more followed, clean and final, cracking through his skull. His body slammed against the wall, then slid down it, leaving a smear of red before collapsing in a heap.

Mynx jerked back, breath caught mid-motion. The sound of her heartbeat that followed thundered in her ears—louder thangunfire, heavier than threat. It pressed against her ribs like a held scream.

Stoker removed the gag. Gratitude flickered, then recoiled. He'd just saved her. But he'd also orchestrated her captivity. The rope burns on her wrists, the humiliation—his fingerprints were all over it.

What was he thinking? More urgently: what did this mean for her and Cyndi?

"Stoker—what the hell is going on?"

Mynx recoiled into the mattress as he moved closer, syringe glinting in his hand.

"You know Raven will tear you apart for this."

Stoker's smile was faint, almost fond.

"Raven won't be able to function once the tragedy of today sinks in."

He tilted his head, voice softening into something almost tender.

"And when he does see you again… those pretty little lips won't be able to tell him who I am or what happened to you."

Mynx flinched as the needle pierced her skin. The liquid burned—sharp, invasive, like fire threading through her veins.

"Now sleep, Butterfly," he whispered.

"It won't be long before your pain—your suffering—is over."

Chapter 26

Collector

The Collector smiled as he stepped into the mausoleum, boots echoing off the stone like a slow, deliberate drumbeat. He cherished the moment, knowing it was the last time he would see it. He took in every sound—every footfall, every breath. The mausoleum wasn't a tomb. It was a gallery. A stage. A final act.

The spokes of the wheelchair hummed in quiet rhythm as he pushed Mynx's unconscious body forward, her limbs slack, her silence absolute. She was entering the kill room. The last stage she would ever perform on.

Entering the place where pain became art, and memory became his legacy to the world. He wanted to release her from the pain of her future with Raven. Take away the death and regret that would inevitably befall her by being with Raven. But mostly, he wanted to bring Raven to his knees for one reason: he was the heir to the King's throne, a position he believed he had earned.

Today would be the day he left the Kings in ruins. There would be no more holding back his urges. He could finallyrelease it—the hate, the inheritance of being a contract killer. He would bleed out the wound etched into him like a family crest—not carved in the ink he now bore, but in the scars they forced upon him and the blood he'd given in their service. With every drop of blood, the Collector let flow today. He would shed the burden of who they had made him, free himself, and complete his revenge.

Cyndi was prepped and ready for her tattoo—gloriously chained and silenced. The way the light ebbed and flowed across her body gave it an illusion of shimmer, making her appear almost angelic. It was poetic that her tattoo would depict an angel; she was young and pure of heart. Her death would symbolize the rebirth of innocence.

She was hung like a canvas, waiting to be marked, claimed, and immortalized. The Collector licked his lips at the thought of killing her, his pulse thrumming with excitement. Mynx would be next. Two bodies. Two stories that would complete the narrative of his life.

A bolt of electricity coursed across his skin, the anticipation electrifying every nerve ending as he envisioned the moment everyone realized what had happened here. If he were lucky, the Kings would finally admit the California branch had become so lost in the race for power—so consumed by greed—that they had overlooked the fact one of their own was gone. They had allowed a lookalike to take his place, letting a killer slip past their defenses and make a home for himself within their organization, without even a passing glance.

In the beginning, there had been a few missteps when he took over Stoker's life and became him. Raven had almost figured him out once. Apparently, Stoker and Raven trained together daily, battling it out in the ring to blow off their frustrations. Stoker's fighting style had apparently been different from his own. When Raven had asked what was going on, why had hisfighting style changed so much? The Collector pushed away his doubts by explaining he'd been training with a new instructor to improve his fighting skills.